Dating with a Disability: Loving Out Loud

I have been dating since I was a teenager. Long before I understood the politics of bodies or the quiet violence of assumptions, I understood companionship and love. At sixteen, I was hopelessly in love—the kind of love that lives in movies and dreams. I wrote love letters filled with drama and devotion, words spilling out like choreography across the page. As a dance major at the High School of Performing Arts, I expressed my affection the way I knew best: through movement. I choreographed dances in his honor, shaping emotion into steps, imagining that love—real love—was always supposed to be poetic, romantic, and full of hope. 

And it was. Back then, romance came easily. I loved companionship. I loved being chosen. I loved the feeling of having someone who cared whether I made it home safely, who noticed my smile, who wanted to sit next to me simply because I was me. Love felt natural, expected, and real.

Then my life changed. 

Now, as a disabled woman—still filled with desire, emotion, sensuality, and the longing for partnership—dating feels like navigating a maze built by fear, ignorance, and other people’s discomfort. My right foot is paralyzed; I walk with a limp. I wear an AFO brace. I use a cane. These visible markers seem to eclipse everything else about me before I even open my mouth. Men sometimes see me as “not perfect,” as different, as strange. As if perfection were ever real. As if difference were something to apologize for. 

I am beautiful—inside and out. And yet I have been made to feel invisible, undesirable, or burdensome simply because my body moves differently through the world. I do not enjoy being discriminated against by men because I am disabled. Should that matter? Should the way I walk negate the way I love, dream, laugh, or connect? I don’t think so. 

Because of this fear, I rarely tell men right away that I am a brain tumor survivor. Not because I am ashamed—but because I have learned that the word “survivor” carries weight people are often unwilling to lift. I can almost see the calculations happening behind their eyes: Will I have to take care of her? Will she get sick again? Will loving her be too hard? Am I going to be a caregiver? 

They don’t ask these questions out loud. They simply disappear. 

One of my most telling experiences happened during a casual dinner with friends. I met a man who seemed genuinely kind, warm, and interested. While we were seated, the chemistry felt easy. He laughed at my jokes. He leaned in. His eyes lingered. Attraction was present—because when I am sitting, my disability is less visible, and the world relaxes. 

But when the evening ended and I stood up, everything changed. 

As I walked toward the door, cane in hand, body moving at its own rhythm, I later learned he turned to my friend and asked, “What’s wrong with her? Why does she walk like that?” 

Despite this, he asked me out on a date. When we met, the very first thing he said was not hello, not “you look nice,” but: “Why do you walk like that?” 

I took a breath and told him the truth. I told him I am a brain tumor survivor. That I am the Artistic Director of a physically integrated dance company. That I am a disability advocate. That my life, though shaped by illness, is also defined by creativity, leadership, and resilience. 

His entire energy shifted. 

The man who once leaned in now leaned back. Conversation stalled. Curiosity vanished. The connection evaporated as if honesty were something contagious. We finished dinner politely. Outside the restaurant, he said goodbye. No kiss or a handshake. I never heard from him again. 

Dating apps haven’t been much kinder. I have been blocked simply for being honest— “I walk with a limp and use a cane.” Blocked not because of incompatibility, but because disability itself was a dealbreaker. I once spoke with a man who claimed he didn’t mind my disability at all. But the moment I told him I was a brain tumor survivor, silence followed. No call. No explanation. Just absence. 

These moments could have hardened me. They could have convinced me to shrink, to hide, to apologize for surviving. But instead, they taught me something far more powerful. 

They taught me that confidence is not the absence of rejection—it is surviving it without losing yourself. 

And then, something unexpected happened. 

I met a man who didn’t flinch. 

When I told him I was a brain tumor survivor, his face didn’t change. His voice didn’t tighten. His interest didn’t waver. When we left the restaurant, he gently helped me walk—not out of pity, but out of care. He accepts me as I am, chronic illness and all. He sees me not as a burden, but as a partner, a friend.  

To every disabled individual in the dating pool, and every non-disabled person too, I say this: trust your inner being. Your intuition knows when someone sees you fully and when they are only tolerating parts of you. If a person does not accept you for who you are—your history, your body, your truth—then you do not need them. Love should not require erasure. Dump them! 

As disabled people, we must represent. We must take up space. We must love out loud and demand to be loved without conditions. Our bodies are not mistakes. Our stories are not liabilities. Our desire is valid, our beauty undeniable, our love worthy. 

Love us for who we are—because who we are is more than enough.