If you think ableism is just about rude comments or outdated language, you couldn’t be further from the truth. It runs far deeper than that. Ableism is structural. It is embedded in how our communities are designed and who is allowed to shape them.
You can see this most clearly when disabled people are shut out of leadership and decision-making roles—by the very glass ceilings and systemic inaccessibility that prevent us from rising into those positions in the first place. Yes, disabled people are sometimes “included,” but too often only as symbolic representation, limited to one narrow or convenient form of disability access.
These are not accidents. They are the predictable outcomes of excluding disabled people from authority and leadership.
This is what happens when disabled people are pushed to the margins instead of trusted as experts in our own lives. And it shows up everywhere.
- No accessible entrances.
- Accessible bathrooms used as storage for boxes and supplies.
- Baby-changing tables mounted so high a wheelchair user couldn’t possibly reach them.
- Inaccessible public meetings.
- Housing policies built around a mythical “one size fits all.”
- Services optimized for cost savings instead of human impact.
- “Alzheimer’s” jokes tossed around casually.
- Public meetings held without sign-language interpreters.
- Schools without adapted facilities.
- The R-word still being used as a punchline.
And the list goes on.
Ableism is so ingrained in our society that many people don’t even see it anymore. It’s normalized, excused, and minimized. Most people aren’t even aware they’re being ableist until someone points it out, often after harm has already occurred.
Representation cannot be merely symbolic. It is too important for that. Current statistics estimate that one in ten people has a disability. So why aren’t one in ten politicians disabled? Why aren’t one in ten CEOs disabled? If one in ten people has a disability, why are so few leaders disabled?
And while there is no single, universally agreed-upon statistic for daily wheelchair use in the U.S., multiple sources estimate that approximately one in forty people use a wheelchair as their primary mobility device. When was the last time you saw a top politician or community leader who was a daily wheelchair user? What about community planners, landscape designers, or architectural designers?
If one in approximately 40 people are wheelchair users, why isn’t a single member of the House of Representatives a daily wheelchair user? Why is only one member of the Senate an occasional wheelchair user? There are 535 voting members of Congress, and yet, only one is a wheelchair user.
If Congress reflected the general U.S. population, you would expect about 13–14 daily wheelchair users among its members. In reality, there is only one wheelchair user.
Obviously, some professions have essential physical requirements that naturally exclude wheelchair users. You would not expect to find NFL players who are daily wheelchair users, nor active-duty firefighters, combat soldiers, roofers, or commercial airline pilots.
These are roles in which the core physical functions of the job genuinely cannot be performed from a wheelchair. This is not discrimination; it is reality. It would be no more reasonable than expecting a deaf and non-speaking person to be an opera singer, or a person missing both upper and lower limbs to be a rock climber.
There are, in fact, a small number of professions where essential physical requirements naturally exclude wheelchair users or people with other disabilities, but they are the exception, not the rule. Yet these few examples are routinely used to justify exclusion everywhere else.
When we talk about the absence of people with disabilities, community and political leadership do not fall into that category. Our leaders come from a wide range of backgrounds, professions, communities, and educational paths. These roles are not defined by physical endurance, speed, or mobility, but by judgment, experience, and the ability to serve
The absence of disabled leaders isn’t accidental. Leadership in the U.S. has long been built around an able-bodied ideal, and when disability appears, it’s either hidden, reframed, or erased.
When disabled people are in leadership, systems shift. Barriers are anticipated instead of apologized for later. Access is built in, not patched on afterward. Exclusion is prevented, not explained away.
Nothing changes unless we, disabled people and those who support full accessibility, use our voices. Real change does not come from isolated stories spoken into the social-media void. It comes from collective pressure, shared advocacy, and disabled people showing up together where decisions are actually made — if we can get through the door, up the steps, or find accessible seating.