The Burden of Independence

Much like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, independence for people with disabilities is touted as the prize for a lifetime of breaking barriers and defying expectations. The pursuit of it promises freedom and fulfillment. However, the burden of independence is a heavy load to carry. Along with a toolbox stocked with resources, skills, and technology, we are expected to bear the emotional weight of advocacy, education, and the constant pressure to meet and surpass expectations. People with disabilities become figures who inspire when obstacles are overcome and pitied when culture’s expectations cannot be met.

This approach to independence preaches a false narrative and only breeds misconceptions, insecurity, discouragement, and, too often, burnout. It’s time to stop idolizing independence and embrace the kind of freedom that, through Jesus Christ, brings true peace, relief, and joy.

Society defines independence not just as a set of practical skills for daily living but as a mindset — an attitude toward disability that determines one’s success. It is framed as the ultimate goal, the measure of worth for disabled individuals. But independence, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. It is a valuable skill and, in many ways, a gift. I encourage those with disabilities to seek ways to further their independence and find the resources and solutions that best support their needs and goals.

However, when the world’s definition equates one’s level of independence with one’s worth as an individual, that brings a heavy burden. In my experience, this burden manifests in three key ways: advocacy fatigue, a reluctance to ask for help, and the unspoken competition to prove who is the most independent and, thereby, the most successful.

As I grew up, nothing terrified me more than being told to advocate for myself. Advocacy was akin to being thrown into the deep end without knowing how to swim; my flailing efforts to stay afloat were critiqued from the sidelines with little guidance but to “do better next time.” I was humiliated — not just for failing those I wanted to impress, but for what was becoming increasingly clear: My worth as a disabled woman was measured by my level of independence.

As I grew older, advocacy didn’t become easier — it became heavier. The expectation to educate others, demand accessibility, confront discrimination, and prove my worth grew suffocating. Every interaction became a test, an opportunity to either reinforce or shatter culture’s idealized image of an independent disabled person. The reputation of the disability community rested on my shoulders. No one warned me how exhausting it would be, how even on the days when I wanted only to exist, I would still feel the unspoken pressure to advocate. And if I was simply too exhausted? That was the greatest failure of all.

Yet, amid the fatigue, a deep-seated reluctance to ask for help took root. Would accepting help be yet another failure to live up to the standard of independence? “No,” said my sighted friends and family. “Yes,” warned many disability rights activists. I was paralyzed by indecision. As a Christian, I knew the truth that I wasn’t created for self-reliance. God’s grace was sufficient, and through my weaknesses, His power would be made perfect (2 Corinthians 12:9, ESV). There was no need to strive for a pyrrhic prize I’d never be able to reach. Yet, I craved the praise and affirmation the world offered those it deemed worthy.

The expectation to embody self-sufficiency wasn’t just a battle between my understanding of grace and the world’s standards — it was also a competition within the disability community. There was an unspoken race to prove who needed the least help, could adapt the most, and ultimately, was the most independent. To these, the prize of self-worth and peer validation was awarded. In my eyes, they embodied true freedom, living beyond the limits of their disability and achieving a deeper sense of gratification. My failings were glaring in the face of their triumph, and I began to believe I would never be enough. The burden of independence — the very thing meant to bring freedom and happiness — was crushing me.

But the hope of Christ shines brightest when things look darkest. Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). In my depression and fatigue, Jesus invited me to fix my gaze on His unchanging love and acceptance. There, He began the work of healing the wounds inflicted by the world’s false promises, replacing them with His grace.

Our priorities and responsibilities shift when Jesus is at the center of our lives. We begin to view the world through His eyes — what He values, we value, and who He loves, we love. This perspective shapes how I respond to the world around me, whether I’m facing discrimination in the workplace or an acquaintance only fixated on what I can and cannot do. My priority changes from fighting for my individual rights and protecting my independence to demonstrating God’s love to those who may not know Him. In discerning whether to engage, I take a moment to consider my witness and ask myself these questions: Am I being loving? What motivates me to speak out, and what do I hope to gain? Am I angry and seeking revenge, or do I truly hope to inspire repentance and a behavior change? Most importantly, will others see Jesus in me?

However, the reality is that advocacy fatigue is real. We are often asked to explain ourselves, our struggles, or our rights as though we are obligated to educate everyone who asks. The truth is we are not obligated to answer every question or satisfy every curiosity. It’s OK to say “no,” as I am continually learning; we aren’t obligated to justify our “no,” either. We have the agency to choose when, where, and how we engage. I’m still learning to set boundaries for myself — boundaries that allow me to preserve my energy and focus on what truly matters. This doesn’t mean being dismissive but acknowledging that not every moment is the right time to offer an explanation. Sometimes, it’s OK to walk away or say, “I don’t have the energy for this conversation right now.” Saying “no” isn’t a failure; it’s an act of self-care and wisdom.

There is wisdom in knowing when to take up the cross of advocacy and when to lay it down. Not every battle is ours to fight, and not every injustice requires our personal involvement. While advocacy for disability rights is essential, and organizations exist to advance these causes, that does not mean every disabled person is called to this fight in the same way. Being affected by injustice does not obligate us to become its frontline warriors. Some are equipped and called to be public advocates, tirelessly pushing for awareness and change. Others may serve in quieter ways — through individual conversations, prayer, or living out the truth that our worth is not defined by worldly standards of independence or achievement. Recognizing this truth is not an excuse to ignore injustice but an invitation to seek God’s will for where and how we engage rather than succumbing to pressure or guilt.

Ultimately, our highest calling is not to prove ourselves or to fix every broken system but to walk in obedience to Christ. He does not measure our worth by our advocacy, our independence, or how much we push against the world’s injustices. Instead, He calls us to faithfulness — to love Him, to love others, and to trust that He is sovereign over all things. There is freedom in knowing we do not have to carry every burden or fight every battle. When we surrender our need for control and rest in His perfect plan, we find peace, purpose, and the assurance that our identity is secure in Him alone.



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