If the disability community were a brand, how would people describe it?
Right now, it feels like the experience of engaging with us comes with a warning label: "Enter at your own risk."
This piece is part brand audit, part call to action. I've been reflecting on how we show up — to ourselves, to potential allies, and to the community at large. I think we've got a branding issue that's worth unpacking. Not a values problem. Not a mission problem. But a reputation and engagement problem.
We pride ourselves on being rights-focused, protective of our own, and deeply educational. But from the outside, the message can land differently.
How we see ourselves: Brave, values-driven, tired of injustice.
How others see us: Confrontational, intimidating, too political to approach.
Where it breaks down: We think we're teaching; others feel like they're being told off.
When our message is misread, our mission doesn't land.
The experience someone has with the disability community often depends on when and how they first make contact. If we think about this like a brand, those early touchpoints matter. They shape whether someone feels drawn in or turned away.
First impressions often come through social media, news stories, or public commentary. These encounters can give the impression that engaging with disability is risky — a fear of saying the wrong thing, being corrected in front of others, or feeling judged before you've even begun.
Imagine instead that first contact invited curiosity. A sense that it's okay to ask, learn, and take a few steps forward without having all the answers.
Learning moments often come next, and this is where things can easily break down. When someone tries to engage — maybe they ask a question, get a term wrong, or share something awkwardly — they're hoping for guidance. Too often, what they get instead feels like a shutdown.
The expectation can feel like instant proficiency rather than a learning curve. But progress rarely comes from getting everything right on the first go. We need a culture that encourages people to stick around even when they stumble.
Ongoing engagement is where relationships either deepen or quietly disappear. Someone who starts with good intentions might pull away after a single mistake — not because they stopped caring, but because they no longer feel safe to keep showing up.
Our community is protective, understandably so, but if we want more allies, more momentum, and more impact, then we need to make it possible for people to stay, learn, and contribute meaningfully over time.
Other social movements have found powerful ways to keep people engaged, even when the issues are complex.
The disability community can learn from this without losing our integrity. We don't need to lower the bar. We need to show people where it is and how to get over it.
What sets the disability community apart isn't just our passion or persistence — it's our lived experience. The insights we bring are grounded in the reality of navigating systems and spaces that weren't built for us. We know where the gaps are because we've (often literally) fallen into them. And we've learned how to climb out, adapt, and advocate.
But lived experience isn't a magic wand. It gives us perspective, not all the answers. We don't always know the perfect fix, and we shouldn't have to carry the whole load alone. What we do have is a deep understanding of the problems — and that's the starting point for building real, lasting solutions together.
We're focused on what works in practice, not just what sounds good in theory. And we're not a fringe group. More than a billion people globally live with disability. That's not a niche! But we still get treated as a side conversation.
The opportunity is there. What's missing is the connection.
Right now, the journey for a would-be ally often looks like this:
That's a churn rate most businesses couldn't survive.
Now imagine this instead:
That's how movements grow.
The way we speak — as individuals and as a community — sends a message, whether we intend it or not.
Right now, the voice of the disability community often comes across as serious, expert, and at times unforgiving. It can sound like we're holding a line and defending hard-won ground. And often, we are.
But to someone new, unsure, or tentative, it can come across as, "You're doing it wrong." That shuts things down before they even begin.
Just because we've said the same thing a thousand times doesn't mean the person we're addressing has heard it before.
Imagine instead a voice that's still confident and knowledgeable, but also collaborative and open. A tone that says, "Here's how we can do it better — together."
It's not about losing clarity or watering things down. It's about keeping the conversation going long enough for real change to take root.
We know how to critique — that's one of our strengths. We can spot a flawed policy, a poorly worded campaign, or an inaccessible event in seconds. Those things deserve to be called out. But critique on its own doesn't build a movement.
Some of our most visible content, especially viral posts that highlight failures (including some of mine), get a lot of attention. But it doesn't always translate into action or change.
What's missing is content that helps people take the first step — the kind that says, "Start here. You're welcome, even if you're unsure."
We need stories of people who made mistakes, learned from them, and stayed in the conversation. We need guides on how to recover when you get it wrong, and reminders that learning in public is possible — and worth it.
If we want more allies, we need to invest in the onboarding process, not just the corrections.
This isn't a personal critique; it's a reflection based on patterns I've seen.
Inside the community, there's tension. Some people see any softening of our message as selling out — they want accountability, and they want it now. Others are focused on building bridges, believing we can be welcoming without compromising on what matters.
Outside the community, many people want to do better. They care about disability rights and inclusion, but they're afraid of getting it wrong. That fear keeps them quiet. Not because they don't care, but because they don't feel safe to try.
If we want people to stay engaged, we need to make it easier for them to start.
It's easy to focus on loud moments: viral posts, public mistakes, and call-outs. They feel like action, but attention isn't the same as impact.
What we often measure:
What we should be measuring:
For every person or business who tries, there are many more who stay silent. Trying — even imperfectly — is a step. That step should be worth something.
This isn't about lowering the bar. It's about making sure people can see where it is, understand how to reach it, and feel like it's worth the effort.
If we want more people to care about disability inclusion, we need to make that engagement possible. That means welcoming the first step, not punishing the first stumble.
The disability community has something every brand wants: authenticity, purpose, and a solution to real problems.
It's time for a rebrand.
Not of our values, but of our approach.
Not of our standards, but of our strategy.
Because the goal isn't to be right. It's to be effective.
Kelly is the Managing Director of [Knowable.Me](http://knowable.me/), driving value creation and providing data and insights into the needs and preferences of people with disabilities.
Throughout her career, Kelly has held senior corporate roles in Complaints, Accessibility & Inclusion, Customer Experience, and Brand & Communications. Her blend of strategic thinking and human-centred design methodologies brings alignment of disparate groups to influence positive momentum and drive growth.
Kelly holds Chair and non-executive board roles and is a member of the Technology, Innovation & Value Creation Committee of Swinburne University. She is a graduate of the Australian Institute of Company Directors.
Kelly identifies as “blind, with just enough vision to be dangerous” and is ably assisted by her guide dog, Zali.
This article is written by one of our brilliant community members. Their experiences, opinions and perspectives are uniquely their own — and that’s exactly why they matter. They don’t necessarily reflect the views of Knowable Me or our partners, but they do reflect real life. And we think sharing real life is how things change.
Knowable Me acknowledges that Australia contains hundreds of nations, spanning more than 65,000 years, and we live and work on land unceded by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.Their wisdom, story telling, and deep listening is a history we pay respect to in the way we conduct business.
