From Saint to Bad Parent: The Disability Double Bind

David Carlisle

Welcome to the show, everyone! I'm David Carlisle, here with Harper Bennett and Claudia Reese. And I want to jump right in with a weird social phenomenon I noticed last week at a local bakery. I was waiting for my sourdough starter flour, chatting with a guy about baking times, totally normal back-and-forth. Then he asked about my weekend plans, and I mentioned I was taking my kids to an adaptive play space because they both have developmental disabilities. The guy's face literally fell. It went from "hey, cool sourdough guy" to this deep, solemn, head-tilted look of absolute pity. He actually touched his chest and said, "Oh, wow. You are so brave. I don't know how you do it. You must be a saint."

Harper Bennett

Ugh, the head tilt! The international symbol of "I am now viewing you through a tragic filter." It's like the instant you mention disability, you get fast-tracked to canonization. You went from sourdough hobbyist to Mother Teresa in three seconds flat.

Claudia Reese

It is incredibly jarring. As a mother of two disabled kids myself, I see this shift constantly. In urban infrastructure projects, I manage multi-million dollar budgets and chaotic city logistics without blinking, but the second my personal life comes up in casual conversation, my professional authority just... evaporates in their minds. I'm no longer the sharp project manager; I'm the tragic, long-suffering mother. Sociologist Erving Goffman actually gave this a name back in 1963. He called it courtesy stigma. It's the idea that a stigma attached to an individual spills over to infect those who are closely associated with them, like parents or siblings. You inherit the societal discomfort.

Harper Bennett

Courtesy stigma. That explains so much of the social awkwardness I see from my side of things as a wheelchair user and an occupational therapist. It’s like people think disability is a radioactive isotope, and just standing near a disabled person or being related to them gives you a secondary dose of "tragedy." So to cope with their own discomfort, they slap a "superhero" sticker on you.

David Carlisle

Exactly! They put you on this pedestal. But here's the thing about pedestals: they're incredibly small, drafty, and lonely. When someone calls me a "saint" or a "superhero," they aren't actually complimenting me. They're creating an emotional wedge. It's an act of othering. It says, "You must have some supernatural, non-human patience, which means I, as a normal human, don't have to relate to you or offer you actual, practical community." It lets them off the hook.

Claudia Reese

It absolutely lets them off the hook. If we are "superheroes," then our struggles are heroic, not systemic. We don't need accessible parks, inclusive schools, or flexible workplaces; we just need to keep flying our little superhero capes. It's a way of romanticizing isolation so they don't have to build a world where we actually fit in.

Claudia Reese

But the flip side of that saint pedestal is incredibly dark. You go from "saint" to "terrible parent" the second your child has a sensory meltdown in public. I remember being in a grocery store aisle when my youngest had a massive sensory overload. The lights were humming, the scanners were beeping, and she just collapsed, screaming. The shift in the public gaze was instant. It wasn't "look at that saintly mother." It was "look at that incompetent woman who can't get her kid in order."

David Carlisle

Oh, I know that gaze. It's the "just discipline your child" look. It’s a total misunderstanding of neurological differences. People look at a child who is experiencing actual neurological pain and label it a behavioral failure on the parent's part. It forces you into this constant, exhausting mental gymnastics of selective disclosure. You're standing there thinking, "Do I announce to this entire aisle of strangers that my kid is neurodiverse..." -- which I still get tongue-tied saying, by the way, neurodiversity, there we go -- "just to stop them from judging us?"

Harper Bennett

It's like you're carrying around a invisible billboard. Do you flash the diagnosis like a hall pass? "Excuse my child, they have a medical permit to be overwhelmed." It's a brutal double bind because using a medical diagnosis as a shield might stop the immediate glares, but it also reinforces this toxic, ableist idea that a disabled child has to be "excused" or validated by a clinical label just to exist in public spaces.

Claudia Reese

Yes! It's like we are asking permission for our children to occupy space. If a neurotypical toddler throws a tantrum, it's just "terrible twos." But if a disabled child has a meltdown, it becomes this massive crisis of public order where we have to litigate their right to be there. I've caught myself doing it -- blunting the judgment by dropping clinical terms like "sensory processing" just to build a barrier against the glares. It feels like a betrayal of my child's dignity, but sometimes you just don't have the energy to fight the gaze without a shield.

David Carlisle

It is a survival mechanism, Claudia. It's like trying to bake bread with a oven that keeps changing temperature. You are constantly adjusting, trying to predict the social atmosphere. You're censoring your own conversations, deciding who gets to know what, just to keep your family safe from the "bad parent" trap.

Harper Bennett

So how do we smash both the pedestal and the trap? We have to completely demolish this "brave warrior parent" trope. It's pure inspiration porn. As a wheelchair user, I get "inspired" just for buying milk. It's exhausting. We need to move from performance to actual, grounded partnership. Real allyship isn't admiring disabled families from a distance; it's getting in the mud with them.

Claudia Reese

Absolutely. I don't want your admiration; I want your friendship. I want you to invite my kids to the birthday party, even if it means we have to adjust the sensory environment. I want city planners to design transit systems that don't require me to carry a seventy-pound wheelchair up three flights of stairs because the one elevator is broken again. That's partnership.

David Carlisle

And we need to normalize the messy, funny, everyday reality of our lives. My life isn't a tragic documentary; it's a household with two chaotic kids, a lot of flour on the floor, and a dad who can't pronounce academic terms. We laugh, we mess up, we have hobbies that have absolutely nothing to do with advocacy.

Harper Bennett

Which brings us to how people should actually respond when a parent mentions disability. If you're listening to this and you want to be a better friend: please, do not change your pitch. Do not offer me a sad, sympathetic sigh. If David says his kids are going to an adaptive play space, treat it exactly like he said they were going to a normal park. Say, "Oh, awesome, hope they have fun! By the way, how's that sourdough starter coming along?"

Claudia Reese

Yes! Keep the same conversational energy. Treat us like complex, three-dimensional families who are just living our lives, not as a heavy, tragic disclosure you have to tiptoe around.

David Carlisle

Exactly. We don't need a pedestal, and we don't need pity. We just want to share the table -- mess, crumbs, sourdough, and all. Thanks for joining us today, everyone. Let's keep making space for real conversations. Bye!

Harper Bennett

Catch you next time!

Claudia Reese

See you later!