It has been a long time since a book made me sit in the car after arriving somewhere, just to listen to a few more minutes. Over the past two weeks, I listened to the audiobook version of Who Wants Normal? The Disabled Girl’s Guide to Life by Frances Ryan, read by Ruth Madeley. What started as something to fill my commute soon became something much deeper. This book stayed with me well after each journey ended.
Ruth Madeley reads with warmth and precision, bringing both sharp wit and emotional weight to Frances Ryan’s words. It felt like I was being spoken to by someone who truly understood what it means to live in a world that wasn’t designed for you.
This is not a book written to inspire in the traditional sense, nor is it trying to smooth over reality. It is bold, honest, and often uncomfortable. Frances Ryan shares her own lived experience as a Disabled woman, and brings in the voices of others, weaving in interviews throughout to create a rich picture of life as a Disabled person in the UK. It covers everything from the exhaustion of everyday admin, to dating, health inequalities, inaccessibility, and the personal and political weight of simply existing in a world that would rather not see you.
What struck me most were the everyday negotiations that rarely get acknowledged. The mental load of deciding when to disclose, and how much. The constant effort of explaining and justifying your needs in a way non-disabled people might accept. The chapter on relationships stood out to me, in the way it addressed not only dating and intimacy, but also the pressure to feel comfortable in your own identity while being aware of how others perceive it. These aren’t abstract concepts. They are my reality too.
Some parts were incredibly difficult to hear. The reflections on the COVID-19 pandemic, and how Disabled people were deprioritised in care and public discourse, brought up painful memories. I was tearful more than once, and angry. Angry because it felt so familiar. The stories reminded me of moments I have experienced, and of things I often try not to dwell on. But hearing them spoken aloud was a powerful reminder that I am not alone, and that there is strength in shared experience.
It made me reflect on my day-to-day working life. On the things I have quietly accepted, like not having access to a toilet that I can use easily at work. On how often I hold back from speaking up, afraid of being seen as too demanding or difficult. But this book nudged me to reconsider that. If I do speak up, maybe the person who comes after me won’t have to.
Although the book is framed as a guide for Disabled girls, it reaches far beyond that. Frances Ryan is careful to be inclusive, acknowledging that not everyone who shares these experiences identifies as a woman. In chapters on healthcare and relationships, she uses inclusive language, referring to women, nonbinary people and those who access services typically labelled as women’s health. She also explores how gender, race, and queerness intersect with disability. This commitment to inclusion is consistent throughout and never feels like an afterthought.
It also reflects a deeper truth that many of us already know, that even within the area of equity, diversity, and belonging, disability remains the forgotten minority.
I also learned about Disabled women in history whose stories I was previously unaware of. One example was Anne Begg, a wheelchair user who became an MP in 1997. She reflected on how, despite being elected to serve in Parliament, it took years before she could access the House of Commons on an equal footing with her peers. The book also shared how the House of Lords had to change its rules to allow personal assistants into the chamber to support Disabled peers. This change came about thanks to the efforts of a Deaf peer, Baroness Smith of Llanfaes, who needed support to participate fully in debates. Her determination led to a rule change that opened the door for others, showing how individual action can challenge systemic barriers and create meaningful progress. These stories show how slow change can be, even in places that claim to value inclusion. And of course, we also heard from the brilliant Rosie Jones, who spoke openly about the relentless ableism she faces every time she appears on television. Members of the public still feel it is acceptable to post on social media that she should not be on screen, which is a stark reminder of how far we still have to go.
This is why I believe every occupational therapist should read or listen to this book. It challenges us to examine the systems we work within and how they often fail the very people we are supposed to support. It holds up a mirror not only to wider society’s ableism but also to our own professional cultures. It reminds us that concepts like function, independence, and normality are not neutral. They are constructed, value-laden, and too often used to measure people against standards that exclude.
For me, this book speaks to the kind of occupational therapy I believe in. One that is built on listening to lived experience. One that embraces difference, values autonomy, and questions systems instead of just adapting people to fit into them. It reminds us that change is not only about ramps and adjustments. It is about rethinking our values, our definitions of progress, and our understanding of what truly matters.
Who Wants Normal? is more than a book. It is a call to action, a reminder that Disabled people have always been here, and that our stories deserve to be heard, not just when it is convenient, but always.
Whether you are Disabled yourself, an ally, or a professional working in health and social care, I encourage you to listen. Let it sit with you. Let it challenge you. Let it change the way you show up, for yourself and for others.
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