I’ve written about ableism before, but a recent encounter pushed me to speak up again. For those unfamiliar, ableism is a form of discrimination that places certain bodies and minds above others. It doesn’t just harm disabled people—it devalues anyone who doesn’t fit into a narrow definition of “normal” or “capable.”

This time, the situation wasn’t even one I was directly part of—but it was still about me. My husband recently ran into someone from his past. This person—let’s call them “they” to protect their identity—had once strongly urged him to break up with me when we were dating. Why? Because, in their words, I would be a burden.

Fast forward nearly 20 years. We’re still together, thriving as partners, parents, and professionals. And yet, when their paths crossed again, this person hadn’t changed their tune. They told my husband that I had “struck gold” by marrying him—because of his job, his status, his everything. And what did he get in return? According to them, “a goldfish.”

Yes. A goldfish.

My husband pushed back hard. He told them he struck gold too—that I’m independent, a professor, a mother, a partner in every sense of the word. That together, we’re more than the sum of our parts. But none of that mattered. Their response? “But she isn’t, is she? She’s a goldfish.”

That comment hit me like a punch to the gut.

It made me reflect on how, for some people, the fact that my eyes don’t work the way theirs do is all they need to dismiss everything else about me. My career, my contributions, my family, my activism—none of it counts. Because I’m blind, I’m automatically seen as less. As a burden. As someone who couldn’t possibly be an equal partner.

And here’s the thing: this wasn’t just about me. I could be the President of Earth, and they still wouldn’t see me differently. Because ableism runs that deep. It tells us that disabled people are inherently less valuable. That we don’t contribute. That we’re lucky just to be tolerated, let alone loved or respected.

This mindset is everywhere. It’s in the media, in our schools, in our workplaces, in casual conversations. It’s in the silence when disabled people are left out of the narrative. And it’s in the audacity of someone thinking they can reduce me to a goldfish—despite everything I’ve achieved.

So what can you do?

You educate yourselve. We challenge our assumptions. We listen to disabled voices—there are so many of us sharing our lives and experiences online. Follow us. Learn from us. Stop assuming that just because you can’t imagine doing something with a disability, it can’t be done.

I’m not a goldfish. If anything, I’m an elephant—I have an excellent memory, I lift others up, I am resilient and I fight for change. But I won’t pretend these comments don’t sting. Because they do. They make me wonder: what more do we have to do to be seen as worthy? If being a professor, a mother, a partner, and a changemaker isn’t enough—what is?

What more does an ableist society want from us