This one’s hard. It’s been floating around in my head for a couple of days now, and I honestly wasn’t sure if it belonged on the blog. But the Life in the Studio section has become more than just behind-the-scenes snapshots—it’s also a space for me to talk about things that are personal, and sometimes uniquely tied to being disabled. And this is one of those moments.

For those of you who don’t know, in radio, the professional term for what I do is programmer—not like software programmer, but as in someone who curates and presents music on the air. If that sounds too technical, just call it what it is: I’m a disc jockey. I’m a disabled one. And that matters.

We’ve talked before about how rare disabled voices are in media—and how that lack of representation isn’t just frustrating, it’s dangerous. If I can use the mic and the blog to push back against that silence, then that is my job. Not just spinning records, but saying the things too many of us have been told to keep quiet about.

And yeah, lately, I’ve been getting pushback from a few people. Folks who think I should “shut up and play music.” I haven’t talked about that much here, but it happens. Which blows my mind—like if you’re gonna go through the trouble of reading this blog, do you seriously think I don’t have anything to say beyond the three hours I’m on air?

If that’s your take, you’re a fucking idiot. And this post probably isn’t for you anyway.

But if you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to navigate love, loss, and self-worth from the perspective of someone living in a disabled body—this one’s for you.

There’s a funny thing that happens with my morning music. I’ll ask Alexa to play something—usually without thinking about it—and then find myself wondering why that song popped into my head. This morning, it was “Smoke and a Light” by Ole 60. Then, almost immediately after, I asked for “Destroying the World Around Me” by Mushroomhead. Not exactly cheery, right?

The thing is, I don’t go into these mornings planning to soundtrack heartbreak or loss or whatever emotional baggage I’m dragging behind me. It just happens. Subconsciously, I guess I’m asking for music that understands me better than I’m willing to admit out loud. And lately, the theme seems to be about things ending—specifically relationships, and the kind of soul-sorting that comes in their wake.

Which brings me to something I don’t think most able-bodied people ever have to consider: the weird mental gymnastics that come with dating while disabled. I’ve had more than one relationship end, and every time, I can’t help but wonder if part of it—whether said out loud or not—had something to do with the wheelchair. With the limitations. With the fact that being with me might require a little more thought, a little more planning, or just a different kind of patience.

There’s this phrase I’ve said to myself, half-joking, half-serious: am I dating above my security clearance? It’s not about looks. It’s not about intelligence or personality or any of the obvious things. It’s this internal fear, this nagging little voice that says, they could have chosen someone easier. And maybe someday, they will.

Now, I’m not saying all relationships are doomed unless both people are disabled. Far from it. In fact, I have friends in what’s known as interabled relationships—where one partner is disabled and the other is not. And some of those couples are rock solid. They’ve found a rhythm. They understand each other’s needs. They communicate, adapt, and thrive together.

But I’ve also seen how much work that takes. It’s not just love—it’s logistics. It’s emotional bandwidth. It’s sometimes having to be a partner and a helper. And that can wear on people, especially if they weren’t fully prepared for what that means long-term.

On the flip side, when you’re both disabled, a lot of those unspoken questions don’t even come up. You’re kind of playing the same chess game. You understand what it means to have limitations. You know how plans shift, how energy runs out, how some days just aren’t going to be easy. There’s an unspoken understanding in that kind of connection—it’s not about pity or codependence, it’s just that you’re both fluent in the same language. The emotional labor of explaining everything disappears, and in its place is this quiet sense of I get it.

In my last relationship, I tried to get ahead of all that. Before we ever made it official, we had long, honest conversations about my limitations. I was clear about how things might change over time. I didn’t hide anything. I didn’t pretend to be someone I’m not. And for a while, it worked. We laughed. We loved. We made a home.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. I don’t know if it was the disability, or something else entirely. Maybe it was just life doing what life does—throwing curveballs we can’t always catch. Still, I’d be lying if I said I don’t wonder. If I don’t feel that old familiar voice creeping in again, whispering: maybe you asked for too much.

That’s why I consider myself lucky, even now. Because I know plenty of disabled people who have convinced themselves they don’t deserve love. Some were raised to believe they’d never find a partner. Others think their disability is too unique, too complicated, too much. They write themselves out of the dating equation before anyone else has the chance to meet them. And that breaks my heart.

And since we’re already pulling the curtain back—let’s talk about something even more taboo: intimacy and disability. Not just love, not just romance. I’m talking about sex. Porn. Desire. The stuff we pretend disabled people aren’t supposed to want.

Part of my day job is managing websites, and several years ago—before I moved to Florida—I met two individuals with disabilities who create adult content. Specifically little people pornography. And yes, I know—just by saying the word “porn,” I’ve probably triggered someone’s moral panic.

But here’s the thing: I don’t watch their videos. That’s not my role. I help manage their content, handle the tech they don’t understand, and keep their business running smoothly. It’s just a job. But over the years, it’s taught me something important: there is almost no visibility for disabled people in adult media.

You can find every possible niche or fetish you can imagine in mainstream porn, but try searching for content involving real disabled people—not mockery, not fetishization, just actual, consenting disabled adults owning their sexuality—and it’s shockingly rare. Why?

Because there’s a deeply embedded stigma that says disabled people either don’t want sex or shouldn’t have it. And if they do, they’re being exploited. But let’s be real—if you think disabled people can’t consent, or shouldn’t express their sexuality, you’re the one with the warped view of power dynamics.

And now, just to make it even more absurd, let’s add Florida into the mix. In this state, our brilliant governor has decided that the best way to “protect children from naked people” is to require you to upload a state-issued ID just to access adult content. Like that’s actually going to work.

Here’s a wild thought: kids are smarter than most adults. If they want to find something online, they’re gonna find it. So what’s the real point of these policies? Are we protecting anyone? Or just adding another roadblock for marginalized people—like disabled adults—who are already struggling to find representation and access to intimacy in the first place?

And just to hammer this home, let’s talk about freedom for a second.

America loves to brand itself as the land of the free and the open-minded—but if you’re disabled and seeking intimacy? You’re on your own. In countries like the Netherlands, Germany, and parts of Canada, governments will actually fund access to sex workers or trained intimacy professionals for disabled individuals who otherwise can’t pursue those experiences through traditional means. It’s not treated as scandalous. It’s treated as humane. As part of life.

But here? In the U.S.? You either find a partner against all odds, or you make a road trip to somewhere like Nevada—and even then, there’s still a thick cloud of stigma, judgment, and legal nonsense hanging over the whole thing. You have to sneak around for something that, in other countries, is seen as an act of compassion.

So again—who exactly are we protecting? And who gets to decide what freedom looks like?

This is what happens when you pretend entire groups of people don’t exist. You erase their needs. You silence their voice. You decide for them what’s “appropriate” or “dignified” without ever asking what dignity actually looks like in their lives.

So no, this post isn’t about sadness. It’s not a cry for pity. It’s not about defeat. My life is not a tragedy. I’ve lived more fully and freely than a lot of people ever will. But this is something I think about—and I bet I’m not the only one.

If you’re someone who’s never had to weigh your worth against your body’s limitations, or navigate love and sex in a world that pretends you don’t want either—maybe just take a second to think about those of us who do.

For some of us, loving—and being loved—comes with a bit of extra math.

But damn it, we still show up. Still hit play. Still believe the next song might be the one that finally understands.