My Disability Is Not a Burden—But to Convince Potential Dates, I First Have to Convince Myself

The truth is I have very minimal experience on dating websites. My self-esteem and self-acceptance grow every day, but the thought I had that day in middle school has stuck with me: Needing help from others makes me feel like a burden—that’s not ideal in a relationship. The first time I tried a dating app I was a freshman in college (pre-Tinder, for the record). Away from home and depressed, I thought going on a dating website exclusively for disabled dating would make me feel less alone. I’ll never forget seeing a wheelchair user’s profile, which read, “Able-bodied women preferred,” shortly after joining. I wish Ariana Grande weren't in high school then—it would’ve been so much easier to scroll past and forget if I'd had “Thank U, Next” blasting in my head.

Since the first try, I’ve had a couple of dating profiles on sites like Plenty of Fish and OkCupid. I even attempted EHarmony. Each time the setup is the same: Call a friend to help, get drunk, agonize over where to put the term “wheelchair user” in the bio, and try to find the best picture of myself…then wait.

I always disclose my disability in my profile, because I don’t have time for games or that extra tinge of fear that comes when you are trying to figure out when to reveal your big “secret” to someone. On my most recent try a few years ago, I was messaging with a guy for a few days, probably talking about a TV show. I was a big basketball fan at the time, so the subject came up. “I haven’t played, though,” I said, “I don’t know how to find a wheelchair basketball team.” He made polite conversation with me for the night and then…ghosted.

The most awkward encounter I had started out promising. This guy wrote paragraphs—as a writer, someone who’s eloquent and shows they’ve read my profile is a must. Aside from his ability to form coherent sentences, I wasn’t super into him, but I knew I wanted a real relationship, and to me that means taking time to get to know someone. Then one night he dropped the bomb: “I should tell you I’m a devotee.”

A devotee is someone who fetishizes wheelchairs and disability. Devotees inspire fear in me. I’m not here to fetish-shame anyone, but my disability isn’t who I am—it’s just one part. I knew almost instantly that I wouldn’t be able to handle being in a relationship like that. Still, I was curious. “So, erm, do you want to, like, know what brand my wheelchair is or something?” I asked. He did. Apparently, he was into my answer and asked if I wanted to move our chat off the app. I didn’t. The next day he completely disappeared from the site—perhaps in search of an even sexier wheelchair brand.

I quit online dating after that, choosing to focus on the other things that make me feel fulfilled instead. But I don’t want to be alone forever. Dr. Phil’s comments made me realize that I was internalizing other people’s damaging opinions about disability and dating. Somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, a little voice had been sending me the same message Dr. Phil wrongly promoted on his show. I’ve been seeing my disability as a burden—myself as a burden—and it’s kept me from pursuing the kind of relationship I want. My entire adult life I’ve been coming up with excuses, telling myself that I’m not independent enough to date.