I am writing this article for my community of people with disabilities. My name is Marcus Johnson, and I’m a Black African American gentleman living with a physical disability. It is my deepest wish that our community begins to want more for ourselves—not less. I want you to pause and consider this: celebrity and its influence can be transformative in raising awareness about the challenges of living with a disability. But if you think of celebrity as perception—as something crafted and consumed—then here’s the truth: we are all celebrities.
Our lived narratives, the stories of our community, are far more transformative than any “celebrity” performance we see on the big screen.
When I roll into a room, my presence speaks before I do. My body becomes a declaration—whether or not I want it to be. Yet disability is not always visible, and what people assume they see doesn’t always match reality. This is one of the deepest complexities of our community: how we identify ourselves, how others perceive us, and whether we’re allowed to bring our full, unapologetic selves into every space.
This tension becomes glaring when we examine the intersection of disability and celebrity. Yes, celebrities can help spark awareness—but awareness alone isn’t the same as understanding.
Take the last few Olympic Games. Michael Phelps and Simone Biles bravely shared their mental health struggles. Their candor helped shift the public conversation. But let’s be clear—their access to elite therapists, medical teams, and financial resources places them in a different world than the average person struggling with depression, anxiety, or PTSD. Most of us fight these battles without a safety net, often uninsured, and often unseen.
Michael J. Fox’s documentary “Still” brings this contrast to life. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 1991, he didn’t disclose publicly until 1998. Was that delay a matter of choice—or necessity? Watching his journey with a therapist walking alongside him through his neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think: no one I know in my community gets that level of care. If we’re lucky, we get a short session once a week—if we’re insured.
Facing the Struggles Daily
I sustained my spinal cord injury in 1991, and just a few years later, in 1995, Christopher Reeve’s accident made national headlines. For the first time, I saw someone whose disability mirrored my own reflected so publicly. No, I wasn’t Superman — but like him, I once dreamed of Juilliard and of making an impact. His visibility gave me hope, yet I also knew that his access to treatment, resources, and platforms placed him in a world far removed from the daily struggles so many of us face. That contrast stayed with me. I realized my path to making an impact would look different than the one I imagined as a dancer — it would come through advocacy and activism, using my voice to push for equity, dignity, and change for people with disabilities.
Then there’s Chadwick Boseman, whose colon cancer diagnosis became known only after his passing. His silence was his choice—but it also spoke volumes about the stigma and the pressure to conceal illness or disability to be accepted.
Which leads to a hard question: when should someone disclose a non-apparent disability—and why? To be candid—I wrestle with this. As someone with a visible disability, disclosure isn’t optional for me. It announces itself before I even speak. That’s why I sometimes feel conflicted when someone makes a vague mention of having a disability without naming it. Is that about accessing support without full vulnerability? Is it rooted in shame?
Yet, I also recognize that disclosure is deeply personal. There is no single right way. Still, the larger issue is about ownership. When people choose euphemisms like “differently abled,” “special,” or “gifted” instead of naming disability outright, it doesn’t empower us—it erases us. Just as we reject outdated slurs like “crippled” or “handicapped,” we must also reject the polite evasions that deny our truth.
Embracing Disability Identity
Owning disability identity is a radical act of self-love and resistance. It dismantles internalized ableism and forces society to confront us as we are—not as they wish us to be. And let me be clear: celebrities, no matter how noble, aren’t going to save us. Their voices can amplify, and their platforms can spotlight, but the real work—the transformative work—lives in our community and in our stories.
In April 2025, when Eric Dane disclosed his ALS diagnosis, his words didn’t come with pity or performance. They came with honesty, dignity, and grounded presence. For once, the tone felt right. His story reflected struggle, truth, and courage in a way that resonated with our community—not because of his fame, but because of the humanity in his disclosure.
That’s what we need: shared storytelling. Stories that bridge the gap between the famous and the forgotten. Stories that go beyond impairment to address access, resources, and inequality.
So yes, I roll in, and people see what they see. But I’m asking all of us to look deeper. To own what we live with. To speak it out loud. To reject erasure and euphemism. To demand visibility and dignity. Because our voices—our celebrity—are powerful enough to shift culture.
That’s how we move forward. That’s how we get free. That’s how we get heard.
Marcus Johnson is co-leader of the Civics League for Disability Rights (CLDR), an independent, volunteer-led group of New Yorkers with disabilities who advocate for themselves, their community, and for systemic change in healthcare for people with physical disabilities. To learn more, email civicsleague@gmail.com.
Opinions expressed are solely those of the writer(s) and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Able News at The Viscardi Center and/or The Viscardi Center.