Living 36 years in a wheelchair hasn’t stopped me from wanting more from life—or from rejecting anyone who tries to shame me for it.
In my 54 years of living—and 36 of those as a quadriplegic—I realized a painful truth: almost everyone complains about something in life. Some more than others. It’s human. But when it comes to people like me—those of us living with a disability—our complaints are often met with uncomfortable silence, awkward glances, or subtle scolding. Society makes us feel like our struggles should be invisible, as if the sheer fact that we’re alive should be enough for us to stay quiet and grateful.
I became paralyzed from the chest down at 18. I’ve had tubes down my throat, machines breathing for me, nurses cleaning me, and strangers staring like I’m less than human. I’ve endured the crushing silence of long nights where pain kept me awake, where loneliness crept into my soul, and where I questioned my worth—not because I didn’t believe I had any, but because the world often acted like I didn’t.
I’m not bitter. I’ve seen too many miracles to be bitter. I’ve watched my faith grow stronger in the face of despair. I’ve known the love of family, the healing power of tears, and the strength that rises when you’ve got nothing left to stand on—except God and your own stubborn spirit. I’ve laughed from my heart and cried from the depths of my soul. So yes, I am grateful. But I am also human. And being human means I feel pain, disappointment, and frustration too.
But here’s what hurts the most: the world often denies me that right.
Sometimes I have bad days—days where my body aches, or the world feels too inaccessible, too indifferent. Days when I venture out and discover a broken ramp, a bathroom too cramped, and stares that weigh heavily. Days when my caregiver doesn’t show up, when I feel alone, invisible, or misunderstood. And on those days, when I express what I feel, people tell me, “But at least you’re alive. You should be thankful.”
I’ll never forget the time a locked door left me sitting outside a restaurant on a cold evening. The staff locked “accessible” entrance—and no one had the key. My friends were already inside, warm and laughing. When I finally spoke up about how humiliating and isolating it felt, someone said, “At least you got out of the house today.” As if the basic attempt to be included should cancel out the pain of being left behind.
Imagine someone standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, and you say, “At least lightning didn’t strike you.”It’s true—they weren’t. But does that make their soaked clothes, cold skin, and ruined plans any less valid?
When face barriers—no ramps, narrow doorways, stares that burn through my spirit—people say, “Be happy you got out at all.” As if I should just accept partial inclusion and smile like it’s a gift.
When I speak about a place’s inaccessibility, I advocate for inclusion—not negativity. When I express hurt because a friend treats me unfairly, it’s not bitterness—it’s a cry for dignity. When I say I’m looking for a partner who respects, understands, and values me—it’s not desperation. It’s a declaration of my worth.
When I confront a friend’s mistreatment or disrespect, others often shrug and say, “Well, at least you have someone.”That’s more than most.” As if the presence of another human being—no matter how they treat me—is something I should accept without complaint, like I should be grateful for breadcrumbs because of my condition.
And the most heartbreaking? When I speak openly about wanting love—someone to share life with, someone who will love me as deeply as I love them—people say, “Don’t be too picky.”
You’re lucky if someone’s even interested.” Those words cut deep, as if I should be content with anyone who shows interest, regardless of compatibility, kindness, or respect—because I’m disabled.
Let me be clear: being disabled does not make me desperate.
Yes, I have needs. Physical, emotional, spiritual. Yes, I want connection. I want love. I want understanding. But I also have standards. I have preferences. I have a vision of the kind of love I want in my life—and I deserve the right to seek it without shame.
Why is it that people assume a wheelchair reduces our right to choose?
Just because I roll through life doesn’t mean I should roll over for anything that comes my way. I deserve people who hear me, see me, and value me—not just tolerate me. I want to say this from the deepest, most wounded, yet most hopeful part of my heart: we, the disabled, are not second-class humans.
We have opinions. We have voices. We cry at night, we laugh with friends, we feel heartbreak, desire, joy, and longing. We want to be loved not out of pity—but out of connection, respect, and truth. We don’t want to be anyone’s charity project. We want to be someone’s choice.
I carry no anger and place no blame. I’m here to open hearts—to offer understanding. Because the truth is, most people don’t know how to treat someone with a disability. It’s not taught. It’s not talked about. So I’m here, with love, to say: treat us like people. Not projects. Not saints. Not burdens. Just people—with dignity, dreams, and a deep desire to live a life that matters.
To those who walk beside us—family, friends, caregivers, partners—listen to our words. Don’t silence us when we speak our pain. Don’t slap a “gratitude” sticker on our grief. Sometimes the most healing thing you can say is, “I hear you. That sounds really hard. I’m here.”
And to my brothers and sisters living with disabilities—never forget who you are. Don’t let society shrink you into a box of quiet thankfulness. Your voice matters. Your dreams matter. Claim your right to want more. Claim your right to say no. Claim your right to seek love that is true and friendship that is kind. You are not a burden. You are a blessing.
I have lived through fire. And I’ve come out not bitter—but burning with passion. Burning with purpose. I want my story, my scars, my truth, to be a light for someone else still finding their way.
So no, I will not just accept “whatever.” I will not stay silent just to keep others comfortable. And I will not lower my standards to make others feel more generous.
I don’t need fixing. I don’t need pity. I need people to hear me, respect me, and love me—like anyone else. And so do you.
Let the world see us not as bodies to be pitied—but as souls burning with purpose. We’re here. We’re alive. And we want more. And that’s not audacity—it’s humanity.
Bio:
Lazaro Gutierrez lives in Cape Coral with his wife. You can find him at his Facebook account. Click here.
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