The Five Stages of Disability Grief

I’m finally facing the tangled mess of grief I feel about my chronic illness.

It’s a funny thing—I thought I’d accepted my disability because I was willing to call myself “disabled.” For a lot of people, that word is a tough one to reckon with. Folks worry (rightly!) that they’ll be treated differently when they say they’re disabled. They worry they’ll feel less than. They worry they’ll be less than.

Through a mix of privilege and personality, I didn’t have too tough a time accepting the word “disabled.” I had some imposter syndrome to work through, but beyond that, I wasn’t afraid of the word. If anything, I embraced it.

But I’ve come to realize that identifying as disabled and accepting disability are two radically different things.

After getting my (more or less formal) diagnosis of ME/CFS, I started reckoning with what it meant to be disabled. I suppose I thought if I came to terms with the label, I’d come to terms with the condition itself. So I started saying I was disabled. I said it in therapy. I said it with my partner. I said it at work. I said it so they could hear it but mostly so that I could.

All this talk about disability let me avoid the feelings brewing just below the surface. I could feel like I was making real…