A Company Decided I Wasn’t The Disabled Writer Anymore

Locked out of my own files and the safe route couldn’t prove I was me


Something made me feel like I wasn’t. No, not a person, but a machine, owned by the company I use as my preferred cloud-based subscription and desktop writing go-to.

It’s Okay to Be Different


My mobile phone contract had ended, and it was time to upgrade. I went to my local and trusted communications store and discussed my upgrade options with the person I have dealt with for years. They advised me on the best phone to upgrade to, the one with the best quality camera and most storage due to me being a disability advocate and filming content en masse, everything went smoothly, until I got home and transferred everything from my old phone to the new one. I had then, at this point, been logged out of my cloud-based subscription on both my mobile and laptop, and went to log back in on both devices, but they just wouldn’t let me, and I had foolishly wiped off my old phone where my authenticator app was. My bad! I hold my hands up.


All my files were behind a wall I had apparently built myself. To get back in, I had to prove it was me, and yes, you’ve guessed correctly; it handed me a chatbot.


The accessible option that wasn’t


If you are new to my blog or haven’t read my autobiography yet (spoiler, the purchase link is on this website). I have cerebral palsy and a severe speech impairment. On paper, the preferred accessible option is text, a direct live chat, or email, not voice chat or phone call, no thirty-second timeout where an automated person asking me to say my name in full. It just never works for me due to the severity of my speech impairment. Instead, it puts me in an impossible loop, ‘let’s try that again!’ Looking back, I was so anxious to get my protected work back; I don’t know why I was even trying to speak to this chatbot, because if I did connect to a human, they probably wouldn’t have understood me anyway.


The part that nobody sees


So what do you do when the accessible route isn't accessible? You ask someone, and in this case, I ask my mother because my Personal Assistant was on holiday.
But here's what they don't tell you. The moment someone kindly helps you, the system dehumanises them too. They have to pass the security checks and being asked to prove who they are, why they're speaking on my behalf, what legal rights they have to access my account, as if helping a disabled person is something you need to be a barrister to conduct. We're both sat there, me unable to say the words as clearly or type the words into my communication device quick enough so the machine can understand, mum is being interrogated for the crime of trying to help me, both of us arguing with not only a chatbot, but each other. It's embarrassing and the stress doesn't halve when there's two of you; it doubles.


That's the bit that hurts and frustrates me. The barrier doesn't stop with me; it just transfers to whoever is there trying to help me. My independence inevitably becomes their inconvenience; me being locked out becomes their interrogation. Non-disabled people get to be locked out on their own. I never will.


What people misunderstand


They think the solution for accessibility is more channels. Add a chat option or a text service just to tick the box. But a channel or method that can’t do the actual job isn’t access, it’s just another inaccessible service that adds to the barriers, anxiety, and frustration disabled people face daily. A chatbot that only knows how to answer the questions or hear the clear-toned voice it was expecting is fine right up until your situation isn’t one of the expected ones. Living with a disability throws you unexpected challenges quite often, ones that non-disabled people aren’t aware of or are trained to deal with. The chatbot wasn’t failing because I am disabled. It just couldn’t cope with the unscripted nature of having to deal with someone who needs to communicate in other ways.
It turns out the trap has a name
I did what I always do when something gets under my skin. I went and read about it and scrolled through social media afterwards. It turns out the trap I’d fallen into has a name. Researchers call it the accessibility-to-security failure pathway, which is a technical term for a simple idea. When the safe route doesn’t work, you don’t give up; you try to go around it, and going around it makes you feel like an afterthought in all these processes and end up feeling excluded too.
Here’s the part that annoyed me. This is a solved problem, and the big players, the same names you’d expect, already have built the way back in. Backup codes, a recovery email, a trusted device you set up in advance, then a human at the end of it if all else fails. No single-entry point, so that no single door can trap you. The technology to not do this HAS to exist. It’s there, ready to be implemented by companies like the one that did it to me.


What I’d Want


The frustration wasn’t being locked out. Things break. It was the inaccessibility of the process for getting my Multifactor Authentication reset, and every supposed way back in was a smooth, well-designed platform with no empathy for people who can’t communicate clearly like me. The chat that didn’t chat. The help that didn’t initially understand an accessible way to deal with my speech impairment. A system confident enough to lock me out and too much like Fort Knox to let me back in. I eventually gained access to my files again after many stressful days. I wouldn’t strike this one off as a win.


If you build systems or manage the people who do, don’t add another channel and call it access. Please consult with the people you are excluding before building an accessible way back in. If you can’t tell me, hand on heart, how someone with a speech impairment gets their account back, then you haven’t thoroughly thought of the whole process without consulting the disability community. You’ve built another inaccessible system.


I’m The Disabled Writer, and I’d quite like to stay that way.

The City That Runs on Luck

Lee Ridley is more widely known as The Lost Voice Guy after winning Britain's Got Talent in 2018. But after a recent gig, he couldn't get home from Cardiff.

He’d done two nights at the Glee Club. Sold out, most likely; he’s one of the best comics in the country. Then he tried to get an accessible taxi to the station and rang five companies. Not one could help. In the end, he took his chances at a rank, hoping a wheelchair-accessible vehicle would turn up before his train left. In the capital city of Wales on a Saturday night.

Close up person wheelchair

I read that and felt it in my bones. Not because it surprised me; it didn’t. I've also experienced the madness of trying to get a decent taxi home from Cardiff on a Saturday night, let alone an accessible one.

Lee has cerebral palsy. So do I. But here’s the thing that should stop people in their tracks. He is one of the most recognisable disabled people in Britain. A BGT winner, he writes for the BBC. If it can happen to him, standing outside a comedy club he’s just headlined, it can happen to anyone. That’s not a story about one bad night. That’s the system working exactly as it has been built.

It’s Never One Thing

People hear ‘couldn’t get a taxi’ and think bad luck; it’s the same for most people. But it’s never one thing. It’s the taxi, and then it’s the step into the venue, and the toilet that’s technically there but on the wrong side of a locked door or being used as a storeroom.

I worked at a newspaper for years. I eventually got a disabled parking space, and another employee kept using it, so I’d turn up for a full day’s work and end up parked somewhere I couldn’t manage, or in a no-parking zone right in front of the office. There were no ramps at the main entrance to the office. No automatic doors, and the only accessible toilet was out in the customer reception area. So, every time I needed it, I went back through a security door, down a step, and past a queue of clients. I was a member of staff, not a visitor passing through. I said nothing and got on with it, because that’s what you learn to do.

None of those things were designed to keep me out. That's the point. Nobody sat in a meeting and decided disabled people weren't welcome. There were no villains. It's worse than that, in a way. We simply weren't in the room when the decisions were made. Not excluded on purpose; we were just never thought of. The person drawing up the office plan imagined someone walking in, using the stairs, picking up the phone. They weren't cruel. They just didn't think of me, because they'd never had to. When you're never thought about, you end up bolted on afterwards, a toilet wedged in wherever there was space, a parking bay nobody polices. The exclusion was the default, and the default is what does the damage, precisely because nobody has to defend it. You can't argue with a decision that was never actually made.

Who Else Uses the Ramp

Here’s what the people who fund, design and implement these decisions never seem to grasp. Fix it for us, and you fix it for far more than us.

The accessible taxi that gets Lee to his train? It’s the same one that takes the bloke home from A&E with his leg in plaster. The parking space that actually works? Used by the new mum with a baby seat and three bags, and by the eighty-year-old who can’t walk far anymore. The ramp goes under the wheelchair, yes, and under the suitcase, the pushchair, the delivery trolley, the dodgy knee everyone gets eventually. Level access isn’t a favour to a minority. It’s a city that works for the day everybody, sooner or later, needs it to.

Everyone bangs on about disabled access like it’s a cost. It isn’t in the long run. It’s the version of the place that’s ready for people having normal days, prams, crutches, shopping, and getting older. We’re just the ones who need it first, and hardest, and every single day.

Luck Runs Out

So, I’m not asking Cardiff to be kind to disabled people. Kindness depends on who’s driving. I’m asking for a city where getting to the station doesn’t come down to whether a driver happens to feel generous that evening.

Lee said he’ll keep calling it out until it improves. So will I. Not because we enjoy the sound of our own complaining; trust me, we’d rather just get the train and get home safe and sound; but because ‘we’ll rely on luck’ is the actual, current transport plan for disabled people in the capital of Wales.

Lee deserved better than crossed fingers. So does everyone standing at that rank, long after the posts have stopped doing the rounds, watching taxi after taxi pull up that they can't get into.

Why is there a wheelchair on the cover?

An image of Gavin Clifton as a child

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.

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.

That’s where the next mission begins.

Paddy front fr4om my website
Click to buy Paddy the Polar Bear Teddy

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.


Gavin Clifton, in front of a banner for Naidex 2026


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 is on stage with other speakers, delivering a speech at Naidex 2026
Gavin Clifton delivering a talk at Naidex
A screen Showing Gavin Clifton and other Speakers appearing at Naidex
Naidex 2026
Gavin Clifton is with Speaker and Adventurer Jamie McAnsh
Gavin Clifton with Motivational Speaker and Adventurer Jamie McAnsh

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.

Gavin Clifton, Author, standing next to a banner for Cerebral Palsey Cymru

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.

AAC and AI-Voice: Why They’re Shaping the Future of Communication


Communication is often taken for granted until it’s not there. For me, living with cerebral palsy and a severe speech impairment, the difference between being listened to and being overlooked these days is simple: Augmentative and Alternative Communication and advancing AI-voice technology.
They aren’t devices or luxuries. They are assistive technology that upholds our dignity and are the key to being part of conversations that shape our lives.

Gavin Clifton Author


Although my relationship with AAC hasn’t always been plain sailing and I’ve had a love-hate connection with it over the years, it’s now clear that with assistive technology improving in accessibility, it is enriching my daily life and helping me educate others about disability and acceptance.

My Voice, On My Terms

Without AAC, my words are often second-guessed. People jump in, finish my sentences, or answer on my behalf. With my SmartBox TalkPad 8, I take back control. I tap, I speak, I’m heard.
AI-voice goes further. Instead of sounding like a machine, I can have a voice that carries personality, warmth, and identity. That’s not a small upgrade, that’s self-expression.


Why This Matters Beyond Me

AAC and AI-voice aren’t just about giving individuals tools. They change how society understands communication:


What Needs to Happen Next


If AAC and AI-voice are to truly shape the future of communication, they must stop being treated as add-ons. That means:


The Future We Deserve


The future of communication isn’t about technology replacing human voices. It’s about expanding what we mean by ‘voice’ in the first place. AAC and AI-voice carry the potential to make society listen more widely, more fairly, and more humanely.
For me, these tools are the difference between silence and leadership. For the next generation, they can be the difference between being spoken over and being truly heard.
But this future won’t build itself. Access to AAC and AI-voice must be recognised as a right, not a privilege. That means:

This is a campaign that needs both individual voices and collective pressure. I’m asking you to stand with me, speak out about it, write about it, raise it in classrooms, offices, and communities. At the same time, call on leaders, educators, and policymakers to make AAC and AI-voice accessible for everyone who needs them.
Together, we can create a society that listens properly, one where no voice is left out of the conversation.

What I Wish People Knew About Living With Cerebral Palsy


Cerebral palsy isn’t a one-size-fits-all condition. It can be frustrating, and it's a lifelong journey. You might see a wheelchair or an unsteady walk, or notice a speech difference, and that’s as far as it goes. But living with cerebral palsy (CP) is a complex experience that goes beyond a diagnosis or a visible limp.
So here’s what I wish people understood. Not in a sympathy-seeking way. Just honestly.

It’s a lifelong condition, not an illness.


Unlike some other conditions, cerebral palsy is not progressive, meaning it does not get worse over time. It results from brain damage, usually before, during, or shortly after birth, and affects a person's movement, muscle tone, and posture.
I was born breech, not breathing, and left without oxygen for too long. That’s all it took. No two people with CP are the same; how it affects your body depends on the area and severity of the brain damage.
There are three main types:
● Spastic CP – stiff, tight muscles
● Ataxic CP – poor coordination and balance
● Dyskinetic CP – involuntary movements and fluctuating muscle tone
Some people have one type, and some have a mix like mine. There’s no upgrade, no fix. It’s a lifelong condition. We learn to adapt, not recover.


It affects your body in ways you don’t expect.


You’re not just dealing with mobility issues. There’s:
● Muscle stiffness that worsens in cold weather
● Pain from tight joints and spasms
● Fatigue that kicks in quicker than you’d think
● Communication difficulties (mine comes with a severe speech impediment)
● Extra diagnoses – epilepsy, cleft palate, poor coordination – many of us get a few ‘add-ons’

For me, right-side tightness makes walking harder as I get older. I’ve taken more falls in winter than I care to count, broken bones, bruised pride, the lot. It affects what I wear, where I go, even what time I leave the house. You don’t think about that when you hear 'CP.' But I live it daily.

Yes, it affects mental health too.


Imagine trying your hardest at something; your body just won’t do it. Or walking into a room and being judged for how you move or talk. It chips away at your confidence. Not always because of the CP itself, but because of how society reacts to it.
People sometimes talk over me. They ask my friends about me instead of speaking to me directly . Some assume I don’t understand or can’t reply. That’s not just annoying, it’s dehumanising.
I’ve had moments of anger, anxiety, and self-doubt. But here’s the thing, they’re not because I’m disabled. They’re because I live in a world not built for people like me.

Stop assuming you know what help I need.


I understand the impulse to help, and I appreciate it. But helping without asking first can sometimes do more harm than good. For instance, someone once grabbed me by the arm to 'help' me cross the road, even though the traffic had stopped and I had it under control . That sudden grab? It's not helpful. It's just scary. So, the next time you want to assist, just ask first.
You want to be kind? Great. Just ask, “Do you need a hand?” If I say no, respect that. If I say yes, excellent. It’s not rocket science.

My Final word


Cerebral palsy is part of me. It always will be. It affects how I walk, how I speak, how I move, and how I live. But it doesn’t define my intelligence, aspirations, or value. I can be stubborn, cheeky, witty, outspoken, and talented like anyone else.


So, next time you see someone with CP, don’t stare, don’t assume, and don’t talk to the person with them instead. Just treat them as you would anyone else. Offer your help if you think they might need it, but always ask first. And remember, they are not their condition. They have their own unique personality, interests, and talents. Acknowledge these aspects of their identity when you interact with them.
That’s all we want; to be treated like people.


I discuss all of the above in more detail in my autobiography, Cerebral Palsy And Me, which you can order here: www.thedisabledwriter.co.uk/books/

Why We Should Celebrate Our Differences: A Path to a More Inclusive World

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We live in a beautifully diverse world where no two people are alike. Differences are all around us, whether it’s in how we speak, how we look, or how we experience life. But how do we respond to these differences? Some embrace them with curiosity and kindness, while others hesitate, unsure of how to react. As we approach International Day of Disabled Persons on 3rd December 2025, it’s the perfect moment to reflect on the importance of embracing differences, not just to be polite, but as a necessary step toward building a more inclusive world. For me, living with cerebral palsy has shown me the transformative power of acceptance and how much better the world is when we welcome all kinds of differences.

Personal Reflection

There have been many moments in my life when I’ve felt the weight of people’s judgments before they’ve even spoken to me. Take, for example, one of my earlier speaking engagements. As I stood at the front of the room, ready to deliver my talk, I noticed a few puzzled glances as I prepared my AAC device to help me communicate. Some of the audience members clearly weren’t sure how to react, and I could feel their uncertainty. They were used to speakers who stood up and spoke, and here I was, using technology in a way that wasn’t familiar to them.

But as I began to share my story and talk about the challenges and triumphs of living with cerebral palsy, I watched those puzzled expressions soften and change to embracing smiles and laughter. When I reached the end, people were nodding, cheekily laughing and fully engaged. What changed was their willingness to accept something different from the norm. That shift from hesitation to acceptance was powerful, not just for them but for me, too. It reinforced my belief that embracing differences opens doors to connection, learning, and growth. This was a notion of acceptance for me.

The Power of Acceptance

One of the most rewarding parts of my work as an author and motivational speaker is seeing people’s perspectives shift as they learn about disability. Whether speaking to a group of children in a classroom or a room full of professionals, the message is always the same: Embrace different and choose acceptance and understanding over judgement. We’re all different in one way or another, and those differences are what make life interesting. I’ve found that once people move past their initial uncertainties and start engaging with the person in front of them, all barriers come down, one step at a time, and meaningful conversations begin. It just takes a bit of persuasive education.

In schools, I’ve seen children’s eyes light up as they start to understand that it’s okay to be different. In professional spaces such as our workplaces and retail and hospitality venues, I’ve had people tell me they hadn’t considered how small changes like accessible meeting spaces or a bit of patience during conversations could make a massive difference for disabled people. In its simplest form, acceptance is recognising that everyone has something valuable to offer, no matter how they communicate, move, or experience the world.

A Call for Inclusivity

On International Day of Disabled Persons, there’s no better time to think about how we can all make a difference in our daily lives. Inclusion isn’t about grand gestures but our small, everyday choices to ensure everyone feels valued. Here are some practical ways to embrace differences and create a more inclusive environment:

Inclusivity starts with recognising that differences don’t separate us; they bring us together. By embracing these differences, we create communities where everyone has the chance to contribute, grow, and thrive.

Take a moment to think about how you can embrace differences in your own life. What can you do today to make someone feel more included? Sometimes, it’s as simple as waving or smiling at someone who looks unsure or asking how you can make a space more accessible for everyone. Inclusion is not just about being kind; it’s about actively choosing to see the value in everyone, regardless of their background or abilities.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever been in a situation where embracing differences positively impacted you? Or have you felt misunderstood because of something that set you apart? Share your experiences in the comments below. Your story might inspire someone else to take a step towards inclusivity.

If you found this post helpful, please share it with others. Let’s spread the message that differences are to be embraced, not avoided. You can also join the conversation on social media using #EmbraceDifferences and #IDPWD2025. Let’s work together to create a world where everyone is valued.

Disability History Month: Embracing Difference, Challenging Stereotypes, and Celebrating Resilience

Disability History Month, Why It Matters

Disability History Month is a time to reflect on the experiences, stories, struggles, and victories of disabled people throughout history. Each story, including mine, is a testament to the incredible resilience that is a hallmark of the disabled community. It's a celebration of the human spirit's ability to overcome challenges. Every November to December, Disability History Month challenges negative and ableist attitudes towards disability and advocates for more equal and inclusive policies. This year, let’s explore what it truly means to embrace difference, choose acceptance and understanding over judgment, and challenge societal barriers.

Gavin Clifton The Disabled Writer, sat with a collection of his Childrens books and his autobiography
Gavin Clifton The Disabled Writer

My Journey with Cerebral Palsy: Defying Expectations and Smashing Down Barriers

I was born with cerebral palsy, a neurological condition that affects my movement, muscle tone, and speech. From a young age, I have faced physical and social challenges that shaped my understanding of resilience and developed a stubborn, never-give-up attitude which never wavers. My parents fought hard for me to be educated in a mainstream school, which laid the foundations for my independence and social confidence, which hasn’t always been easy. Still, living with cerebral palsy has required me to adapt and navigate a world not always designed for disabled people.

My story isn’t about overcoming physical limitations; it’s about challenging misconceptions, especially the ones around my speech, capabilities and intelligence. This fits into the message of Disability History Month, which emphasises the Social Model of Disability. According to this model, it’s not our impairments but the societal and stereotypical barriers that ‘disable’ people. By removing these physical or attitudinal barriers, society can become more inclusive for everyone.

Cold Weather Challenges: Raising Awareness on Seasonal Struggles

As I have written in a previous blog and have explained on TikTok, the colder months bring unique challenges for disabled people, particularly those with cerebral palsy. Cold weather often worsens muscle stiffness and impacts balance, leading to heightened risks of falls and injuries. During these times, even daily tasks become more complex, and people with cerebral palsy need to adjust their routines to accommodate extended routine timings.

Disability History Month encourages empathy and awareness of more complex daily challenges, particularly affecting disabled people’s ability to participate in work and social settings. This seasonal perspective is an opportunity to increase education and understanding about how diverse disabilities are impacted by physical environments, which is crucial in developing accessible venues and spaces and in advocating for more inclusive policies.

The Role of AAC in My Life: Empowering Communication and Independence

For those who find verbally communicating challenging, Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) has been transformative and life changing. From early experiences with bulky devices to today’s more flexible and accessible technology, AAC has empowered me to communicate more effectively in both professional and social settings. This technology is not just a tool; it’s a lifeline that allows me to advocate for myself and connect with others, whether it's within the disability community or beyond. The role of technology in empowering communication for people with disabilities is a significant aspect of the disability rights movement, as it demonstrates the power of innovation in creating more inclusive societies.

Understanding and embracing diverse communication methods is imperative to building an inclusive society. By broadening our concept of communication, we create spaces where everyone can participate fully, regardless of their abilities.

The Legacy of Disability Rights in the UK: Recognising Progress

Disability History Month also reminds us of the legislative and societal progress in disability rights. Still, we have a long way to go until we become a fully accessible and inclusive society. The Disability Discrimination Act (DDA) of 1995 was a landmark moment, as it was the first piece of UK legislation to protect disabled people from discrimination in employment, education, and services. This Act was later incorporated into The Equality Act 2010, providing even more comprehensive protections for disabled people. These legal advancements are milestones, pushing society towards the accessibility and inclusivity we advocate for today.

Celebrating Disabled Voices: Contributions in Culture, Arts, and Beyond

Throughout Disability History Month, we celebrate the cultural contributions of disabled individuals across fields such as literature, music, sports, and the arts. People like Stephen Hawking, who showed the world how intelligence and creativity could flourish despite his disabilities, and RJ Mitte, an actor with cerebral palsy who uses his platform to advocate for better representation and inclusion in the media, have left a lasting mark within the disability community and on our culture. Celebrating these voices helps broaden society’s perception of what disabled people CAN achieve.

Education and Awareness: Building Inclusive Foundations

Disability Awareness Month also strongly emphasises educating people about the lives and contributions of disabled people. Schools and educational organisations are continually encouraged to integrate disability awareness into their curriculums, helping reduce stigma from an early age. I firmly believe in advocating for disability awareness to be permanently installed into the national curriculum. I will continue my awareness surrounding this issue for as long as it takes. By learning about the experiences and achievements of disabled people, young students gain empathy and understanding, which are essential for building towards an inclusive future.

Moving Forward with Empathy and Understanding

Disability History Month offers an important and unique chance to deepen our understanding of what it means to live with disabilities like mine. However, awareness alone is not enough. Let’s use this month to inspire a continuous call to action that challenges us to make meaningful changes in our daily lives, communities, and workplaces. Let's not just stop at awareness but commit to making real, tangible changes that promote accessibility and inclusion.

Let’s go beyond words and actively promote accessibility and inclusion. Start conversations about accessibility, particularly in our workplaces and retail spaces, and advocate for representation in our media. When interacting with someone with a disability, practise patience, understanding, and open-mindedness. Genuine inclusivity happens when we make reasonable adjustments in everyday life, not just in special observances, as a token gesture. I encourage you to take concrete actions to promote accessibility and inclusion, whether advocating for better accessibility in your workplace or supporting media that accurately represents people with disabilities.

To gain more insight into the realities of living with cerebral palsy. I invite you to read my autobiography, Cerebral Palsy And Me. In it, I share my personal journey, the challenges, the triumphs, and the profound lessons I’ve learned along the way. You’ll also find my children’s books, which I wrote to educate and inspire young readers and parents of disabled children to embrace their differences and see value in each person’s unique abilities. My books are crafted from lived experiences, with heartfelt messages of hope, disability awareness, acceptance and resilience.

Together, let’s build a future where everyone can participate fully and live without limits, regardless of ability. Embrace differences and choose understanding over judgment, not just this month but daily.