I was never supposed to succeed.
- Not according to the doctors who told my parents I’d never live a normal life.
- Not according to the teachers who saw my speech and movements and assumed I couldn’t learn.
- Not according to the employers who rejected me without ever seeing what I could bring to the table.
And yet, here I am.
I have spent my entire life defying a world that was not built for me. I was born with a disability that impacts every part of my physical being. I need assistance with almost everything—except thinking, feeling, and dreaming bigger than anyone expected me to. My body moves differently, and my voice doesn’t always come out the way others are used to. But my mind is sharp, my heart is relentless, and my purpose is unshakable.
This is not just my story—it’s my fight.
From the very beginning, I was underestimated. Teachers questioned whether I belonged in a college classroom. Professors made judgments before I ever spoke a word. They assumed I couldn’t keep up, that I couldn’t think critically, that I wouldn’t finish what I started. But every time I turned in a paper, every time I aced an exam, every time I showed up with more preparation than anyone else, they began to see the truth: I didn’t just belong—I excelled.
Still, the barriers never stopped. I’ve lost jobs, opportunities, and seats at the table—not because I lacked the skills, but because I made people uncomfortable by existing outside their narrow definitions of ability. I’ve been told “no” more times than I can count. Not because I couldn’t do the work, but because I didn’t look or sound like the person they imagined in the role. People with disabilities aren’t just asked to prove ourselves—we’re asked to outperform, to overcompensate, to outshine just to be seen as equals.
I remember one job interview where the panel was enthusiastic—until I walked in. You could see the change in their faces. The awkward silence. The unease. I wasn’t what they expected. I did everything right. I had the education. I had the experience. I had the passion. But when the call came, they told me, “We went in another direction.” That direction was someone who didn’t need support. Someone who fit their mold. That day, I sat alone and realized that no matter how hard I worked, I would always be seen as different first and capable second.
How did I respond? I turned every "no" into fuel.
I earned multiple degrees, including a Master’s in Public Administration. I started a nonprofit—Peer Power—dedicated to training and empowering people with disabilities to rise, lead, and change their own lives. I built spaces where their voices are not only heard but amplified. I’ve mentored young adults who had been told their dreams were too big, just like I was. I’ve walked into boardrooms and spoken at conferences, not because someone gave me permission—but because I stopped asking for it.
Every single barrier I’ve faced has shaped who I am. I didn’t learn about oppression from a textbook—I lived it. I didn’t discover resilience from a lecture—I fought for it, day after day. And I didn’t choose advocacy as a profession—it chose me, the moment I realized the world would not change unless I forced it to.
My philosophy is rooted in lived truth. I believe in flipping power structures on their heads and asking why people with disabilities are still excluded from places where decisions are made. I believe that every voice, no matter how it sounds, deserves to be heard. I believe that policy without humanity is meaningless—and that real change starts with those who’ve felt the pain of injustice in their bones.
What drives me isn’t anger—it’s hope.
It’s the hope that future generations of disabled youth won’t have to fight as hard as I did to be seen, to be heard, and to be valued. It’s the hope that by telling my story, I can create space for others to tell theirs. I want to help build systems and culture that recognize the depth, brilliance, and humanity of people who live with disability. Not just as a checkbox, not just as an accommodation—but as essential to who we are as a community.
I am one man. But I carry thousands with me.
Every time I was told I wasn’t enough; I made a vow: to never let another person with a disability feel that way again. I will spend the rest of my life tearing down the barriers that nearly broke me and building a world where being different is not a disqualifier—but a strength.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. But I am. And now that I am—I’m not leaving quietly.
Ric Nelson is the Executive Director of the Peer Power nonprofit organization for disability advocacy in Anchorage, AK. He has participated in the passage of multiple pieces of policy and legislation for the disabled. Nelson has cerebral palsy, which leaves him with a speaking disability, confines him to a wheelchair, and requires 24/7 support. He makes his living as a consultant and author with the help of AI.
