Disability is natural, human variation – at birth, through life and as we age. Disabled people make up the largest minority group on Earth, one anyone can join at any time. Yet, too often, society treats us as a homogenous group when, in reality, we’re individuals with intersecting identities impacting our lived experiences.
There are 5.5 million disabled people in Australia – 21% of the population and 15% of the working-age population. Disability intersects disproportionately with LGBTQIA+, First Nations people, CALD communities, those living in poverty, and people experiencing family violence. Unique forms of discrimination emerge at these intersections, compounding marginalisation in ways that wouldn’t otherwise exist.
At 27, I acquired a disability. The change in how I was treated was stark. I went from leading global sourcing programs to having people make decisions for me, in front of me, about me. The soft bigotry of low expectations and parentified and charitable interactions became the norm with peers, friends and people in positions of power.
And, my experience was shaped by privilege. I am white, university-educated, cisgender, heterosexual, and employed. Examples from my life are minor compared to many. Sharing my story offers a lens into broader systemic issues and the compounding challenges others face.
Intersectionality at work
Intersectionality isn’t just about characteristics—it’s how they combine to create unique discrimination.
As a newly disabled, non-citizen, I was excluded from Australian government support. Disability costs came out of my pocket. Pre-NDIS estimates from the University of Southern Queensland estimated “The average cost of having any disability in the short-run in Australia was 50% of disposable adult-equivalent annual income”. I’m fortunate to have disposable income as a disabled person.
People with disability experience much higher rates of poverty, 4 in 10 people living in poverty have a disability. 38% of households with a disability earn less than $600 per week, compared to 18% of not-yet-disabled households. Despite similar rates of disability across genders, only 37% of NDIS participants are women, reflecting gendered bias even in disability support systems.
Returning to work, I encountered microaggressions like, “Why isn’t she wearing makeup?” and “She’s unprofessional wearing flat shoes”. Gendered expectations I couldn’t meet were held against me in professional contexts. I was a young, disabled woman, making me an easy target for undermining comments and, at times, outright workplace violence. It’s a form of violence when an employer will not provide a workplace adjustment.
Maintaining employment as a disabled person defies statistics. For decades, the employment rate for disabled Australians hovered at 48%, compared to 80% for non-disabled. It’s still legal to pay disabled workers as little as $2.50 per hour in Australia. Evidence from the UK indicates the disability pay gap exceeds the gender pay gap, with men facing even larger disparities in some cases.
Turns out it was more likely I’d end up unemployed than winning awards and establishing an inclusive design practice at a major bank.
Intersectionality in healthcare
Two in three women have experienced discrimination in healthcare, with CALD women, in particular, speaking up in NSW birth trauma inquiry about obstetric racism. As a disabled person, we also face diagnostic overshadowing, where symptoms are attributed to our known disability rather than a new, unrelated medical condition.
The intersection of ableism and medical misogyny became painfully clear during my pregnancy. I was deemed “obstetrically boring” and didn’t fit nicely into a medical specialty. Neurosurgeons didn’t know about babies, and obstetricians didn’t know about spines. For weeks at a time, I was left in agony as discs in my spine crushed my spinal cord for the second time in my life. On Mother’s Day 2020, at 37 weeks pregnant, and on the last day of Melbourne’s first COVID lockdown, I had a c-section under General Anesthetic, followed 36 hours later by spinal surgery.
When I reflect on an objectively challenging experience, I fee gratitude for my experience compared to the systemic injustices many disabled women face. During the Disability Royal Commission, women with intellectual disabilities shared stories of their babies being taken at birth or being sterilised against their will—a practice still legal in Australia.
How can we address this?
Addressing intersectionality starts with believing people, even when their experience isn’t yours. Watching us, working alongside us or even living with us is often insufficient to know what we need or want. Proximity is not lived experience. Until you are at the intersection, you will not experience its marginalisation – myself included.
As I’ve shared in my Mostly Unlearning newsletter, habits of inclusion are underpinned by learning and unlearning. Here are some upstander and advocate behaviours to help you get started
- Active listening: Take time to understand rather than assume.
- Amplification: Use your platform to highlight disabled voices.
- Challenging stereotypes: Actively confront bias and misconceptions.
- Respecting autonomy: Trust disabled people to articulate their needs.
- Promoting collaboration: Build solutions with—not for—disabled individuals.
Intersectional inclusion is a progressive practice, not a one-time act. It’s a commitment to evolving your understanding and pushing for systemic change. Sometimes, speaking up, other times creating the conditions for someone else to speak for themselves.
Briar Harte is the Disability Inclusion Changemaker of the Year 2024, works as a Principal of Inclusive Design and writes a weekly(ish) LinkedIn newsletter, Mostly Unlearning, that amplifies accessibility and disability towards more impactful commercial and human outcomes. You can subscribe to learn with Briar where she shares what she learns (and unlearns) about accessibility, disability and inclusion. Together, considering the implications for impactful commercial and human outcomes.