Ability inequity, as defined in the article, highlights the unfair distribution and judgment of abilities, creating systemic barriers for disabled individuals. The concepts of ability security and ability identity security bring attention to how society either supports or neglects disabled individuals in their daily lives.

From what I’ve seen and experienced, many disabled people struggle to feel secure in their daily lives. Ability security, the idea that a person can live a decent life no matter their abilities, often feels like a privilege rather than a right. I know people who constantly battle to secure employment, access healthcare, and navigate public spaces, not because they lack capability but because the world wasn’t built with them in mind. While some progress has been made, major gaps remain. Financial and bureaucratic barriers can turn even the simplest tasks, like getting the right assistive technology or accommodations, into exhausting, uphill battles.

Yet, the pushback against making businesses more accessible is a reminder of how deeply rooted ableism is. Yes, there is a financial cost to accessibility, but the investment creates opportunities and challenges the mindset that disability is a burden. When businesses prioritize inclusion, they don’t just open doors for disabled individuals; they also shift societal attitudes, reinforcing accessibility as a fundamental right rather than an afterthought.

Then there’s ability identity security, the right to feel at ease with who you are. Too often, society frames disability as something to “overcome” rather than something to be embraced, reinforcing the idea that disabled people must constantly prove their worth. This can lead to internalized ableism, making it difficult for disabled individuals to fully accept themselves. They aren’t just facing disability stigma from the outside world; they’re often battling it within themselves, too.

One of my first jobs in social services was at an abilities farm, a fully accessible working farm. On my first day, I was told something that stuck with me: it didn’t matter what a person’s capabilities were; if they wanted to ride a horse, they were going to ride a horse! It was powerful to see an organization create and normalize opportunities that many people who are deemed “able-bodied” take for granted. More spaces like this are needed, places that don’t just accommodate disability but celebrate it as part of human diversity.

Community plays a massive role in shaping these experiences. People feel valued, included, and safe in spaces that embrace diverse abilities. But those spaces are still too rare. Academia, for instance, has a mixed record when it comes to disability inclusion. Some institutions do a great job providing note-taking assistance, extended test times, and accessible course materials. Others, however, make students fight tooth and nail for even the most basic accommodations, placing the burden on them to prove their struggles over and over again. The emotional toll of constantly advocating for oneself is exhausting. Postsecondary education should lead the charge in inclusivity, but too often, it lags behind, responding to individual requests instead of building accessibility into the system from the start.

When the authors talk about how ableism intersects with other forms of oppression, they’re pointing to something many people experience firsthand. Racism, classism, and ableism often collide in healthcare, where Black and Indigenous disabled individuals are routinely dismissed, misdiagnosed, or denied adequate treatment due to racial biases. Ageism and ableism intersect when older individuals are forced out of the workforce because of assumptions about their physical or cognitive abilities. Eugenics-based ideologies still linger in policies that decide which lives are considered “worthy” of investment, whether that’s in medical care, education, or employment opportunities.

One of the biggest issues is the way society frames disability. The medical model of disability treats it as something to be cured or fixed, rather than acknowledging the real issue: systemic barriers. The social model of disability flips this, arguing that disability isn’t a personal failing but a result of inaccessible structures and prejudiced attitudes. This shift in thinking is crucial because it places responsibility where it belongs—not on disabled people, but on the world that refuses to accommodate them.

There has been progress, but there’s still a long road ahead. True ability security and identity security won’t exist until society fully embraces the value of all people, regardless of their abilities. That means changing policies, changing attitudes, and, most importantly, listening to disabled voices in the process.

(sorry for my ranting essay, I work with alot of people who are in this community, the frustration is real, when it comes to public opinion and treatment)

I think my results would have been different, had they started off associating disabled and positive things, instead of the able bodied and positive things.  mussle memory is a thing.

sigh alas, the test shows that “Your responses suggested a slight automatic preference for Physically Abled People over Physically Disabled People.”

I still question it’s Validity.

Crip Theory challenges the idea that disability is a problem to be fixed! It takes a very anti-medical model anti-positivist approach. Instead, it sees disability as a natural part of human diversity and questions why society makes life harder for disabled people. It pushes for acceptance, accessibility, and valuing of disabled people as they are, not just when they fit non-disabled expectations. The word “crip” is reclaimed by some as a term of pride, similar to “queer” in LGBTQ+ spaces.

1. Should sport be grouped by ability or disability?

Grouping sports by ability rather than disability makes far more sense — not just practically, but philosophically. It encourages real inclusion, pushes past outdated ideas, and emphasizes what people can do, instead of what they supposedly can’t.

When we group by disability, there’s an underlying assumption that everyone with the same diagnosis has the same capabilities or needs — and that’s just not the case. This kind of thinking tends to box people in and centers the disability as their defining trait. It follows the old medical model, where disabilities are seen as deficiencies that need to be handled separately. It’s limiting, and honestly, it misses the bigger picture.

Grouping by ability, though, acknowledges that talent and skill come in many forms and aren’t restricted by body type or condition. This approach fits with the social model of disability, which suggests it’s the environment — not the individual — that creates barriers. When we focus on performance, effort, and growth, sport becomes about the person, not their diagnosis. That’s when inclusion really happens.

Fitzgerald and Long bring up the idea of reverse integration — where non-disabled athletes take part in disability sports, playing under the same rules. These examples prove a powerful point: when the playing field is truly equal, like everyone using a wheelchair in basketball, it’s not about disability anymore — it’s about drive, teamwork, and skill. Labels fade into the background.

Sure, building a system based on ability will take more flexibility and well-trained coaches. But the payoff is worth it: a sporting culture that actually values people for who they are and supports them to thrive in their own lane.

Unquestionably true.
The authors explain that sportswomen — disabled or not — find themselves in a constant paradox. They’re expected to succeed in an athletic world shaped by masculine traits like strength and competitiveness. Yet, to be socially recognised as women, they’re also expected to embody traditional feminine ideals — such as grace or attractiveness. This creates ongoing tension, forcing them to balance their athletic legitimacy with societal expectations of femininity.

If they lean too far toward athleticism, their gender identity or sexuality may be questioned. Shift too far in the other direction, and they risk being over-sexualized, having their dedication to the sport doubted, or seeing their skills and achievements dismissed altogether.

Yes, Murderball does play into the supercrip narrative, though often in more subtle ways. On one hand, it breaks certain stereotypes by portraying disabled men as tough, competitive, and sexually confident. But at the same time, it reinforces the idea that disabled people are only valuable when they achieve something extraordinary. The athletes are framed as heroic for “overcoming” disability to play a brutal, hyper-masculine sport, echoing the medical model that treats disability as a personal obstacle to conquer.

This connects closely to inspiration porn. The players are seen as inspiring mainly because they’re doing what society doesn’t expect of disabled people. Instead of challenging those expectations, the film often uplifts those who conform to a specific ideal: strength, dominance, and able-bodied notions of success.

Gender is central here. These men reclaim power through amplified masculinity, aggression, competitiveness, and sexual bravado. It sends the message that disabled men must prove they’re still “real men” by performing traditional male roles. To be respected, they can’t simply live with a disability; they have to outperform it. So, while Murderball offers visibility, it does so by holding disabled men to superhuman standards rather than allowing space for them just to be human.