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disabilities
This Disability Pride Month Is About Survival, Not Celebration
This month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
Jul 26, 2025
Every July, we’re told to smile for the cameras. Show our pride. Celebrate how far we’ve come.
But what if all we feel is rage?
This year, Disability Pride Month arrives under a government that is actively tearing down the few protections we have left. Programs that kept us out of institutions—gone. Jobs focused on accessibility—eliminated. Community care infrastructure—defunded, dismantled, or disappeared entirely. And somehow, no one’s sounding the alarm. Or perhaps there are too many alarms going off at once, and nobody can distinguish them anymore.
There’s no parade for the disabled workers quietly laid off when Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Accessibility (DEIA) offices were shuttered. No ribbon cutting for the collapse of the Administration for Community Living. No national reckoning when misinformation about disability spreads on federal letterhead and leads to real-world harm. Harm like the little people I know who were harassed in airports after the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) became a political target following the D.C plane crash when our president attributed the disaster to our community.
What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
This isn’t bureaucratic drift. It’s intentional. And it’s happening while the rest of the country posts inspirational quotes about inclusion.
I run New Disabled South with the mission of improving the lives of disabled people and building strong disability justice and rights movements in the South, and I can tell you: This moment is not about pride. It’s about survival.
The Trump administration recently directly attacked a federal employment program that helped place disabled people in jobs across agencies like the FAA. Instead of telling the truth, they called it a “diversity hiring” loophole and singled out specific disabilities, including dwarfism. The backlash from right-wing radical folks was immediate and violent. And still, no one covered it.
And yet, the rollback didn’t start this year. It didn’t even start with this administration. President Ronald Reagan, with a Republican Senate from 1981-1987, launched a major campaign to reduce the size of the federal government. Significant cuts to Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) and Supplemental Security Income (SSI) led to hundreds of thousands of people losing disability benefits after aggressive reevaluations.
And now, anti-DEI rhetoric has escalated into anti-access policy. Entire programs and research centers have been shuttered under the guise of neutrality. Leaders who run centers for racial and disability justice are currently fighting lawsuits claiming that simply existing in these spaces is discriminatory. The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so destructive.
The people affected by these attacks are the ones making our country more livable, accessible, and just. These aren’t abstract programs. These are lifelines. I know, because I grew up on them.
My parents relied on Medicaid home and community-based services (HCBS) to care for my siblings and me at home. We were triplets, all with cerebral palsy. Doctors encouraged my parents to put us into institutions. But because of HCBS and other programs, we weren’t institutionalized—we were raised in our own home, in our own community, with the people we love. I’m here because of that care. And I’m terrified that families like mine won’t get the same chance.
This is the part where I’m supposed to offer hope. But here’s the truth: We are being failed. And it’s time to name that, without softening it.
Disability justice is not a one-month-a-year conversation. It is not a post. It is not a panel. And it cannot be siloed off from broader fights for racial, gender, and economic equity. Being a part of this community, we are not a niche. We are a movement. This affects us all; more than 1 in 4 adults in the United States have some type of disability, and that’s not counting the number of people who have been and continue to be disabled from Covid-19. And we are all deeply, inextricably linked to every community being attacked right now.
When Black students lose access to equity programs, disabled students lose.
When LGBTQ+ protections are stripped away, disabled people lose.
When DEI offices are dissolved, accessibility gets erased too.
And when we talk about disability, we must also talk about race, poverty, gender, sexuality, and geography. Especially in the South, where I live and organize, policy decisions made in D.C. don’t just ripple—they rupture. The South has the nation’s highest rates of disability, and it’s been made clear with recent cuts to Medicaid and other essential programs that the federal government isn’t coming to save us. No matter who’s in charge, disability is too often treated as an afterthought at best or a political liability at worst. What we’re seeing now is the result of years of bipartisan disinvestment. It’s just happening louder, faster, and crueler than before.
We need care webs—mutual aid rooted in relationships, not rescue. These are informal, hyper-local networks where people look out for one another. Not just with money or donations, but with time, attention, and consistency. Someone to check in. Someone to help navigate a job search or bureaucratic nightmare. Someone to drive you to the doctor when paratransit doesn’t show up. Someone who knows your access needs and shows up anyway.
This isn’t about creating a perfect system. It’s about refusing to let each other fall through the cracks.
Building a care web can be as simple as texting a neighbor, posting in a local group, or organizing around one person’s immediate needs. You don’t have to be disabled to start one. You just have to decide that no one should be left behind because a government decided they didn’t matter.
These may seem like small acts, but they are how we survive. They are how we resist.
So this month, skip the slogans. Ask: Who do I know that needs care? Who will I support when the next cut comes? What am I building that lasts beyond this news cycle? Or this election cycle?
That’s the work. That’s the rage. And that’s how we move forward together.
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The Last beacon of Hope Is Failing Refugees With Disabilities
Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible.
Apr 20, 2025
Hassan’s life was not always confined to a single room. But when he became a refugee, he didn’t just lose his home, he lost his freedom and independence.
Hassan is a young refugee man from Sudan with a physical disability that requires him to use a wheelchair. Before the war in Sudan forced him to flee to Egypt, he lived in an accessible home, which allowed him to move around independently. Now, he is trapped without a wheelchair on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. His apartment is completely inaccessible, forcing him to spend 24 hours a day in bed.
I learned about Hassan’s journey on a call I convened as part of my role leading the Disability Inclusion and Accessibility Program at the International Refugee Assistance Project (IRAP), a global legal aid and advocacy nonprofit. Our work to ensure that forcibly displaced people with disabilities have equal access to pathways to safety and lasting refuge has never been easy, but since U.S. President Donald Trump took office, it has become nearly impossible. This population is under attack for being refugees, people with disabilities, and beneficiaries of U.S. foreign aid.
“He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind.”
The sheer volume of anti-immigrant policies enacted by the Trump administration risks obscuring the harm each one inflicts on real people. The executive orders issued by the new U.S. administration since January 20 have been devastating for many, but especially for refugees with disabilities and their families. It has also been a loss for the local communities ready to welcome them.
During my meeting with Hassan, I met some of the generous families in Ohio who had come together to support Hassan and his family. When they learned about the Welcome Corps, the private sponsorship program which allows Americans to directly support refugees, the families worked day and night to meet all the requirements to sponsor Hassan’s resettlement to the United States.
“Since then, Hassan has been focused solely on how living in the U.S. will change his life. Without a job and unable to leave his home, he has been spending all of his days following the progress of his sponsors. But the complete ban of the refugee admissions program destroyed all his dreams. It was like a tornado demolishing all we had built with just a few words,” one of Hassan’s sponsors told me.
Hassan is just one of millions of people with disabilities forcibly displaced around the world. While the United Nations doesn’t collect data on the exact number of refugees with disabilities, estimates suggest there may be nearly 18 million people with disabilities in need of resettlement. With the end of programs like the Welcome Corps and the cuts to U.S. foreign aid, their already shaky support system has all but collapsed, leaving refugees with disabilities and their families with zero support.
I have learned in my career as a refugee rights advocate and disability inclusion activist that refugees with disabilities are the last group to be included and the first to be excluded. When challenges arise, refugees with disabilities are on the frontlines.
In nearly every refugee-hosting country, refugees with disabilities are denied access to the services available for citizens. Many of them cannot even obtain disability certificates. As a result, refugees with disabilities and their families solely rely on humanitarian assistance provided by the United Nations or NGOs to access medical support, rehabilitation, assistive devices, and many other needs: a tiny stream of support which is now almost dry with significant cuts to U.S. foreign assistance funds.
It is extremely hard to meet the resettlement eligibility criteria set forth by the U.N. and many destination countries. Having a medical need that can’t be met locally can be a factor in being considered for resettlement, but many refugees with disabilities do not have the information and resources necessary to request this consideration. Those who can access this process often get rejected, and even for those who are accepted, the refugee process is long and complicated. This can mean years, sometimes decades, without life-saving healthcare, accessible homes, or any education or growth opportunities.
That is why innovative programs like the Welcome Corps were a beacon of hope for many refugees with disabilities who were left out of the U.N.-based resettlement. And now, Trump’s refugee ban is pushing them back into a situation where even the inadequate support they used to receive has been demolished due to the foreign aid cuts. Even though federal judges have blocked the government from further implementing the refugee ban and the cuts to USAID, the government has done little to comply with the orders.
The dire situation of people like Hassan requires the Trump administration to take immediate meaningful steps to resume the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program. Such a resumption would be consistent with recent federal court orders and congressional intent. Funding for humanitarian and refugee assistance programs, in particular disability inclusion funding, must also be immediately restored. Those advocating for refugee rights also need to prioritize finding solutions for refugees with disabilities and include their voices in their advocacy.
Hassan’s sponsor told me: “I don’t know how to respond when Hassan asks me about the future. He wishes to speak to the president himself to explain his situation. He thinks if only the president knows what he is going through, and that all his resettlement expenses will be taken care of by volunteer sponsors in the U.S., he will change his mind. Hassan wants the president and the American people to know that when given the opportunity in a more accessible environment, refugees with disabilities can flourish and fulfill their potential.”
I couldn’t say it better myself.
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When 6,000 Immigrants Can Be Declared Dead, No One’s Benefits Are Safe
It would be short-sighted to view this as an immigration issue. In fact, this move reveals both our common vulnerability to the whims of high-up decision-makers, and our shared humanity.
Apr 17, 2025
When the Social Security Administration recently reclassified more than 6,000 living and breathing immigrants as dead in order to deny them the Social Security numbers and benefits they legally held, I empathized with those migrants.
I’m not an immigrant, and I don’t receive Social Security benefits. Yet my family, like millions of other Americans, has felt the pain and helplessness of losing access to services and benefits through no fault of our own.
The technique of declaring thousands of people “dead” with one stroke of the pen is particularly cruel and epitomizes the long-standing dehumanization of immigrants in this country.
At first glance, it might seem they target someone else, somewhere else. Upon further reflection, it is evident that the actions and tactics they deploy affect everyone.
But it would be short-sighted to view this as an immigration issue. In fact, this move reveals both our common vulnerability to the whims of high-up decision-makers, and our shared humanity.
As the Trump administration inflicts one cruel injustice after another, rapid fire, on immigrants and other vulnerable groups, these updates flash across screens as discrete, targeted acts. But it is more important than ever to focus on what we have in common and reframe these headlines as coordinated actions within systems that threaten everyone’s well-being.
A few years ago, my husband wrote the annual check for his life insurance policy, sealed it in the company’s return envelope, and dropped it into the official blue U.S. Postal Service mailbox near his bank. To his surprise, the life insurance company contacted him shortly after, notifying him that his policy was canceled due to nonpayment.
Turns out, he was one of thousands of victims of mail theft and check fraud in our town and throughout the country. Just this year, the FBI and the U.S. Postal Inspection Service warned about mail theft and announced that check fraud has recently doubled.
My husband reported the crime to the police, and his bank covered the amount of the lost check. However, the life insurance company refused to reinstate his policy because during all those years he had been paying the annual fee, he also developed a chronic disease. As a small business owner with three children, my husband watched as an essential financial tool, put in place for our family, disappeared overnight—despite the fact that he had done everything right. Just like those 6,000 immigrants.
The health insurance industry has long employed the strategy of “deny, defend, and depose” to avoid covering the costs of important treatments for the sick and suffering who continue to pay climbing premiums. A 2025 article in the American Journal of Managed Care states that “insurance claim denials have risen 16% from 2018 to 2024, affecting access to essential medications like insulin and albuterol.” At the same time, health insurance companies’ net profitability increases.
Those immigrants followed strict rules and were granted Social Security numbers; they did nothing wrong. But just as their identities were wiped away, the high rate of health insurance claim denials financially wipes out millions of Americans. Almost half a million Americans declared personal bankruptcies in 2024, with medical debt the top cause.
Disability benefits are notoriously difficult to receive, and even when accessed, they are tenuous. According to the non-partisan USA Facts, “38% of applicants who meet technical requirements are accepted initially, but 53% of applicants who appeal that decision are ultimately approved.” However, the appeals process can be burdensome and last years. Paying into a private disability insurance plan holds no guarantees either.
Given that last year, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that “more than 1 in 4—over 70 million—adults in the United States reported having a disability,” everyone in this country knows someone who contends with their disability and simultaneously battles for benefits that are rightfully theirs. It shouldn’t be difficult, then, to empathize with immigrants’ dual plight: they must ward against diffuse and dangerous anti-immigrant sentiment and at the same time fight for basic benefits promised to them.
Even recipients of disability insurance cannot rest easy. They are often stalked and photographed by investigators who use highly selective photos to “prove” the person is able to work. Now, surveillance is digital, too. Algorithms and new surveillance technologies can be laced with bias, trespass privacy laws, and lead to unjust claim denials for the people who can least defend themselves.
These new technologies also surveil migrants, with the same built-in biases. A scholarly article published this year describes the system as “a vast digital dragnet.” Once sacred boundaries that protected the privacy of income-tax payers have now been violated to help the Department of Homeland Security locate tax-paying immigrants. Once breached, that once-clear line of privacy is now erased for anyone.
The policies and actions coming from the Trump administration can feel like a barrage—because they are. At first glance, it might seem they target someone else, somewhere else. Upon further reflection, it is evident that the actions and tactics they deploy affect everyone. No one deserves to capriciously have the rug pulled out from under them through no fault of their own—yet we’re barreling toward a future where that’s commonplace, and possibly the norm.
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