Lately, I’ve been reflecting on loneliness in ways I hadn’t before. It’s a feeling that has always been present in my life, but recently, it has come up more often, lingering in the background and, at times, making itself known in sharp and unexpected ways. Living with a disability has always meant navigating spaces that weren’t built for me, but the isolation that comes with it feels more acute when other aspects of my identity—like race, gender, and sexuality—intersect. The deeper I’ve explored myself, the more I’ve recognized how these overlapping identities can make the loneliness more profound.
As a social work student and someone entering the mental health field, this realization has been eye-opening. The more I learn about mental health and community support, the more I see how invisible these intersections can be, even within spaces meant to help. It’s not just about being disabled; it’s about being disabled and navigating other marginalized experiences at the same time. It’s about feeling like you don’t quite fit into the disability community, the LGBTQIA+ community, or any other space that’s meant to support one part of who you are.
This kind of loneliness isn’t always visible. It’s a quiet, internal experience, and yet it shapes so much of how I move through the world. Today, I want to talk about the loneliness of living at the intersections of identity—how it feels, how I’ve managed it, and why finding community is both necessary and challenging when your identity isn’t easily categorized.
Loneliness is something many people experience, but there’s a unique kind of isolation that comes with living with a disability. Society often isn’t designed for disabled people, from physical spaces that are inaccessible to attitudes that range from patronizing to dismissive. It’s easy to feel unseen when the world around you doesn’t seem to account for your existence. For me, this isolation started early, and though I’ve learned to navigate it, that sense of being “other” is something that never fully goes away.
What makes this even more difficult is that within disability spaces, there’s often an assumption that disability is the only factor that shapes your identity. But the truth is that we all carry multiple identities. Disability doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it’s interconnected with other parts of who I am. And that’s where the loneliness deepens, because it feels like there’s no single space where all of me is seen.
Being disabled is one layer, but when other identities intersect, like being Black, queer, or any other marginalized identity, the isolation can feel even more profound. The loneliness grows when you don’t fully fit into the disability community or the communities that represent your other identities.
For me, being a Black, queer, disabled person has meant navigating spaces where parts of me are acknowledged but rarely the whole. It’s not uncommon to feel like I’m either too much or not enough—too much disability for some spaces, not enough visibility in others. The intersections of these identities can create a sense of not belonging anywhere, and it’s in those moments where loneliness settles in the most. Even within spaces designed for support, it’s rare to find one that understands the complexity of being all of these things at once.
And yet, through all the complexity, I’ve found a way to not just exist but to thrive. Next week, I’ll share how I’ve learned to hit the brakes and take control, finding strength and resilience in the very intersections that once felt isolating.
Have you ever felt like you’re navigating spaces that don’t fully see you? What intersections of identity have shaped your experience of loneliness? I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences—feel free to share in the comments below
