Everyone has been singing Total Eclipse of the Heart this week. Fair enough. It's one of the most iconic songs of all time, has been covered by many artists, and has been featured dozens of times onscreen in movies, television shows, and commercials. It’s seven minutes long and worth every one of them.
When Bonnie Tyler died on Wednesday, the 8th of July 2026, the tributes came fast. The Prime Minister. Rod Stewart. Catherine Zeta-Jones. Every one of them talked about the voice. That gravel, and unforgettable roar. Rightly so. There was nobody else who sounded like her, and there probably will never be again. Bonnie was an icon engraved in Welsh folklore for eternity.
I read many of those tributes, and the one that touched me personally is one from another of my heroes, Rod Stewart. He didn't write an essay. Just a few lines on Instagram, white text on a black background. He said they had a similar way of singing, that she was a good pal, and that he sings It's a Heartache every night on tour. Then, the same day the news broke, he got up with Jools Holland and sang it for her. That's the part that tugged on my emotional strings and brought a tear to my eye. He's been singing her song every night for years anyway. He never needed her to die to start honouring her. Still, amongst all of these tributes, I was looking for two words that barely appeared anywhere – CEREBRAL PALSY.
Here's what most people never knew. From the 1990s, Bonnie Tyler was a patron of the Bobath Children's Therapy Centre in Cardiff, the charity now known as Cerebral Palsy Cymru. That's thirty years, give or take. In 2013, she campaigned for the centre to be recognised at the Pride of Britain Awards. She backed appeals and fundraising campaigns while touring the world. No press push or campaign video with sad piano music. She just kept on giving her unwavering support, raising much needed awareness, and making a difference with her unique voice.
I know all this because last October, on World Cerebral Palsy Day, I became an ambassador for the same charity. Her name was already on that page when mine was added. I won't pretend that it didn't mean something special.
Obituaries are a list of loud things. Chart positions, record sales, even Eurovision. The quiet things don't make the edit, and not because they didn't matter; they don't make the edit because they were never designed to be recognised in the first place.
There's a version of advocacy that's all noise. Placards, hashtags, arguments won on television. My whole approach has been to effect positive change by using words. It turns out one of the biggest voices Wales ever produced did her disability work the same way. The woman who could out-sing a hurricane chose, for thirty years, to whisper.
That kind of work doesn't get noticed. It's not meant to. There's just a therapy centre in Cardiff that kept its doors open, year after year, partly because a global star decided it mattered, and never made a fuss about it.
Total Eclipse of the Heart will be played forever. At weddings, at karaoke nights, at every solar eclipse until the end of time. The other thing she did never charted. It was never supposed to. The real chart-topper is that fabulous state-of-the-art therapy centre in the heart of Cardiff, and a child with cerebral palsy is getting therapy her name helped make possible. That child may never know the song, but that's alright. I don't think Bonnie was doing it to be remembered, but one thing I do know is that her legacy will never be totally eclipsed; it will shine bright endlessly, because at some point in our lives, we all need a hero.
Why is there a wheelchair on the cover?
Why is there a wheelchair on the cover
People ask me about this a lot. The cover of Max and the Magic Wish shows a child in a wheelchair, and most people who meet me haven't seen me use one for years. There's usually a pause before they ask. Sometimes they never quite get to the question, and I can see it stirring there behind their eyes. Here's the thing. It's a true story.
Max and the Magic Wish is based on a family holiday. A touring caravan pitched at a holiday park in South Devon, and a fortune teller I met on the seafront at Dawlish Warren. As children, we did the caravan thing every year. Pool, fishing lake, beach days, and a whole lot more.
The wheelchair on the cover is from that particular chapter of my life. My hamstrings used to tighten up so fast when I walked that my parents put me in a wheelchair just so we could get around quicker and stay out longer. That was just how holidays worked for us. Nobody made a speech about it. We wanted to see more of Devon, so we used a wheelchair.
For years after that, you wouldn't see me in one. I exercised, and I still go to the gym and work out within my own limits. I got a physio when things played up, and I still do. I've recently had a chiropractic session.
Recently, I've started to notice my hamstrings begin to tighten up again more often, resulting in my body using up to three times more energy than non-disabled people more frequently these days. That's ok.
It's not a decline or a setback. It's a body doing what bodies do, and mine has always kept its own schedule.
What's changed isn't my legs. It's how long it takes me to admit when they've had enough, and I write about this in my autobiography, about my stubbornness, but most recently, I am starting to know my body’s limits a lot more often. I used to walk through the pain barrier. Push on to the car park, get to the end of the platform, and try to prove something to nobody in particular. Now I think about the wheelchair on that cover differently. A younger me wasn't giving anything up in Devon. He was getting more day, enjoying more seafronts, more fishing lake, more fortune teller. The chair bought him time, and he spent it. I don't know when I decided that was something to grow out of, and looking back, I now know that I should have let go of my stubborn streak a long time ago.
What people get wrong
The question underneath the question is usually this: If you CAN walk, why do you need a wheelchair? Nobody says it like that. But it's what they mean. There's an assumption that a wheelchair is a permanent state, that you're either in one or you're not, and the picture on my book cover should match the man standing in front of them. That's not how bodies work. Not mine, anyway. Cerebral palsy isn't a fixed disability. Some days I walk fine. Some days my hamstrings decide otherwise. The wheelchair was a tool that got us further down the seafront.
The bit people don't clock about Max
It looks like a fun adventure story, and it is. But the imagery on the front was inspired by a childhood photo of me in Devon, in a chair, having a very good week. The fortune teller story arc is all true, too. She even handed me six lottery numbers on a scrap of paper. We lost it years ago.
This could have been a very different article if we hadn't.
I don't think of that cover as a statement about identity at any one time in my life. I think of it as a holiday photo that happened to end up on the cover of a book about disability and acceptance. But other people can't see it that way, and I've stopped trying to make them. A child in a wheelchair on a children's book cover is still a message, even when it's just a memory.
Disability Pride Isn't a Month. It's What Happens When You Stop Hiding.
I had no professional support since I left comprehensive school.
Where It Actually Started For Me
Let that sink in for a little while. Pride didn’t begin for me at some representative parade, but when someone finally told me I was allowed to ask what I needed. When I worked at the newspaper, my colleagues were brilliant. I had more support from them than I ever got from any official system or scheme. But the building itself had a different story. I eventually got an accessible parking space, but other employees regularly used it, so I'd arrive for work and find myself parked in a non-accessible space. There were no ramps and no automatic doors. For some reason, there was no accessible toilet inside the office. The only one was in the customer reception area, which meant every time I needed the toilet, I had to go back through a security door, down a step, and through queues of clients. I was an employee who worked long hours there. Not an occasional visitor. I also couldn’t use the telephone at all, and I used to get blisters on my wrists from typing all day. That was people being decent, not a formal support package. Looking back, I should have pushed for one. I was reluctant to ask. My stubbornness got the better of me. I thought asking for adjustments would make me look like I couldn’t manage. So, I said nothing and got on with it. Then, some years later, I went self-employed, and there was nothing. No support worker, no signposting, no one sitting me down and asking what I needed. Just me, figuring it out on my own. That's what you do when no one tells you there's another option. After I was made redundant, I began writing Max and the Magic Wish. I’d spent most of my adult life refusing to accept my disabilities, I still do occasionally. But working on the book, seeing myself become a character, crying when I first saw the illustrations, that’s when something deeper started to ignite. I describe it in my autobiography as the start of an open-road journey toward accepting myself as a disabled adult and falling in love with who I am. I’m still on that road. But I know where I’m going now.
Then I met Jamie McAnsh.
Jamie is a motivational speaker and adaptive athlete, the kind of person whose energy gets into the room before he does. He asked me a simple question: What support was I getting as a disabled self-employed person? Back when he directly asked me this question on the spot. I couldn’t answer him because no one had told me what kind of support existed. I literally assumed that I wasn’t entitled to support when I transitioned to a self-publishing, self-employed author and writer, and inspirational speaker using AI-Voice. He asked if I'd heard of the Access to Work scheme. I hadn't. Not properly anyway. When he explained it, I felt two things at once: relieved and angry. Because this scheme had been sitting there, open to people like me, and in all those years, nobody had ever mentioned it. Not once. I'd spent years blaming myself for not being independent enough. For needing too much. For not managing things better. The truth was that I was never the problem. I wasn’t provided the appropriate support. That's when the realisation finally sank in. During a conversation where someone finally said. This exists, and you’re allowed to ask for it. That was only part of the journey. Learning to ask for help and learning to accept yourself aren’t the same thing. I’d spent most of my adult life refusing to accept my disabilities, and there are still days when I still do. Even after things started improving, even after I’d got support in place. The real progression came later. Working on Max and the Magic Wish, seeing myself become a character, crying when I first saw the illustrations. I describe it in my autobiography as the start of an open road journey to accepting myself as a disabled adult and falling in love with who I am. I’m still on that road. But I know where I’m going now.
What People Get Wrong About Disability Pride Month
The Disability Pride Flag was designed by Ann Magill. A writer with cerebral palsy. Her original design featured bright zigzagging stripes on a black background, the zigzag representing the barriers disabled people face. But the design itself caused visual disturbance for some people in the community she was designing it for. So, the community flagged it. She listened, went back to it, straightened the stripes, and muted the colours. Then she waived her copyright so anyone could use it. A disabled creative makes something, gets some of it wrong, the community helps fix it, and the result belongs to everyone.
Here’s what each part of the current flag represents: Charcoal grey background: Mourning and rage for disabled people lost to ableist violence, abuse, and neglect Red: Physical disabilities, including mobility impairments, limb differences, and chronic pain Pale gold: Cognitive and intellectual disabilities Pale grey: Invisible and undiagnosed disabilities Light blue: Psychiatric disabilities, including anxiety and depression Green: Sensory disabilities, including blindness and deafness The diagonal stripes aren't just a design choice. They represent cutting across the barriers that keep disabled people apart from the rest of society. Not going around them, but through them.
Why Books Like Mine Matter
I’ve had parents tell me they’ve been searching for a children’s book like Max and the Magic Wish. A book where a disabled child is just the main character. Not a lesson or a source of inspiration for everyone else. Just a child who happens to have a disability, getting on with life. Max doesn’t wish his disability away. Disability is part of who he is, and that’s fine. That’s the whole point. A disabled child who sees themselves in a story gets something really important from that. They see that it’s okay to be different, and when a non-disabled child who reads about a disabled character just getting on with their lives learns something that stays with them for a long time. That’s how we educate others and make a difference along the way. Cerebral Palsy and Me is for adults. The parents who want to understand what their child might be going through. The people who’ve lived with a disability their whole lives and just want to see their experience written down honestly. It’s unfiltered and open, and it doesn’t pretend everything is straightforward. Because it isn’t always. But it is always worth it. Like i say in Cerebral Palsy and Me: Life is a rollercoaster journey. Together, the two books cover both ends of the same journey. One for the child just starting out. One for the adult who is still navigating life. If this month is about the world working better with us in it, that starts with us being seen. In boardrooms, yes. In schools, yes. But first, in books.
Come and Find Me in Cardiff This July
On Monday, 20th July, I’m doing a book reading and signing at Cardiff Central Library, in association with Scope. Free entry, 12 noon to 4 pm. I'll be reading excerpts from both Max and the Magic Wish and Cerebral Palsy and Me. Both books will be available to buy and get signed on the day. Cardiff Libraries will also be stocking both titles from that date onwards, so if you can't make it, they'll be there. This one is for:
• Families with children who don't often see themselves in books • Teachers and librarians looking for titles that actually do the work • Anyone in the disability community who fancies an afternoon out • People who've never picked up a book about disability and are curious
One Last Thing…
Disability Pride Month works best when it produces something authentic. A conversation, a book on a shelf, a child who reads something and thinks, that's me. I had no professional support from the time I left primary school. For a long time, I thought that was just how it was. It wasn't, and if nobody's told you that yet, this is me telling you. You’re never alone.
What the Cerebral Palsy Cymru Family Fun Fiesta Reminded Me
There are events you attend because you're invited to, and there are events you attend because they mean something. May’s Cerebral Palsy Cymru Family Fun Fiesta in Cardiff was very firmly in the second category, and I've been thinking about why ever since.
As a proud ambassador for Cerebral Palsy Cymru, I've been connected to this incredible organisation for a while now. Every time I walk into this incredible centre, and I'm in a room with the people they support, something ignites inside of me that's hard to put into words. This particular Saturday was no different, and in some ways, it was more than I expected.
The Setup
I arrived at Cerebral Palsy Cymru's Cardiff base in Llanishen with a table full of books, a banner, and the usual mix of excitement and mild anxiety that comes with any author event. Would people come? Would the books resonate? Would I manage to have the conversations I wanted to have?
The answer to all three, I'm happy to say, was yes.
The room filled up quickly with families, children, staff, and supporters, all there for an afternoon of family fun, face painting, arts and crafts, and the famous Teddy Tombola. The atmosphere was warm, busy and completely unpretentious, which is exactly what these events should be.
The Families
I've done a lot of events over the years, but there was something about the families I met that impacted me long after I'd packed up the books and headed home.
They were warm, funny, honest, and completely real, and every conversation I had reminded me of something I think about a lot but don't always say out loud, that when you walk into a room where cerebral palsy is just part of everyday life, where nobody needs to explain themselves or justify how they communicate, something in you relaxes that you didn't even know was tense. This is when you feel a huge wave of belonging and representation engulfing you all at once.
I met little ones who were curious and full of energy, parents who were navigating the journey with grace and humour, and families who were just getting on with it together in the most brilliant way. I signed copies of Max and the Magic Wish, Anya and the Enchanted Wheelchair, Paddy the Polar Bear Teddy and Cerebral Palsy and Me, had conversations about AAC and communication, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, I remembered exactly why I started writing in the first place.
One moment in particular stopped me in my tracks, a little girl in a wheelchair holding a copy of Anya and the Enchanted Wheelchair, a book about a disabled princess whose wheelchair is simply part of who she is. The look on her face as she held it was everything. Not because it was dramatic or emotional, just because it was right. She saw herself on that cover, and that's the whole point, and exactly why I wrote that book and experiencing that moment is one I will never forget.
Why Events Like This Matter
I've lived with cerebral palsy for over 40 years, and I use AAC to communicate every single day, so I understand firsthand what it means to be in a room where you don't have to explain yourself. For many families living with cerebral palsy, that experience is rarer than it should be, and what Cerebral Palsy Cymru does so brilliantly is create spaces where that's just normal.
That's not a small thing. It’s everything.
As a disabled author and AAC user, my work, the books, the speaking, the advocacy, is built around the same idea. That disabled children deserve to see themselves in stories, that disabled voices deserve to be heard, and that acceptance isn't something you have to earn, it's something you're entitled to from the very beginning.
This event was a reminder that when the right organisations, the right families, and the right community come together, it looks exactly like that in practice.
A Note of Gratitude
To everyone who came and said hello, THANK YOU. The families who shared their stories with me, thank you. To the incredible Hopcyn, who blew me kisses when he got home, and to Hari's dad, who sent me the kindest message at 5 am before heading to Old Trafford, you both made my weekend in ways I wasn't expecting.
Cerebral Palsy Cymru, thank you for building something that matters, and for letting me be part of it. I left Cardiff feeling genuinely inspired and complete, and that's entirely down to you.
If you're a family living with cerebral palsy and you're not yet connected to Cerebral Palsy Cymru, I'd encourage you to reach out, because they're doing brilliant work and the community they've built is something really special.
I Watched ‘I Swear’ and I Wasn’t Expecting to See Myself.
Gavin Clifton - The Disabled Writer
The Film
John Davidson didn’t envisage himself as an educator. The world just kept getting him wrong until he had no choice but to start correcting it. I watched ‘I Swear’ on Netflix, the BAFTA-winning biopic about the Scottish Tourette’s campaigner who went from being brutally misunderstood in 1980s Britain to rightfully receiving an MBE for services to the Tourette’s community. Our disabilities couldn’t be more different, and our journeys look nothing alike on the surface. Yet, somewhere in the first twenty minutes, watching a young John Davidson be failed repeatedly by the people who should have supported him and known him better, something tugged at my soul and didn’t move. Not because I recognised his condition, but I know what the lack of understanding can do. I’ve lived it.
What I Recognised
The way misunderstanding compounds. The way people’s assumptions become your problem to overcome. That’s not just a Tourette’s problem; it’s an overall disability experience that spreads across conditions in a way disability representation rarely acknowledges, because most of it still broadly focuses on the specifics. Truthfully, that experience of being misunderstood feels remarkably similar regardless of your disabilities. This is what made the first twenty minutes an emotional watch.
What People Get Wrong
People tend to assume that disabled people who become advocates, write, speak, and educate, do it purely out of necessity. That the choice was never really theirs. It’s a bit of both. I had a turning point, so did John Davidson. But a turning point doesn’t exist in a vacuum. What shapes it is everything that came before. Those moments of being misunderstood, the authorities who had your future mapped out for you without finding out what you are truly capable of, the systems that had no category for who you were. What ‘I Swear’ shows, keeping within the narrative of the story, is that John Davidson’s journey into advocacy wasn’t born from a single moment of inspiration. It was forced upon him. He became an educator because the alternative was to keep absorbing a world that had decided, without asking, that his Tourette’s journey wasn’t real or valid.
Fear and Purpose
I write under the brand name ‘The Disabled Writer,’ creating disabled characters and books that centre disability, acceptance, identity, and the kind of courage that doesn’t announce itself. I’m also a U.K. Inspirational and disability awareness speaker. I write truthful blogs and articles about my experiences of living with cerebral palsy. I have also been writing song lyrics and collaborating on writing songs for over twenty years, working with the likes of 80s hitmaking band The Korgis and Phantom of the Opera’s Peter Karrie, and if you ask me why I started writing, the honest answer is, it’s a bit of both. There was always a burning ambition deep down in my soul, even when I was working at a newspaper for seventeen and a half years. A genuine desire to create something within the boundaries of the world that truly mattered to me personally, even though my self-acceptance has been a rollercoaster ride. Still, somewhere in my conscience, I knew I had the potential to use my journey to make a real difference. I just needed to fight the fear of not being understood so I could become the man I am today. You can only stare at your fears in the face for so long before you either succumb to them or banish them for good. But I think it’s worth being honest that necessity and choice aren’t always as separate as the inspirational narrative would have us believe. I was scared of being seen, of failing publicly, and of what people would think. For a long time, I wasn’t sure which was driving me more, fear or the purpose. I needed to figure this out, and I eventually did it through writing my autobiography, Cerebral Palsy and Me.
What the Film Actually Does
‘I Swear’ will make a lot of non-disabled people feel educated and moved. I truly hope it does just that. The performances are extraordinary, and the story is unfiltered. But if you’re a disabled person watching it, I think you might feel something different. A recognition that sits somewhere between pride and emotional exhaustion. The pride of seeing someone turn their life around, the exhaustion of knowing how much determination and energy it takes, and the constant pushback that comes with it. The never-ending assumptions and the misunderstanding that follows you from room to room, year to year, however clearly you try to explain yourself. This is just one example of what survival with any dignity sometimes looks like when you have a disability. John Davidson didn’t set out to be a role model. He just wanted to be understood. That’s the difference, and the film is honest enough to show it.
I came away not feeling inspired but feeling understood. Which, if you’ve spent any time being misunderstood, you’ll know is a completely different thing.
Space Exploration Doesn’t Start with Rockets. It Starts with Stories
The Moon is Trending
In April 2026, the Artemis II crew flew around the far side of the moon. They were the first humans to do it in over fifty years. The images were everywhere, with the Earth rising behind the lunar surface. A solar eclipse seen from a place no living person has witnessed, the whole world watched in awe, and to be honest, I became quite emotional.
When NASA asked the crew to describe the experience in a single word, mission specialist Christina Koch said ‘humility’. Not triumph or pride, but humility. I have been thinking about the meaning of that word.
A Rubbish Dump on Earth
I wrote a space-adventure children’s book back in 2020, and the character isn’t an astronaut. He’s a polar bear teddy stripped of his powers, dumped in a rubbish bin, and rescued by a nine-year-old girl called Oakleigh. She builds a rocket out of a cardboard box and kitchen roll holders and names it Hark-9.
People sometimes describe Paddy the Polar Bear Teddy as a cute space adventure story; it is, but it’s also about what happens when you land somewhere unfamiliar, when your normal has been taken away, and when the world you are navigating was unintentionally built without you in mind. I don’t have to create or imagine that; it’s the world I live in.
Tuesday Morning
There’s a moment in the book where Paddy lands in a rubbish bin on Earth and tries to use his magic to get home, and nothing happens. His powers are gone, he’s alone in a place he doesn’t understand, surrounded by creatures he’s never seen, and nobody can hear him. That’s not just fiction; it’s a Tuesday morning for many disabled people. You arrive somewhere, the thing you usually rely on isn’t working, and you have to figure it out in real time.
The Overview Effect and Taking a Step Back
What I find interesting about the Artemis mission is that the astronauts kept talking about perspective. Victor Glover, the first black astronaut to travel beyond the Earth’s orbit, looked back at the Earth and said that from up there, we all look like one thing. No matter where you’re from or what you look like. That’s the Overview Effect, the cognitive change that happens when you see your planet from far enough away that all the categories we cling to just fall away.
Stories do the same thing, no, not by sending you two hundred and fifty thousand miles into space, but by putting you inside someone else’s experience and letting you see it from there. When a child reads about Paddy losing everything and still finding a way forward, they are not learning about polar bears. They are learning that courage doesn’t require certainty, and that kindness, the kind where you pull a stinky teddy out of a rubbish dump because you see something worth caring about, is not soft, but the thing that starts the whole adventure.
The Villain Who Was Hiding
Then there’s Queen Zeena, the villain of the book; she’s a walrus who creates devastating storms across her entire planet because she’s terrified of being seen as she is. She thinks being different makes her unlovable, so she hides behind destruction. She’d rather ruin everything than risk someone looking at her and confirming her worst fear.
That fear factor, the shame, children understand it, even if they can’t pinpoint why yet. They know what it feels like to think something about yourself is wrong. Zeena isn’t defeated by force, but by someone who tells her the truth, that everyone is beautiful, and that what matters is who you are from within, and it’s okay to be different, accept yourself, and others. Paddy says it plainly because he believes it, and he’s lived it.
The Real Launchpad
Every astronaut was once a child imagining space. They started with stories, curiosity, and a sense of wonder about what’s out there. The Artemis II crew didn’t wake up one morning, knowing how to fly around the Moon. They followed their dreams, slowly building up experience, fuelled by imagination and the accumulated belief that anything was possible.
That’s what children’s books do when they do what job they’re supposed to do. They don’t just entertain; they teach, rehearse, give children a version of courage before they find it, and show them that difference isn’t always an obstacle, but sometimes it’s the qualification. That the people best equipped to explore the unknown are often the ones who’ve already had to.
Oakleigh doesn’t hesitate when Paddy asks her to fly to another planet, doesn’t have the right tools or experience, but still, she has cardboard, fairy dust, and the willingness to accompany him on an adventure. That’s not a fantasy; it’s how the most interesting things in life sometimes start.
The Artemis crew came home; the footage was extraordinary. But somewhere tonight, a child is lying in bed with a book open, imagining something impossible.
Disabled Creatives Don’t Need a Space - We Need a Stage.
I sat on a stage at the Birmingham NEC and delivered my talk, From Page to Possibility: How Stories Shaped My Journey. I spoke via AI Voice to a room full of people from the disability community who came to listen. That alone felt worth writing about.
Naidex is one of the biggest disability events in the world. But what struck me most wasn't the technology, or the product demos, or the innovation on display. It was the room where nobody had to explain themselves. Where disability wasn't a topic to be handled carefully, it was just the air we were all breathing. That made me think: what would it take to carry that feeling outside of here?
Because when that feeling stays inside one event, it's a nice day. When it spreads into workplaces, schools, conferences, retail and hospitality spaces, and festival line-ups, it starts to change what people assume disabled people can do. Not just attendees or just audiences. But the ones making the work, leading the conversation, shaping the culture.
There's a thing that happens when disabled people are in a space together, and nobody else is setting the pace. You stop translating and performing the version of yourself that makes other people comfortable. You stop pre-empting the questions, the tilted heads, the 'you're so brave.' You exist, that sounds like nothing, but if you've never had it, it's everything.
After my talk, a stranger came up to me and told me it meant something to them. Not that it was inspiring, or that I was brave; that it meant something. That's a different word; inspiration asks nothing of the listener, meaning does. It says, ‘I'm taking this with me.’
Why It Matters Who Holds the Mic
That's what I've always tried to do with my work. When I wrote children's books like Max and the Magic Wish and Anya and the Enchanted Wheelchair, I put the disabled protagonist at the centre of the story, not as someone to be pitied or rescued, but as someone living a full life where the story is driven by magic, not by their diagnosis. But when you've spent most of your career being told your story isn't quite mainstream enough, not quite marketable enough, not quite enough. Standing on a stage and having someone tell you it matters hits you differently.
Events like Naidex have spent years getting better at showcasing products for disabled people. The next step is something harder: creating spaces where disabled people aren't just consumers, but contributors. Speakers, entrepreneurs, artists, writers, musicians, and filmmakers. Not as a diversity checkbox or into a twenty-minute slot between product demos. But as professionals, we do the work and are taken seriously for it.
My cerebral palsy shapes how I move and communicate. It doesn't shape what I have to say. I may not speak clearly, but I stood in front of a room full of people and said something that mattered to at least one stranger. That's not inspiration; it’s just what happens when someone is given a platform and has something worth saying.
I left Naidex feeling proud. Not grateful, but proud. Gratitude says thank you for letting me in, and pride says I belong here. I earned this, and I’d like to be booked just like any other professional.
Gavin is a children's author, inspirational speaker, and disability advocate. To book him for a talk, workshop, or school visit, visit his contact page.
Gavin Clifton delivering a talk at NaidexNaidex 2026Gavin Clifton with Motivational Speaker and Adventurer Jamie McAnsh
World Book Day 2026 wants us to #GoAllIn.
World Book Day 2026 wants us to #GoAllIn. Fabulous! Let’s do it so EVERYONE feels included.
World Book Day always gives me two feelings at once. On the one hand, I’m genuinely all over it. Any excuse to get books into children’s hands is a good thing.
On the other hand, I slip into a moment of impostor syndrome, because every year, there’s a point where it can become overwhelming for some. Reading becomes a costume day with a bookish badge, rather than a reading day with some fancy dress alongside.
If you’re the child who already finds school challenging, the one who’s different, disabled, anxious, overwhelmed, the child who has to work twice as hard just to be heard, World Book Day can quietly turn into one more day where you feel like you’re the outsider.
World Book Day 2026 is pushing ‘Go All In’, which is incredible and long overdue. I want us to mean it, not just say it.
What ‘Go All In’ means to me
When I hear ‘Go All In’, I don’t hear ‘make it bigger and louder’.
Stop acting like reading only counts if it’s silently stereotyped, traditionally means sitting at a desk with a book in front of you, and done in the exact way school finds easiest to manage.
Because that version of reading leaves many children out. Disabled children who use Augmentative and Alternative Communication, who need breaks, sensory support or prompts, who use audiobooks. Children who can read, but not in a way that fits the neat little box adults prefer.
If World Book Day is serious about reading for pleasure, it has to be serious about disability awareness across all areas of literacy, and about intertwining accessibility and inclusion wherever possible.
The truth about ‘reading confidence’
When a child says they’re ‘not really confident about reading’, adults often take it as an attitudinal defect. I think a lot of the time it’s something else. It’s self-protection.
If reading has mostly meant being put on the spot, being timed, being corrected mid-sentence, or having a whole class listen while you try to get the words out, you start to learn that books come with embarrassment attached. You might still like stories; you might still be curious, but you stop wanting to be seen trying.
For disabled children, especially those who use AAC or need adjustments, it can be even more challenging. Not because reading is impossible, but because the environment keeps saying, hurry up, do it the normal way or do it without the tools that help. That chips away at confidence faster than people realise; it can fuel impostor syndrome and leave people feeling left out altogether.
Obviously, not every child has the same barriers. But plenty of children have had reading turned into a test they keep failing in public, even when the adults involved mean well and are just trying to keep the lesson moving.
World Book Day can either reinforce that same pressure or be the moment we let children create the reading experience without judgment or performance.
What I want schools to do for World Book Day 2026
This isn’t about getting it perfect. It’s about making everything more accessible, inclusive, and FUN!
Make access visible and normalise it. Put audiobooks on the table, literally. Let children see text-to-speech in use without objection. Say out loud that reading with your ears counts, and that technology is a collaboration tool. Because some children have been taught that they only ‘really read’ if they learn in the same way as everyone else does.
Make space for kids who do not want to perform. Some children love reading aloud, while others prefer to get lost in a book and not talk about it. Some children communicate differently, like me, and need time. Some do not want to be watched. A celebration of reading should not always require confidence on a stage.
Treat representation as its fundamental, not a special feature. If disabled children only see disability in ‘inspirational’ stories, or never see it at all, that matters. Disabled children should get to be heroes, villains, funny, annoying, magical, ordinary, all of it. Not just brave. Non-disabled children need those stories too, because they’re going to grow up in a world that needs to aspire to be shaped around disabled people.
Use ‘World Book Day’ as a catalyst for change. The #GOAllIn initiative needs to be permanent, not just a one-day event. That’s not a random detail. It’s basically saying this is much more impactful than a Thursday assembly. So have a plan for families who cannot easily reach a bookshop. Ensure that every child can actually use it. That’s part of the inclusion. Quiet, practical, and essential inclusion.
A quick checklist that actually matters
You can call this counterintuitive; I call it the difference between ‘everyone’s welcome’ and ‘not accessible to everyone’.
A calm, quiet space available all day.
Seating options, including space for mobility aids.
Multiple formats, print, large print, audio, ebooks, and simple versions where possible.
No forced dressing up, no shaming, no ‘everyone must’.
Staff who understand that AAC is communication, not a novelty.
If that list feels like extra work, I get it. Schools are stretched. But disabled children are stretched and confronted by ableist barriers every day, just for existing in systems that were not built with them in mind.
If you’re a parent reading this
If your child loves World Book Day, enjoy it, encourage them to take part, and support them. I mean that.
If your child dreads it, you're not imagining things, and they're not being difficult. I'll let you in on a little secret. I hate dressing up! Costumes are designed for a 'standard' body with fiddly fastenings, tight fits, and materials that can irritate sensitive skin. When dressing already takes effort, adding a costume feels like an unnecessary battle. Also, when you already stand out because of how you move or speak, drawing even more attention to yourself is the last thing you want. It's not about being difficult; it's about dignity, energy, and being seen just the way you are.
You can ask the school what the plan is for those who do not dress up. You can ask what formats are available, ask whether audiobooks ‘count’ in class, or even ask if your child can take part without performing.
If the answers are vague or awkward, that’s your clue. It usually indicates there isn’t a plan, or the plan relies on your child just coping. It means the reasonable adjustments are treated as a favour rather than a normal part of how the school operates. It means inclusion is happening on paper but not in the day-to-day areas where it actually matters.
None of this makes you a ‘difficult parent’ for asking. It makes you a parent who’s paying attention.
If a school can’t clearly explain how World Book Day works for children who don’t dress up, who use AAC, need quiet space, or who read in different formats, then it’s not really set up for them.
That’s what needs to change, not your child. Going all in means building a reading culture where disabled children are not treated like exceptions. Where access is normal and where communication is respected.
World Book Day can be that, it genuinely can.
But only if we stop using the fun bits as a distraction from the hard bits.
Cerebral palsy is lifelong: What I wish people understood beyond the stereotypes
Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month always makes me reflect on how far I have come in life. It really does, not because I suddenly remember that I have disabilities, but because it’s one of the few occasions where people actively look in our direction. You can almost taste and feel the difference between ‘being seen’ and ‘being understood’. They are not the same thing, and if we’re honest, most of the disconnect lies in between them.
I’m writing this as someone living with cerebral palsy and a severe speech impairment, also as an ambassador for Cerebral Palsy Cymru, a role that genuinely means a lot to me, standing shoulder to shoulder with other people and families living with, managing, supporting, and advocating for the condition.
What cerebral palsy is, and why the ‘one story’ version fails
Cerebral palsy is a lifelong condition that affects movement, balance, coordination, and posture. It’s neurological and physical, and it doesn’t affect one person in the same way, which is exactly why the public’s understanding of it is often a little confused.
The variability is far-reaching, and this is the most important statistic I want to highlight throughout Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month 2026. If you have met one person with cerebral palsy, the next person might have completely different needs, a different level of mobility, a different experience of pain, fatigue, balance, coordination, speech, fine motor control, or all these.
The myths that still shape how we’re treated
One of the myths I still hear, and it honestly still surprises me, is the assumption that cerebral palsy is mainly a childhood thing. It isn’t, it’s lifelong. The assumption that happens is not that the condition disappears; it’s that support often becomes harder to access as you grow up.
Another idea is that CP automatically means a learning disability. Some people with cerebral palsy do have learning disabilities, for which I have complete admiration; others do not, but what keeps happening is that people treat appearance or speech as evidence of academic ability, or even inability. I’ve said it plainly in my autobiography because it frustrates me that much. I often get asked if I went to school, and the answer is yes; my disabilities are physical and not academic.
That assumption is not harmless; it alters expectations and opportunities, and in some cases, it changes the whole direction of a child’s education.
For me, support made the difference. I received one-to-one assistance from nursery onwards, which meant I could access school in the way I needed to. This changed my life forever, and for the better.
Lived reality, the bits people don’t see, and the bits you don’t forget
A lot of the public’s understanding of cerebral palsy is based on what people can see. The problem is that some of the most significant parts are not obvious to a stranger.
Fatigue is a big one. So are stamina, pain, tightness, and variability, too. Some days your body cooperates more than others, and the world tends to read that as inconsistent rather than reality.
Then there’s the social side, the childhood side, the stuff that stays with you.
One detail from my own life that always comes back to me is the safety helmet I wore in the school playground when I was learning to walk and still mastering balance. I remember feeling anxious about it because it made me look even more different, but it was a small price to pay if it meant avoiding head injuries. I even joked that I looked like I was about to do twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.
That’s what I mean when I say the lived version of cerebral palsy is not just medical. It’s social. It’s about being a child who wants to join in, while also having to think about safety and access in a way other children never do.
I’ve also been lucky in the way my friendships formed, because in my world growing up, I was just Gavin. My friends remember me wearing different shoes and that special helmet, and they remember that conversations took longer, but we still played the same games, and they adjusted so I could join in.
That is inclusion in its simplest form, people deciding you belong, and then acting like it.
What actually helps, and what I wish people would stop getting wrong
Here’s the good news, a lot of what helps is practical, and it’s not complicated.
In schools, it starts with expectations. If you assume a disabled child is less capable before you’ve even learned who they are, you build a ceiling over their head. If you assume competence and put support in place, you give them a chance to realise their own potential. I believe every child deserves the right to an education, and I’m very aware that the support I had shaped my outcomes.
In public life and services, good practice looks like speaking directly to the disabled person, not treating them like a side character in their own environment. I’ve written in my autobiography, Cerebral Palsy and Me, about how infantilising it feels when people talk in the third person around you, and how much better it is when someone asks you directly first.
In workplaces and retail, it’s the same principle. Ask what helps, build flexibility into systems, not just into individual kindness. Remove friction where you can; most barriers are not created by ‘the condition’, they’re created by underthought systems and rigid assumptions.
To make this real, not abstract, I never thought I’d need a scooter. Now I wouldn’t be without it. It’s my freedom to live, not just exist.
Why Cerebral Palsy Cymru matters, and what I want this month to lead to
I’m an ambassador for Cerebral Palsy Cymru because I care about support grounded in lived experience. In my book, I describe becoming an ambassador as the start of something meaningful, a role that means everything.
Organisations like Cerebral Palsy Cymru matter because they support people and families, and push for better understanding and practice, which is where the long-term change stems from. Not one month of awareness, but steady improvement in how systems respond, how communities include, and how people with CP are treated across a lifetime.
Here’s what I’d love people to take away from this month.
Cerebral palsy is lifelong, and it is varied. Support, access, and inclusion need to be lifelong and individual too.
If you do one thing differently after reading this, pause before you assume, ask what helps, then follow through.
That’s how awareness turns into change and makes a lasting difference: it’s okay to be different and to accept yourself and others.
Why The National Year of Reading 2026 Matters to you
Why The National Year of Reading 2026 Matters to you
Growing up, I rarely saw disabled characters in books. That’s why I have always had a burning ambition to write a children’s book about disability and acceptance, with disabled characters at the centre of the story, not as side characters.
The National Year of Reading 2026 matters. Reading can help disabled children feel seen, and it can help everyone else learn how to respond to difference with knowledge, confidence, and respect, not discomfort. I’ve lived long enough to know that people often judge your intelligence by your speech, your movement, or how long you take. Stories written with creativity and lived experience can challenge that in a way a poster slogan never will. Books don’t smash through barriers on their own, but they can change attitudes.
2026 has been designated the National Year of Reading, a UK-wide campaign inviting and encouraging people from all walks of life to make reading an important part of everyday life. This literacy-inspiring mission is not just another school initiative or merely an authority-led policy drive. It’s more, it’s about intertwining reading with what people already enjoy, care deeply for, and love doing, things like music, sport, games, food, social events, communities you live in, and culture, inviting everyone to see how reading can enrich their daily passions and interests.
The chosen slogan, ‘If you’re into it, read into it,’ is simple and clear, which helps the audience feel appreciated and confident in its message. Still, it's more than a catchphrase. It challenges the traditional stereotype that reading is a separate academic world notion and instead positions it as a route to your desired passions and interests, according to the National Year of Reading website.
That matters to me as someone living with cerebral palsy and severe speech impairment. I know how powerful reading can be when it feels connected and alive, not locked in school worksheets or condensed into ‘the right way to read’. It’s about emotion, connection, identity, meaning, accessibility, and inclusion.
What the campaign actually does
Here’s what the National Year of Reading aims to do over 2026:
Reach more people in daily life, not just in classrooms, lecture auditoriums, and libraries.
Build events, moments, and projects that link reading with real interests.
Get families, communities, workplaces, volunteers, libraries and schools involved in ways that fit their world, not someone else’s.
Inspire up to 100,000 active volunteers to read regularly, and more than one million people using libraries across the year.
Offer a packed calendar of national reading events and shared activities.
It’s a Department for Education‑backed movement delivered by the National Literacy Trust with partners from across the literacy and cultural sectors.
What reading means in 2026
Here’s the twist: reading isn’t only about books anymore. The campaign says reading includes print, digital, audio, podcasts, comics, blogs; anything where words communicate ideas, stories, meaning and connection, and as you’ll already know, especially due to my severe speech impairment, any moment to which words and communication clash for the power of good, these moments can become powerful tools to transforming the lives of so many people.
That matters to inclusion. People with different abilities, reading strengths and interests don’t all process written language the same way. Recognising an audiobook as reading, a fan blog as reading, or a magazine article as reading makes space for your way of engaging with words.
This aligns with what I’ve said often: reading doesn’t have one shape. The campaign’s broad definition can help tilt our understanding, empathy, and cultural awareness towards accessibility and inclusion.
You don’t need to read a 400-page novel to take part.
Read your way: print, ebooks, comics, magazines, blogs.
Read with your ears: audiobooks and podcasts count too, especially if reading text is tiring.
Use tech without shame: text-to-speech, AI-Voice, larger text, reading rulers, captions, and use what helps you.
Try a 10-minute habit: one article, one chapter, one poem, one page.
If you’ve got kids around you: let them choose what they want to read, even if it’s ‘not booky’. The aim is enjoyment first.
Where this campaign needs to connect with real accessibility
I’m encouraged by the scale and ambition of the National Year of Reading. But big campaigns only become meaningful when they’re accessible to everyone.
Does the campaign offer easy‑read resources through assistive technology for people with learning disabilities?
Are events and materials sensory‑inclusive?
Can people with motor challenges, visual impairment or cognitive processing differences participate without barriers?
These accessibility questions matter when ‘reading culture’ is intended for everyone. Official accessibility features are basic (screen readers, font resizing, alt‑text guidance on the site), but I’d like to see deeper inclusion efforts, such as plain language versions, captioned content, multi‑format reading activities and support for libraries to adapt delivery. (The campaign’s accessibility statement focuses on web settings right now, not the broader campaign experience.)
This gap is where disability awareness really matters. Campaigns say reading is for all. Reality is often different without thoughtful, accessible, assistive and inclusive design, and materials.
If the National Year of Reading is for everyone, access has to be built in
Big reading campaigns can sound inclusive, but disabled people still hit the same old barriers, like buildings, formats, attitudes, and people speaking over us.
If you’re a school, library, organiser, employer or volunteer group running a reading activity in 2026, start here:
Quick accessibility checklist
Step-free access and seating options (and space for mobility aids)
A quiet area for sensory breaks and people who get overwhelmed
Multiple formats: print, large print, audio, ebook, screen-reader friendly PDFs
Plain-English / easy-read versions of key info (posters, instructions, invites)
Captioned videos and readable slides for talks and assemblies
Reading can be part of your life, not a separate task
The “Go All In” framing is about relevance. Don’t think of reading as homework. Think of it as a way to deepen your interests. If you love football, dive into match‑day stories. If film moves you, read behind‑the‑scenes features. If lyrics speak to your mood, writing and reading them count.
Accessibility isn’t optional
Reading culture should be built on access, not aspiration, and not taken for granted. If reading means more opportunities and more connections, it must mean accessible ways to take part. For disabled readers, that’s multi‑format reading options, inclusive events, and accessible community spaces such as libraries.
Your mission – not a to‑do list
You don’t have to read the Great British Novel to take part. You don’t have to buy books. You can:
Share an article you care about on social media with #GoAllIn2026.
Visit your local library and ask for formats that suit you.
Listen to an audiobook, blog or poetry reading that connects with your interests.
Follow your favourite readers and authors on social media.
Join a community reading event – online or in person.
If you’re planning events for 2026, bring disabled voices into the room
If you’re a school, organisation, or library planning National Year of Reading activities, don’t make disability a topic for one week. Put it into the main programme.
This is the work I do as The Disabled Writer. I visit schools and speak at events using AAC (text-to-speech) and AI-Voice, so children see that communication can look different and still carry the same value. It breaks down the initial awkwardness because children are curious and honest. Once they understand the technology, they stop focusing on how I speak and move and start listening to what I’m saying. The most powerful part is that they begin to interact with me, and this is when the inclusive magic truly starts to happen.
If you want a talk that links reading, representation, disability awareness, acceptance, identity, and resilience in a way that children remember. All the details on how to book me are here:-https://www.thedisabledwriter.co.uk/contact/.
Final Word
The National Year of Reading 2026 has the right idea: reading works best when it connects to what you already care about, not when it feels like a task. The whole point of Go All In is that reading can be a part of everyday life. ‘If you’re into it, read into it.’
Now the bit that matters to me: if this year wants to reach everyone, it has to include disabled people, in formats, in events, in schools, in libraries, and in how people treat us when we show up. Accessibility and inclusion don’t come from good intentions. They come from choices.
