Being Broken

Here’s a core philosophy of mine that I’ve been thinking about a lot: it’s okay to be broken. I don’t really identify with the word “disabled.” I prefer the word “broken,” and here’s why.

If you look at the actual verb disable, it means to turn something off, take away its ability to function, shut it down. And honestly, when I look at how disability works in our society, especially financially, that’s exactly what it feels like. You’re allowed just enough to barely survive, and then a tiny little amount of extra money you’re allowed to earn that has to somehow cover everything else in life: clothing, hobbies, technology, anything joyful or necessary beyond rent and groceries. Some people lose the entire thing just to rent alone. It feels like society saying, okay, here’s what you’re allowed, but don’t exceed it. Don’t live too much. Don’t try too hard. That is disabling.

Broken is different. My body is broken sometimes. My brain is broken sometimes. Things break. When things break, we fix them or we keep using them anyway. There are broken lamps still giving light. Broken legs that still get you around. Broken promises that eventually get forgotten. And yes, things breaking can hurt, it breaks my heart every time something breaks, but if something is alive, it can be mended. Brokenness is a state. It can shift, heal, change.

Society’s version of “disability” feels final, like a verdict about what you’re allowed to do or not do. Brokenness feels honest and human. It doesn’t define me forever. It describes a moment. A reality. And I know I’m able to do a lot more than my broken body sometimes wants me to. I am capable. I just have parts that break.

So for me, broken feels true. Disability feels like being written off. And I refuse to be written off.