Promotion or Pity? The Silent Weight of Assumptions.

I've sat with this story for a long time. And even now, it's hard to write — because the wound it left is still raw.

We often celebrate promotion as a moment of recognition, of achievement, of finally being seen for the work we've done. But when you live with a disability, even moments of success can be quietly crushed by the weight of assumptions.

I've lost count of how many times I've heard this comment, directed at myself or others in similar shoes:

"You only got that because you're disabled."

"They probably gave it to you out of sympathy."

"Must be nice to get special consideration."

These words aren't just hurtful — they're degrading. They strip away the effort, the persistence, the hundreds of rejections, and the resilience it takes to keep showing up when the world isn't built for you.

I remember one particular day that has never left me. It was during the COVID lockdown. The office was nearly empty — just me, three work colleagues, and two others working in the mail room. I had my mini mic on, connected to my phone, listening to a podcast while working quietly like the rest of us.

Then an email pinged into my inbox: a staff-wide announcement of promotions.

My name was on the list.

I was overjoyed — proud, actually. I have worked extremely hard to reach that point. Before landing this job, I had applied for over 500 roles. Every application had been a leap of faith. Every interview is a moment of courage.

Wanting to share the joy, I paused my podcast and walked to the kitchen to make a coffee and text my husband the news.

But I had forgotten something.

My mic, still connected, was on my desk.

And suddenly, through my cochlear implant, I heard voices. My colleagues were talking. And then… I heard my name.

Curious, I paused. But nothing could have prepared me for what I heard next:

"Emma probably only got it because she's deaf."

"She would've gotten special consideration for sure."

I stood frozen in the kitchen — coffee cup in hand, my heart sinking.

They didn't know I could hear them. But I did. Every word.

I placed my coffee down, walked to the bathroom and let the cold water run over my hands. I felt numb. Stunned. So incredibly hurt. I wasn't just disappointed in them — I was devastated.

But I gathered myself.

I walked back to my desk with my head held high. No one noticed. Moments later, they all left for lunch together… without a word.

They left me sitting alone in a near-empty building. And in that moment, I had never felt more invisible.

So I packed up and went home — not because I was giving up, but because I needed space. Space to feel. Space to grieve a moment that should have been one of pride.

To this day, that experience sits like a scar, right in the centre of my heart.

It's taken me time, but here's what I've learned:

·         Recognition is not charity. It's earned — and we shouldn't have to justify it to anyone.

·         Disability does not disqualify merit. We can be both proud of our achievements and acknowledge our challenges.

·         Bias is still alive and well — even in the most subtle, whispered ways.

I now use this experience not to shame others, but to educate. To spark honest conversations about workplace inclusion. And to show that these moments — no matter how painful — don't define us.

However, they do remind us that we still have a long way to go.

So the next time you see someone with a disability succeed, celebrate them.

Not because of what they've overcome. But because of what they've achieved.

Because we belong here, too. And we've earned every step.

Deaf & Blonde - Promotion or Pity.pdf

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