31/08/2026
I was a guest speaker for the Bendigo PRIDE Festival and Wellbeing Forum yesterday. It was such a pleasure to participate alongside such amazing rainbow advocates and professionals. Here’s the video of a poem I wrote and adapted for delicate ears. https://youtu.be/ypCZCXKtY9U?feature=shared
🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️🌈👩🏼🦼➡️
And here’s my speech that I delivered following the video.
Healthcare That Sees the Whole Person
That poem is about being told that I am either too much or not enough.
And unfortunately, healthcare is one of the places where I’ve felt that most deeply.
When we talk about barriers to healthcare, we often think about physical access; getting through the door, an accessible bathroom, getting onto an examination bed.
Those things matter.
But accessibility doesn’t start at the front door, and it doesn’t end there.
I’m a non-speaking person and I use AAC to communicate.
My communication is different. My autonomy isn’t.
Not speaking doesn’t mean I don’t understand, can’t make decisions, or need someone else to speak for me.
Because my disability is visible, and because my communication looks and sounds different, people can make a dangerous assumption:
that my body somehow isn’t my own.
People touch me without asking, move me without asking, make decisions about my body without asking.
And I’ve had healthcare professionals cut me without my consent.
Imagine knowing your body can be treated as though it belongs to everyone except you.
That’s a violation of autonomy.
I’ve also experienced healthcare professionals making assumptions about my capacity, my quality of life and what they think is best for me.
I’ve been bullied into surgeries I didn’t want or need.
And my mum was bullied too.
She said no. Over and over again.
And still, she wasn’t listened to.
She was told she was a terrible mother.
She was called a problem parent.
She was made to feel like she was failing because she questioned decisions and advocated for me.
Those experiences don’t disappear when the appointment ends.
They stay with you. They teach you to be wary and that you might have to fight to be heard.
And becoming an adult doesn’t necessarily change those attitudes.
I’m 30 years old.
Recently, a nurse caring for my grandmother spoke to me in an incredibly infantilising tone.
And I remember thinking:
I’m 30 years old.
I am a grown woman. I make my own decisions. I have a voice, even if my communication looks and sounds a little different.
Yet I was treated like a child because someone looked at my disability and decided who I was.
That’s what attitudinal barriers can look like.
For LGBTQIA+ people, there can be another layer. Will I be respected? Will I be misgendered? Will I feel safe enough to be honest?
For someone who is both disabled and LGBTQIA+, these barriers intersect: accessibility, communication, discrimination, assumptions, and the exhaustion of constantly advocating for yourself.
Eventually, healthcare can become so exhausting that people stop accessing it. Not because they don’t care about their health, but because they’ve learned they have to fight to be understood first.
And I want to acknowledge the q***r disabled people in this room and their families.
On the 18th of August, the Senate passed the NDIS Bill.
For many of us, that isn’t simply a political decision. It is deeply personal.
When the supports we rely on are threatened, our barriers to healthcare don’t become smaller.
They become bigger.
For many disabled people, support enables us to eat, communicate, get out of bed, leave our homes, attend medical appointments and have meaningful control over our lives.
So when we talk about accessible healthcare, we have to talk about the systems that make healthcare accessible in the first place.
We shouldn’t have to fight for the support that allows us to access the healthcare we’re being told we should be able to access.
So what can we do differently?
Ask. Listen. Adapt.
Don’t assume what someone needs. Listen to people about their own bodies and experiences. Don’t make people fight for accessibility after they’ve already walked through the door.
Because healthcare isn’t truly accessible if I can physically get inside, but have to fight to be treated with dignity, autonomy and consent.
I want to finish where I started.
I am enough for me.
I shouldn’t have to be disabled enough, sick enough, q***r enough, independent enough, or easy enough to understand.
My body is mine.
My voice is mine.
My choices are mine.
My autonomy is mine.
We deserve healthcare that doesn’t just see our diagnosis, disability, gender, sexuality, or the way we communicate.
We deserve healthcare that sees the whole person.
Thank you.
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