There’s a constant hum of tension in the background of my life, a subtle but ever-present reminder of how different I am perceived to be. As a Black woman in the UK, I’ve become well acquainted with the sharp edges of racism and sexism. But add disability into the equation, and suddenly the weight of navigating the world feels tenfold. My story is not extraordinary in its uniqueness, but it is deeply personal in the way these identities intersect and shape my everyday experiences.
The Invisible Layers of Identity
Growing up, I was acutely aware of my Blackness in a society where whiteness is the default. I learned early on that my presence in certain spaces could make people uncomfortable—sometimes because of my race, other times because of my gender, and often because of a mixture of both. But it wasn’t until I started dealing with the challenges of living with a disability that I fully grasped how layered and intersectional my experience was.
Being Black and disabled in the UK is a peculiar thing. While race and gender are visible aspects of identity, disability often adds an invisible layer of complexity. On the surface, many people don’t notice, or choose not to acknowledge, the additional challenges I face due to my disability. This invisibility can be isolating in its own right, as there’s an expectation to “get on with things,” to not let your challenges be seen, especially in professional spaces.
The Constant Negotiation of Spaces
I’ve often felt like I’m standing at a crossroads, negotiating which parts of myself to bring forward and which parts to tuck away in different spaces. In some situations, my race comes to the forefront. I’ve been made hyper-aware of the colour of my skin and what it represents to others. I’ve felt the unspoken pressure to perform “Blackness” in a way that others can easily digest—whether it’s by toning down my opinions or carefully navigating workplace dynamics where being assertive risks being labelled as the “angry Black woman.”
But then there are other times where my disability takes centre stage, albeit often invisibly. The thing about living with a disability is that it isn’t always immediately apparent to those around me, which can be both a blessing and a curse. I’ve had to explain myself more times than I can count when I’ve needed accommodations or support. People are quick to judge what they can’t see. If you’re not in a wheelchair or visibly in need of help, you’re expected to be “fine,” to push through whatever challenges you might be facing, no questions asked.
What’s harder still is when these aspects collide. As a Black woman, I already experience skepticism about my capabilities in certain spaces. Add a disability to that, and I feel like I’m constantly trying to prove that I belong, that I can keep up, that I’m not “less than.”
The Isolation of Otherness
One of the hardest parts of this journey has been the isolation that comes with feeling like an outsider, not just in mainstream society, but sometimes even within my own communities. As a Black woman, I’ve experienced solidarity in certain spaces, but there are also moments where my disability becomes a point of separation. People assume I’m fine because I’m strong. There’s a stereotype that Black women are resilient, that we carry everything on our backs without breaking.
But we do break. I break. There are days when the weight of my intersecting identities feels crushing. Days when navigating public spaces, workplaces, and even friendships feels like a battle between what I need and what society expects from me. The expectations are exhausting: be strong, be capable, be “normal.” But my lived reality is far from that, and it’s in those moments of struggle that I realize just how little room society makes for people like me—people who don’t fit into the neat boxes of identity they want to put us in.
The Strength in Vulnerability
Yet, through all of this, I’ve found a quiet strength. There is power in vulnerability, in being able to admit that my journey is hard. I’ve come to realize that my experiences as a Black, disabled woman are valid, even when the world tries to tell me otherwise. I don’t have to be everything for everyone. I don’t have to hide parts of myself to fit in.
It has taken time, but I’ve learned to embrace the intersectionality of my identity. My disability, race, and gender are not burdens, but parts of me that shape the way I see and interact with the world. They’ve made me more empathetic, more resilient, and more aware of the struggles others face. And while I still battle with the societal expectations placed on me, I know that my voice, my experiences, and my story matter.
Navigating the Professional World
In professional settings, the challenges intensify. As a woman of colour, I am often underrepresented and overlooked. Add my disability, and I become even more invisible. I’ve faced countless microaggressions—people underestimating my abilities, assuming I’ve reached where I am due to quotas rather than merit. There have been times when I’ve had to push twice as hard just to get half the recognition.
But it’s not just about being seen; it’s about being heard and valued. I’ve had to work through moments where my ideas were dismissed only to be picked up by others later. I’ve had to navigate colleagues who see my race and gender as indicators of incompetence or fragility. And when I’ve needed adjustments or understanding due to my disability, I’ve felt the silent judgment, as if asking for basic accommodations somehow makes me less capable.
Moving Forward
I share my story because I know I’m not alone. There are so many women out there who are navigating similar intersections of race, gender, and disability. Our stories are varied, but our struggles are connected. The more we share, the more we open up space for others to feel seen, to feel heard, to know that their experiences are valid.
As I continue to move through life, I carry the lessons of my intersecting identities with me. They shape how I approach challenges, how I interact with the world, and how I view myself. I’m learning that it’s okay to take up space, to demand that my needs be met, and to assert my worth. And while society may not always make room for people like me, I’m learning to carve out spaces of my own—spaces where I can be all of who I am without apology.
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