"Different, not harder."
That was the powerful takeaway from a dear friend who has spoken with me about special needs ministry for years.
"You often mention that being a special needs parent is harder, but I don't think it's helpful to compare struggles. It undermines the challenges faced by families like mine, who don't have children with special needs. Parenting is difficult for everyone. Perhaps it's time to consider that such comparisons might alienate people when you talk that way. Could it be that it's just different, not necessarily harder?" he candidly told me.
His words struck a chord, and I tried to suppress my initial resistance and reflect on what he said. My mind rebelled, protesting, "It is harder! It is more difficult!" Nevertheless, I remained silent while my sympathetic intern shed tears. "The difference is that when you share your needs, they are met with empathy and understanding. However, when we express our needs as individuals and families with disabilities, we often get dismissed. We have to prove that our journey is harder for anyone to care about. You say it alienates people, but I see it as a survival tactic that ableism has forced upon us. If we don't do it, our needs go unmet. It's harder for us because we have to justify every struggle, advocate for basic human rights, and fight for things others take for granted daily. It doesn't mean that your life isn't hard sometimes; it just means ours gives additional hurdles to jump."
This man may sound uninformed to some, but he is actually one of the kindest, most accepting people I know. He has supported our church's special needs ministry every step of the way. He is an ally for our families, an advocate for those without a voice, and a genuinely great man. However, he doesn't live in our world out of necessity; he chooses to be a part of it. Just as you can appreciate the strengths, celebrate unique giftings, and acknowledge the differences of another culture, doing so doesn't make it your own. To truly be a part of it, one must be immersed in it for the long term, if not born into it. This world, this culture, belongs to us with disability. It's not my friend's experience, though he cherishes and respects it.
Sometimes, we need a friend like that—someone who can recognize flaws in our cultural norms. After all, at one point in history, slavery was culturally acceptable in America, but thankfully, times have changed. That is why my friend's words resonated with me. However, I'd make one adaptation: it's not that we shouldn't compare, but rather how we do it. The way in which we compare our struggles makes all the difference.
Please hear me out, and I invite you to join in on this conversation!
When we say, "I have it harder," it can feel like we're not acknowledging someone else's pain. It is as if we're saying, "Your problems aren't that bad. At least your kids are normal!" This perception and mindset have emerged from years of ableism in our society, and sadly, it even affects how we speak about our loved ones. I'm not suggesting that we don't, in fact, face greater challenges than many neurotypical individuals or families without disabilities. However, is that the main point?
Are we fighting for pity or equality?
What if, instead of narrating a tearful journey of all the ways our lives are harder, we painted a picture of our lives by sharing our stories without the easier/harder hierarchy? What if we expressed our celebrations and needs without expecting negative reactions? This way, we could genuinely evaluate the health of our relationships. We wouldn't be seeking others' pity but acceptance as the quirky, amazing individuals we all are.
I understand that society needs to change, but so does the way we speak.
Perhaps we unintentionally invalidate others' struggles, pushing away potential allies. What if we approached these conversations and relationships from a linear model rather than a ladder of easiest to hardest?
What if the path to equality begins with the realization that we are all on the same ground?
The Bible actually promotes this model quite clearly. We are called to care for the widow and the poor because they are valuable to God. We are encouraged to include the blind, crippled, and lame, as they have just as much of a place at the table as anyone else. Maybe the most Kingdom-minded thing we can do is honestly share our stories—with both triumphs and struggles—without devaluing another person's experiences. What if true equality starts with finding common ground?
As human beings, we all have differing needs—even neurotypical individuals have varying needs from one another. This diversity is a natural part of being human. Finding a community of people who genuinely care about our needs is crucial for healthy living. If we are being honest, there will always be some people who won't care about our inclusion, and that's okay—they won't be our people. But I believe that the majority do care; they just need to understand our stories and needs without feeling devalued. Moreover, they need a clear path to include us and our loved ones in the body of Christ, which entails a fully accessible Gospel message welcoming to all.
In many significant ways, our lives differ from those who aren't disabled, and in some aspects, they may even be harder. So why don't we let people draw their conclusions? When we feel compelled to lead them to it, it might appear as if we believe we have less to offer the world. After all, pity suggests that we have less to give, and therefore, we require handouts. I, for one, refuse to settle for being pitied. I want to be included, valued, and wanted. We deserve equality, not just in terms of mobility and career opportunities, but also in our relationships and expectations. That's how I, as a disabled person and a mother to two boys with disabilities, feel when I talk to my friends. Even when they don't fully comprehend our experiences, they genuinely care. Perhaps our journeys are different, but at our core, we are more alike than different. We are all precious image-bearers.
Creating equality and genuine compassion is undoubtedly challenging. We have learned that many won't grant us that, and we have settled for pity. But what if we no longer allow the people in our lives to make a habit of being unfair and uncaring? We might not be able to change governments (only God can do that). But we can transform our communities by being unapologetically authentic and honestly sharing our differing needs due to our disabilities. Then, we can find people who genuinely care.
This is not a blog where I tell you what's true and what's not.
It's an invitation to join the conversation:
What if we stopped seeking pity and started seeking acceptance?
What if we could build meaningful relationships with people who would share our burdens with us?
Could we witness the dawning of an age of equality?
Do we hold any responsibility for the experiences of disabled individuals today?
How can we play a more significant role in creating equality, going beyond the progress we've made in the past?
Your voice is vital to this conversation.
Let's talk about it together.
Joanna French is the special needs pastor at Flint Hills Church, Junction City, KS. Joanna and her husband Jairmie have two boys with autism. In 2017, Joanna started Flint Hills Embrace, with the goal to make Flint Hills Church a place where everyone belongs. Why? Because we all have a place in God's plan.
