I say that I came out of the womb ambitious with an appetite for approval and success, no matter what came my way.
I took every opportunity that was given to me, from being a dance teacher to a math tutor. Despite all my efforts, I was constantly doubted as a person with a disability, even as I produced consistent results. That has been my reality ever since I was in kindergarten.
Growing up disabled can be an isolating experience. I was one of only two wheelchair users in my elementary school. I didn’t have many friends and was a constant victim of bullying and exclusion. I didn’t care that much, though. To me, the best way to shut out the noise was to move up the food chain of middle school.
My Grade 9 English teacher pointed out my talent for writing from the get-go. Feedback on the essays I handed in was always positive, and I never understood why. She was a former journalist and after much pestering, I began to write more often. Finally, I thought. Some encouragement.
I received accommodations in most of my classes, whether it was for note-taking or extended time on tests and other assessments. Still, I tried to get my assessments done within the normal amount of time, since I didn’t want to be perceived as lagging behind my peers. When I got out of tests a little later than others, I was on the receiving end of questions and jokes.
“Was that too hard for you?” They’d ask with a smile, but even after I explained, my friends would jeer and laugh. I was sick of it.
I remember being encouraged to go to college, being told that it would be a good transition to university, even as I routinely collected stellar grades and worked around the clock.
Sure, I knew that being disabled presented its challenges in the world, but I was determined to reach my goals on my own terms, even if others discouraged me.
Just before the pandemic, I went through an identity crisis. I remember pacing the halls of my high school’s English department and desperately trying to figure out what to do with my life. I had stopped doing theatre, being forced to quit after my body was no longer able to keep up with the long rehearsals, which essentially meant I had given up on what I thought I would do as an adult. Ten years of my life, wasted. What am I going to do?
I went back to my Grade 9 English teacher, the one who had persuaded me to write more often, recognizing that I had a shred of talent. She told me about Carleton’s journalism program, telling me that it was competitive, but she thought I could do it.
I was hesitant. I’m from Toronto, and moving to Ottawa, to a school I had never heard of, without family, sounded like something I wouldn’t be able to do, especially with my disability.
Still, as the pandemic raged on, the conversation stuck in my memory. So, I applied.
I was accepted within five days. Cue the panic. I waited five months to tell everybody in my life that I was going to Ottawa. I had my reasons for not telling them, but I was mostly apprehensive about their response. I wanted to be secure in my own decision before I braced for the reactions of others.
Everybody around me thought I was crazy. I had never lived on my own before, my family knew nobody in Ottawa — and I was disabled.
Despite my ambitions and hard work through my high school years, it was still unsurprising to be on the receiving end of doubtful comments and shock. It seemed like everybody had an opinion about what I did with my life.
The way I saw it, everybody seemed to think that because I was disabled, I couldn’t do certain things. They were shocked that I would move away, so far from home, but they were even more shocked that I seemed calm about it. Even if they didn’t say it out loud, I could feel the heat in their stares, thinking I was being rebellious or reckless as I planned my future.
Can I really do this?
My answer, four years later, is a resounding yes.
When it came time to apply for internships in my third year, I was really anxious about whether I would get one. I didn’t have an outstanding journalistic resumé and compared to my peers, I was a mid-tier journalist. But my worries were squashed pretty quickly. I got an internship with the Financial Post, but with a couple caveats: I had zero business journalism experience and a bucket full of stress to deal with. Why are they doing this to me?
I ended up falling in love with business journalism and quickly learned the ropes of how to interview people behind numbers. Sure, there were plenty of overwhelming statistics to deal with in the press releases I was given, but I found ways to find the human perspectives behind the story. I interviewed all kinds of amazing people, and I really enjoyed it. Additionally, while dealing with the press releases and churning out articles, I ended up working on my favourite piece I have ever written.
Before my internship started, I had searched far and wide for stories that I could pitch to my editors, planning to take full advantage of what could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I thought about what made my reporting special and what I could offer that my peers wouldn’t be able to compete with.
The pitch I ended up giving them was a story on accessible housing, a story I had thought of by combining the housing affordability crisis and its amplified effects on people with disabilities.
After watching my friends struggle to find places to rent, I knew there was another layer and I knew the story wouldn’t get much coverage elsewhere. If they just gave me a chance, I knew I would be able to find statistics and people, all of whom would be able to paint a picture of how the housing crisis had abandoned the needs of disabled folks.
The story ended up being published after two weeks of hard work and finally earned me the praise I was so desperate to receive from family and friends. It was strange. I even made people angry in the comments — a true journalistic dream.
Something about being in journalism school has unlocked the inner child in me, the one who craves to succeed and be praised for her potential and abilities. And while it hasn’t been without the help of my family, friends and many shots of espresso, I can finally say that I’m happy with my work and my outcome. I’m finally the Rachel that I’ve always wanted to become. She’s happy, she’s succeeding and she did it on her own terms.
Featured image courtesy of Rachel Kwok.
