The Exhausting Toll of Being a Disabled Author in a Capitalist Society

Wheeling My Way to The Top One Pre Order At a Time!

When I sat down to write This Is Body Grief, I wasn’t just writing a book—I was writing against a system that was never built for me. A system that demands productivity at all costs, that sees rest as laziness, that measures worth by output. I was writing through pain, through fatigue, through the deep, internalized shame that whispered, Are you doing enough? Are you valuable enough? Will anyone care?

And here’s the thing—this isn’t just my experience. This is what it means to be a disabled, chronically ill author in a capitalist world.

The Reality of Disabled Labor in Publishing

Writers like Dr. Cadet (White Supremacy is All Around), Rebekah Taussig (Sitting Pretty), other disabled authors, and myself spend years pouring our souls into words, not just because we love writing, but because we know these stories need to exist. Yet when it comes time to market our work, the industry—and society at large—makes it clear that books about disability are somehow seen as niche.

Non-disabled purchasing power isn’t geared toward us. Publishers hesitate to back disabled authors the way they do others. And when we, the authors, say buy my book, it’s framed as a plea rather than a demand for cultural relevance. Instead of being recognized as essential reading, our books are treated as charity cases, as though supporting disabled voices is an act of goodwill rather than a necessary shift toward a more just literary landscape.

The Ableist Values We Internalize

The irony is that This Is Body Grief is about exactly this—the way we internalize capitalism and hustle culture to the point that we don’t even realize how deeply ableist our values have become.

We’re taught that worth is productivity. That success is pushing through, never stopping, never needing help. And so, even as disabled authors, we often find ourselves trapped in these expectations, working against bodies and minds that are telling us to rest. The publishing industry—and society—rarely accommodates the reality of disabled labor. There are no built-in rest periods for disabled writers, no systemic efforts to make marketing or promotion sustainable for chronically ill bodies. Instead, we burn ourselves out just trying to keep up, just trying to be seen.

The constant worry I have—and that so many disabled authors share—is whether we are showing up enough. As authors, we are expected to promote, promote, promote, but with chronic illness, immune deficiency, and literal barriers to independence, it can feel like we are starting a few blocks behind everyone else. Just last week, I had aseptic meningitis. Next week, I have a colonoscopy. And in two weeks, I am launching a book that I truly believe can and will be a bestseller. But my body deserves rest. The cognitive dissonance, the need to show up for this community, and the desire to take my own advice in my body grief journey is a wild ride. And yet, in the end, I know this book will touch many.

No, You Don’t Need to "Help" Us—You Need to Read Us

What I want people to understand is this: disabled stories aren’t just for disabled people. They are for everyone.

Disability is a fundamental part of the human experience. If you live long enough, you will experience some form of body grief—through aging, through illness, through injury. To read disabled authors is not to do us a favor. It’s to prepare yourself for the reality of being human.

I’m incredibly grateful that Penguin Random House, my editor, and my literary agency took me seriously and backed my book. Their support is not the norm in publishing, and I don’t take it for granted. But it shouldn’t be rare. Disabled voices should be recognized, published, and celebrated—not as an exception, but as an expectation.

And let me be clear: This Is Body Grief isn’t just for disabled people—it’s for everyone. Disability issues are human issues. Whether or not you identify as disabled today, these conversations will touch your life in one way or another. Understanding body grief, accessibility, and ableism isn’t optional—it’s necessary.

So when we say, buy our books, don’t hear, help me. Hear, this will change you. Hear, this is something you need to know. Hear, our stories matter just as much as anyone else’s.

The real work isn’t in disabled writers convincing the world that we are worth reading. It’s in non-disabled people unlearning the lie that they can afford not to listen.

So as I wheel my way to the top of the best sellers list I am not asking for aid, I am offering you a seat next to me as we celebrate a win for all of us to work towards Healing our Body Grief one Pre Order at a time!