Guadalupe’s Story
My story begins in a place many people find comfort — the Church. But for me, church has often been a place where I’ve had to fight to be seen, heard, and respected as a disabled person. I’m sharing this not to criticize faith, but to call attention to the ways ableism shows up in sacred spaces — and how we can do better.
Growing up as a disabled Mexican woman, I’ve often felt caught between my faith, my culture, and how others perceive my disability. In many religious spaces, both in Mexico and here in Berwyn, I’ve experienced moments where my existence was misunderstood — not because I lacked faith, but because people couldn’t see disability outside of pity or prayer for healing.
In my culture, religion is often seen as a pillar of life. People take it seriously — attending church, knowing the prayers, and participating in rituals. But I’ve often noticed a contradiction: the same people who preach love and acceptance are quick to judge, especially when it comes to people with disabilities.
Whenever I went to church in Mexico, people would stare at me — not out of curiosity, but in a way that made me feel like an outsider. Instead of speaking to me directly, they would turn to my parents and ask, “What happened to the niña?” — referring to me as if I couldn’t speak for myself. I was old enough to speak, to answer, to exist as a full person, but they ignored that. Then they’d say, “I’m going to pray for her so she can walk.” Or, “If you pray more, maybe you’ll walk.” They never asked me how I felt about my disability. The assumption was always that I wanted to be fixed. But the truth is, I don’t want to be fixed. I am happy to be disabled — this is part of who I am.
There was also a time I made a church friend who thought she was helping me spiritually. Every time we were in church, she would be praying and telling me, “You should be a nun. You’d make a good nun. God told me.” She would even invite me to churches where nuns were, trying to convince me to join their group. It always led to tension between us because her actions came from a place of control rather than respect. I wanted nothing to do with being pushed into someone else’s spiritual path.
This mindset isn’t just uncomfortable — it’s harmful. I’ve also seen how churches treat people with neurodevelopmental or neurodivergent conditions like autism or ADHD. People say those children are “too loud” or “aggressive,” or even claim they have “bad energy” and need to be saved. But really, they’re just experiencing their disability — something that deserves understanding, not shame.
I believe churches — especially priests and church committees — need education. They should be required to take disability inclusion training. Not just the basics of what disability is, but how to talk about it, how to challenge their own assumptions, and how to shift the narrative away from “sin” or “punishment” toward deeper reflection, dignity, and acceptance.
Every month, my church does a healing mass, and I’ve noticed that’s when more disabled people and their families show up. Unfortunately, many people in attendance assume we’re all there hoping to be cured — to “release” our disabilities. Some even come up to us and put their hands on our heads without asking, praying over us in ways that feel more like erasure than support. Again, it’s assumed that healing means not being disabled anymore. But for me, healing might mean community, peace, or spiritual connection — not changing who I am.
To be honest, I consider myself blessed. I have the most severe and rare form of Spina Bifida, and by most medical standards, I shouldn’t be here. But I am. I’ve faced challenges with my physical disability, but the hardest struggles have been invisible ones — like PTSD and the mental toll of trauma. Still, society tries to fit me into extremes: either I’m “a poor thing” or “a brave warrior.” But I don’t want either label. I just want to be seen and respected as a whole person.
And that includes being treated with dignity in my church. When I go to confession — not to be healed, but to speak privately, reflect, and seek spiritual guidance — I can’t even fit in the confessional room because it’s too narrow for my wheelchair. That means I have to do my confession out in the open, where anyone can hear me. Once, the priest took me outside to talk — it was boiling hot and cars were passing loudly. He meant well, but it still didn’t feel right. Accessibility shouldn’t be a guessing game. There should be plans, conversations, and real accommodations built into the way churches function.
The same goes for church gatherings. When events are held in the basement, I can’t participate unless I ask for help, which often becomes a dramatic ordeal. People panic, make it chaotic, and it becomes uncomfortable. My church collects donations all the time — so I’ve always wondered: why hasn’t any of that gone toward making the building more accessible?
All of this has made me reflect deeply on how we connect faith and disability. There were times I asked myself if God loved disabled people the same way He loves everyone else — not because I didn’t believe it, but because the way people treated me made me question it. Over time, I’ve come to understand that the problem isn’t with God — it’s with how people interpret disability through a lens of fear, pity, or “fixing.”
Disability-inclusive theology is something I’m still learning about, but I know this: God doesn’t make mistakes. My disability is not a flaw. It’s part of who I am. And I’m called to use my voice to make sure people understand that — especially those who haven’t been heard. We don’t need your pity. We need your respect, your inclusion, and your willingness to change how you think about us.
Key Takeaways:
Encourage leadership to educate themselves in disability inclusion.
Take time to explore what barriers may exist in your workplace, house of worship, or community gatherings - such as the confessional booth in this story.
Include those with disabilities in discussions of improving accessibility.
Check presumptions that disability is a result of moral failure.
Don’t assume disabled people want prayers for healing or that their faith is weak because they are not miraculously healed.
