Today is the day I realised

Dear Debriefers,

A few months back we launched Dear Disability Diary, an open call for writing where we asked people how disability shaped their day.

We received of over 140 diary entries, and were bowled over by the innovative and intimate writing from around the world. The submissions moved us and many made us laugh.

Here are our six favourites, which range from rushing to catch the bus in Abuja to staying in bed in Delhi.

They're insights into disabled people's lives that you won't read anywhere else.

Our next open call for writing will launch next week: stay tuned.

Bonjour Brussels! I'll be in town for ENIL's Freedom Drive and will love to connect with Debriefers there.

Contents

• Today is the day I realised, by Eva Chukwunelo in Nigeria
• You already know how this goes, by Bliss Jennings in Scotland
• My bed comforts me like a grieving mother, by Rani Sinha in India
• Another day to try again, by Alice Najuuko in Uganda
• here are some points in my day, by Johnson in India
• funhouse mirror trap, by ani araguz in the United States

About this edition

Disability Debrief is a home for innovative disability writing thanks to support from readers. Thanks to Andrew and WB for new contributions.

Kinanty Andini is an illustrator and digital artist from Indonesia.

Today is the day I realised

Eva Chukwunelo (Ada), writing from Abuja, Nigeria

Dear Diary,

Today left me emotionally overwhelmed, it reminded me what it means to be an amputee in a country like Nigeria.

I don’t live in the main part of Abuja, I live on the outskirts. People love to say it isn’t really Abuja, like it belongs to Nasarrawa state. But it is Abuja. The houses out here are beautiful, just a bit far from town.

The area carries a stereotype of poverty when really it’s people who simply wanted to build homes of their own. That’s the same stereotype disability carries. You have to be inside the experience to know how safe and ordinary it actually is.

I woke at 4:30am, bathed, waited for my family’s 5am devotion, then quickly dressed for my trek to the junction. This is an eight-minute walk, walking fast. The road is hard: stony, dusty or muddy (per the season), a slope that doesn’t look like a hill until you’re climbing it on a prosthetic leg. By the time I’m halfway up, I’m breathing like a dungeon dragon, but go quiet if someone walks past.

My friend usually meets me at the junction. We are two dark-skinned women in nice outfits, prosthetics visible in their skeletal form. We get looked at constantly; it’s a ritual. It’s one of my favourite things to watch the people staring at us.

Today there were no buses, so we fought for a keke (three-wheeler) that took us to where the cab drivers where. When an empty car moves towards you, you have to run towards the car. My prosthetic leg isn’t a running blade: it’s stiff and heavy, and every step exhausts me twice over.

We finally saw a coaster bus that had only two spaces left, by the door. My friend and I have an advantage. Others avoid the agbero guys (that might be touting something or extorting passers-by), but they always have our interest at heart. They saw us from afar and kept two seats for us.

People rushed towards the bus and the bus conductor said, “na for those two aunties”, and we walk gently to the bus. It felt good.

I gave my friend the proper seat, because she is an above knee amputee, she needs the support. I took the wooden chair. Halfway into town, my chair broke and I fell to the floor of the bus.

It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I nearly cried, wishing I had a job that let me work from home, or paid enough for a better ride.

We got to the office by 10am. I didn’t speak to anyone throughout. Closing time always stretches to 6pm, but I left at 5, without waiting for anyone else. Another 6-7 minute trek to the bus stop.

I have to go through all this just to be early at work, but I still feel invisible there.

Colleagues who live nearby have staff cars, it never occurs to help their only staff members with disabilities. Nobody asks how we get home. Only that we must show up.

Today is the day I realised that I have to resign.

Warmly,

Ada

You already know how this goes

Bliss Jennings, writing from Edinburgh, Scotland

Dear Diary,

You already know how this goes, because every day is the same.

I wake, feeling like something that’s been dredged up from the bottom of the ocean.

I manage to stumble from bed to couch. I could have stayed in bed, but the change of scenery provides some small sense of achievement.

At the very least, it gives me a different patch of wall to stare at. The sun filters in through the trees outside, and I watch the dappled light dance across the room. It’s beautiful, but, like the Lady of Shalott, I am “half sick of shadows”. I rest.

I coordinate my limbs enough to make a cup of tea. My head spins. I clutch the kitchen counter and hear my heartbeat sloshing in my ears. My vision starts to fuzz at the edges. I drag myself back and collapse down like a marionette that’s had its strings cut. I realise I forgot the tea. I rest.

I try to read, but I can't make sense of the words. They skitter across the page like a swarm of black bugs. My head aches. Every thought seems to reach me through molasses. I rest.

I lie on the couch; I lie on the bathroom floor; I lie on the spare room bed, surrounded by three months’ worth of laundry waiting to be folded. I have strange, feverish dreams where I'm trapped in a maze and can't find my way out. I run and run, but just hit dead ends. I wake up sweating. I rest.

I wonder briefly if this is what being poisoned feels like. I wonder briefly if this is what dying feels like. I wonder briefly if the new Pride and Prejudice series will be any good. I rest.

I look at my list of Important Things That Need Doing Urgently. I do none of them. I rest.

I shower sitting down, with my head between my knees. I rest.

If I have to think about resting one more time, I will scream. I don't have the energy to scream. I rest.

Sometimes an hour seems to stretch out for days, other times whole months pass in the blink of an eye. 

Outside, the world moves on without me. My friends get married, get promotions, travel the world. I watch the tree outside my window fade from spring green to autumn red. I rest.

I lose track of time, still hoping to achieve something, anything before the day is over. I check the clock. The day is over. I manage to stumble from couch to bed.

Tomorrow I’ll do it all over again.

Goodnight. I rest.

Bliss

My bed comforts me like a grieving mother

Rani Sinha, writing from Delhi, India

Dear Diary ,

I am stuck in an indefinite loop of flashbacks and inner voices .

To an outsider , I am someone with matted hair and a dirty t-shirt . But to my voices , I am a survivor with a long history of familial trauma .

All these thoughts come to me while I am on my bed every second of my life .

My bed comforts me like a grieving mother and my mattress feels like a soothing warm hug . I do not intend to leave my bed anytime soon . Now it has become a part of me . My bed is my comfort zone and soothes me in this fat-antagonistic world . The gentle touch of my sheets on my belly reminds me of my mother’s womb .

I wish to stay here and hope no one disturbs me . My fatness is a reminder that I am a whole human being . Meanwhile my depression doesn’t allow me to get out of this indefinite cycle of painful thoughts of my past . But my depression made me who I am and I am proud of this new me in every way .

It's been six months since I stopped my medications and I am glad I am free now . Even though I am confined within the dimension of my bed , I broke the chains of servitude of my prescriptions and scrutiny by my family and doctors .

I will not hide any part of me from this world . Currently I am naked from the bottom and there is no one to judge me and this is my safe space . I never imagined that I would be able to cross the boundary of shame and guilt which was created by my family .

My fat body is a blessing and she has allowed me to take up space in whichever way I want . My mind supports my fat body and has crossed every threshold of sanity . I prefer chaos over silence because silence restricts me .

I wake up from my nightmares at 3am and ask what have I done wrong . Flashbacks haunt me . These nightmares and flashbacks give me terrible headaches but I have no means to go outside and seek help .

Today I thought I would step out to get fresh air but all these thoughts and hatred stopped me . I am back in my cocoon . This world is no longer safe for me and my fat body . I wish I could hide myself in my bed but I can’t sustain myself this way .

I have decided to reclaim my belly , my chubby arms and my mind from this society . I wish it was so easy but it’s not . I am looking to forgive myself and I want to heal .

So this was my entire day and I hope I will meet you .

Rani

Another day to try again

Alice Najuuko writing from Wakiso district in Uganda 

Dear Diary,

It's another day to try again.

I wake up at 6.45am, and some mornings I wish I could jump out of my bed. The first thing on my mind is emptying my bladder.

Living with a spinal cord injury means my day starts with catheterizing. It's simply part of my life now, and I've learned to accept my new routine.

Once that's done, I wake my daughter and help her get ready for school. As a single mother, she is my greatest blessing and my biggest motivation.

I usually prepare her uniform and all we need closer to the bed the day before. So we do the things I can manage while still in bed or seated. I help her brush her teeth, get dressed, comb her hair, and pack her school bag. Before she leaves, I hug her tightly and remind her to have a wonderful day.

Watching her walk away with a smile fills my heart with hope.

When she leaves, it's my turn to get ready.

Getting dressed and transferring into my wheelchair takes time and patience. Some days my body feels tired before I've even left the house. I remind myself that every new day is another chance to keep going.

Leaving home I have to think about transport, rough roads, and whether the places I'm visiting will be accessible. Many buildings still have steps instead of ramps. Sometimes people stare at me, or look at me with pity.

Today I went to wheelchair rugby training. My teammates welcomed me with laughter and smiles. I'm not alone. Rugby has become my therapy, my family, and my safe place.

Before my injury, I worked as a preschool teacher in Dubai. My days were filled with running after children, singing songs, and helping them learn. I never imagined my life would change so suddenly. Losing the ability to walk was heartbreaking. But it didn't take away my dreams or my determination.

Going home, I stopped at a small shop for sugar and bread. There is no ramp. I had to wait outside while someone else went in for me.

Tonight, my daughter is asleep, and the house is quiet. I'm tired, and my shoulders ache from pushing my wheelchair all day.

Still, I'm proud of myself. I cared for my daughter, trained with my team, and faced every difficulty without giving up.

Tomorrow will bring new challenges, but it will also bring another chance to try again. That's enough for me.

Alice

here are some points in my day

Johnson, writing from Tamil Nadu, India

like I have SMA type 3, also I'm working as a software engineer, 

my day starts with a milk without sugar
and then my dad helps me to toilet and bath and dressing,
and then I start my work,
sitting in my bed and near the window.

outside of my house a tree,
its a neem tree, been there since before I remember
and I see the tree through the window grills as a jail.

and I do my regular jobs,
coding and team meetings and demos with clients,
I'll take some extra time to complete my daily works because of my weak hands and fingers
but I wont give up because no one can help me.

I earn decent salary
my entire life and my family depending on me for the monthly expense,
my mum is struggling hard to sustain the family
at my college time she did tailoring along with daily house works.

I feel proud because I feed my family today.
but recently I started the SMA medicine risdiplam
it takes my entire salary
my dad is a mason
and for the last 2 month he is managing my family for the monthly expense
my 2 sisters are still studying their degrees.

I started some parttime works to support my family again,
so the days are getting too difficult
like more than 8 hrs for my primary job and 2 hrs for the parttime job.

the coding part is easy nowadays because of AI
but still more than 10 hrs work is not easy for a disabled person like me.

after taking risdiplam for 2 months I feel some very small improvements in my health
I daily walk 3 times inside my room, with the support of chair
morning afternoon and night.

it was too difficult for my legs
but after taking risdiplam same 3 times
my legs feels less stress
and my hands feels less stress while coding.

so I want to keep on risdiplam daily
so I won't give up my job and my career
but give extra stuffs in my day.

everyday feels like a jail
I don't see the outside of my home since 2023, after I completed college
there are stairs from my room to the street
and my legs are too weak now to climb them,
so I cant go up or down anymore.

still having hope
one day god will made my day easier
and give some strengths to me.

Johnson

funhouse mirror trap

ani araguz writing from the northeastern united states

dear diary,

flared these past few days. been resting. compassion. cancelled therapy. listened to new music.

on friday my brain converted into a funhouse mirror trap and i was lost there all day. i would tell you more about it if i could.

i wanted to write an entry for a contest but

i like watching the planes. i found an app that helps me track them. i watch a plane fly back to oregon, a home i haven't seen in years, probably wont see in years.

i like watching the sunsets. the ones before the fires were desaturated and dainty. the ones this week with the fires have been dull and terrifying. just an angry sun sinking behind the smoke.

lungs are associated with grief, right? in traditional chinese medicine, at least.

let’s go poetic: lungs coated in ash as we collectively breathe in more to grieve.
but also let’s be real: i turned the air purifiers on and nearly drowned in the excessive sound.

saw a goose, a dragonfly, and three bunnies. so many herons these days too. 

note: a dragonfly showing up in a piece about cognitive dysfunction might be more powerful than a paragraph about symptoms.

linger here? -> the expectation of producing something coherent -> the reality of having only fragments -> the weirdness of having to explain an experience that disrupts your ability to explain

what does the dragonfly signify? that this mind is a place where things are lost and it is also a place where things can still arrive.

tried something out of my depth today, socially.
cried a lot but i think mostly it was overwhelm. it was nice to see so many queer disabled people together. it was hard to still be isolated from them.

today’s check-in tl;dr
body: malfunctioning
mind: fragmented
world: fuck

had something else to add here. that’s gone. let’s hold a place for it though.

cheers to you, lost thought, lost world,

ani

Outro

See the results of our previous call for writing: Broken then Blooming, imagining a future where disability rights are real.

Let your friends know. Sharing the newsletter is how people find it!

For more from Kinanty, see her website.

Connect. Get in touch. You can find me on Linkedin and Bluesky.

Help us do more. The Debrief is free thanks to reader support.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to all those who shared their diary entries in response to this call. It was an honour to read you, and feel the emotions of disability through your days.

Thanks and congratulations to those we published here: Eva, Bliss, Rani, Johnson, Alice, and ani.

Thanks to Kinanty Andini for the incredible illustration that combines the stories.

Thanks to Celestine Fraser who designed the call for writing, and worked to shortlist and select the favourite pieces.

And thanks to the readers and organisations whose support of the Debrief makes this work possible.