Labels Are for Jars: Unlearning Ableism and Embracing Human Difference

Episode 137: “Labels Are for Jars: Unlearning Ableism and Embracing Human Difference”

Hello, and welcome to SER: No Parent Left Behind! I’m your host, Mark Ingrassia. With over 35 years in special education—as a teacher, tutor, , and advocate—I’m passionate about helping families navigate the challenges of raising exceptional children. I’m truly thrilled to have you here!

In this episode I will explore how the labels we place on people—especially those with disabilities—can limit more than they support, and how we can begin to see differences not as a deficit, but as a reflection of our shared humanity.

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Now let’s get vulnerable and speak frankly about mental illness. On our way to another win!

Today’s episode, “Labels Are for Jars: Unlearning Ableism and Embracing Human Difference,” explores how the labels we place on people—especially those with disabilities—can limit more than they support, and how we can begin to see difference not as a deficit, but as a reflection of our shared humanity.

When I spoke about my uncle in an earlier blog, I talked about how I saw both the obvious physical difference in his situation as a paraplegic in a wheelchair and the person with abilities and talents I didn’t have—a man with a unique personality, like all people, and a love for life.

Fact: I could walk, and he couldn’t.

Fact: That difference didn’t make either of us better or worse.

We were just ourselves.

At the risk of oversimplifying, I’d like to make this point: Your child is different in a typical way—because all people have differences, and that is what’s typical of being human. I propose that these differences are what give us our unique traits and make us special. No Gummy Bear is exactly the same. They are different colors, and each creates its own taste sensation in your mouth. However, they share a sameness.

We are socialized to understand and differentiate between what is so-called “normal” and acceptable and what is abnormal and undesired. And it starts early. Think about a classroom—preschool, even—where kids naturally begin to pick up on what’s celebrated and what’s questioned. A child who sits quietly, follows directions, and colors inside the lines is praised as “a good student.” But a child who struggles to sit still, maybe hums to regulate, or needs frequent breaks is suddenly labeled “a problem” or “disruptive.” The message, even if unspoken, is clear: if you don’t fit the mold, you're other. You're wrong. And that becomes a foundation for how we, as a society, unconsciously decide who belongs and who doesn’t. That’s not human nature—it’s training. And it stays with us unless we choose to unlearn it.—we see it daily in our lives, on the news, and around the world. We are taught that anyone who veers from this “acceptable” physical, emotional, or behavioral path is broken and outside of the group we call “us.” “Different” has been decided for us before we have a chance to be our true selves, however that may look, without judgment.

If we grow up believing we are part of the “different,” we risk internalizing the idea that we don’t belong. And that belief can become our reality. The story of “us and them” will continue, leaving many unrecognized and cheated out of what we all deserve: mutual respect, recognition, and consideration. And you see this play out every day if you’re paying attention.

Take a high school student in a wheelchair, for example. She’s bright, funny, and has a gift for graphic design. But because she can’t participate in gym class or navigate every hallway with ease, she’s often left out of group projects, after-school events, even casual lunchtime hangouts; opportunities to feel included and part of the group.

Not because her peers are mean—but because the system, the setup, the pace… wasn’t built with her in mind.

She’s either seen as “inspirational” when she simply shows up, or completely overlooked because assumptions have already been made about what she can’t do. No one’s asking about what she loves or what she brings to the table. And as that happens, her world slowly starts shrinking. Her voice gets quieter. Her place in the “us” feels more like a visitor’s pass—conditional, temporary.

This is what happens when we let the “us and them” story keep writing itself. We deny someone like student the full human experience—not just access to buildings, but access to connection, contribution, and belonging.

And that? That’s a loss for everyone. Not just the student who’s sidelined. It’s a loss for every kid who never gets the chance to learn from her creativity, her resilience, her different way of seeing the world.

Not just the person being left out—but for the entire group.

Let’s say there’s a student who uses a communication device. They’ve got a great sense of humor and a real eye for detail. But during group work, they’re often passed over because it takes them a little longer to respond. The rest of the group moves ahead without really including them—not out of cruelty, just out of habit and impatience.

But what if they had waited? What if they had made space?

They might have heard a creative solution no one else thought of. They might have built something better together. They might have learned patience, teamwork, and that communication doesn't have to look one certain way to be meaningful.

By not making room, they missed out. And the group is weaker for it. Because when we ignore or exclude someone’s perspective, we lose the chance to grow.

That’s the loss. That’s the loss I’m talking about. When we fail to recognize and include someone fully, it doesn't just hurt the person who’s sidelined—it limits everyone—we rob the whole community of growth, empathy, and the chance to be more human together.

Does “majority” mean the same as “normal”?

Is it simply because able-bodied and able-minded people are in the majority that we come to understand that as the norm or typical?

How did it come to be that people without these “able” qualities are viewed as having less to offer the world?

If we accept from the start that every human is different, we might come to see that there’s no such thing as “normal” (meaning societally acceptable)—only what is. If we embrace a “come as you are” understanding of humanity, then we accept that not everyone has two hands, or can walk, or hear, or see, or handle change well, or tolerate sensory disturbances without stimming to feel better. We also accept that cognitive superiority or inferiority does not make someone more or less human. Instead of dismissing the intellectually challenged person, can we recognize a different version of human—and discover their value?

Is a person only significant if they contribute in ways society deems acceptable? If we let go of the expectation for how a person should be and accept them as they are, then we no longer have to chase some outdated standard of worthiness.

From the National Library of Medicine, in a study titled The Person in the Disabled Body: A Perspective on Culture and Personhood from the Margins:

“Persons with disabilities (PWD) are one of the most marginalized groups in Western societies. These inequalities are manifested through various disadvantages in the psychosocial, cultural, and economic domains. The aim of this study is to identify ingrained, culturally bound assumptions inherent in the treatment of people with disabilities and to advocate a shift away from a singular focus on their physical condition and toward a more holistic focus on their personhood.”

People with special needs are not broken. They are simply a different version of what a human can be—just as the way I look and behave is my version. What makes me acceptable or unacceptable is how I perceive myself. And “normal” is not going to be defined for me.

From Access Living, in an article by Ashley Eisenmenger on Ableism:

“The world wasn’t built with people with disabilities in mind, and because of that, the world we live in is inherently ableist.”

So... what is ableism?

Ableism is the discrimination of and social prejudice against people with disabilities based on the belief that typical abilities are superior. At its core, it assumes disabled people need to be “fixed” and defines them by their disability. Like racism and sexism, ableism classifies entire groups of people as “less than,” promoting harmful stereotypes and generalizations.

Able privilege refers to the unearned benefits granted to non-disabled people. It stems from two beliefs:

That a “normal” person is someone who can see, walk, hear, talk, etc., with no significant divergence.

That disability is “abnormal” and therefore a disadvantage.

As a result, societies are structured around accommodating the non-disabled by default—while dismissing or marginalizing the needs and experiences of those who are differently abled.

Just as there is racial, religious, and gender privilege in many cultures, there is also abled privilege, which suppresses disabled culture. It shows up in workplaces, social settings, and schools.

Here’s what ableism can look like—plain and simple:

A job applicant walks into an interview using a white cane. They’re qualified. Degree in hand, great references, experience that lines up exactly with what the position calls for. But the moment they leave the room, the hiring manager turns to the team and says, “I just don’t think they’d be able to keep up. We need someone who can move fast.”

And just like that, they're out of the running. Not because they can’t do the job. Not because they won’t thrive. But because someone looked at a disability and saw limitation instead of possibility.

That’s ableism.

It’s not always loud or hostile. Sometimes, it’s as quiet as a decision made behind a closed door, based on assumptions. It’s the world being built around the convenience and comfort of the non-disabled majority, while disabled folks are expected to either adapt or be left behind.

And unless we start calling it out, naming it, and pushing back on it—it just keeps happening. Over and over again. Quietly. But with real consequences.

In an article from ScienceDirect.com:

“Inclusive education is a social response to the medicalization of disability. Rather than seeing some people as deficient, society must recognize its role in disabling people. Install ramps and lifts in buildings, and people in wheelchairs are no longer functionally disabled. Change attitudes so that they are welcomed and perceived as having different—not impaired—mobility, and we create inclusion.”

I want to expand a bit more on “Inclusive education is a social response to the medicalization of disability.” For decades, disability was framed almost entirely through a medical lens. If a student struggled to read, regulate their behavior, or move through a school building, the focus was on what was wrong with the child — not the environment around them. They were diagnosed, labeled, and placed in separate classrooms or schools. The solution? “Fix the child.”

That’s the medical model. It says the problem is within the individual, and it’s their job—or the job of doctors, therapists, or specialists—to overcome it.

But inclusive education flips that script.

It says: maybe the child isn’t the problem. Maybe the problem is the rigid system that wasn’t built to accommodate a range of human minds and bodies.

Instead of asking, “How do we treat this student’s condition?”

Inclusive education asks, “How can we change the space so this student can succeed like any other?”

For example, if a student with ADHD has trouble sitting still and focusing for long lectures, the medical model might lean on medication or removal from the general ed classroom. Inclusive education, on the other hand, might restructure the lesson—incorporating movement breaks, small-group work, or multisensory strategies—because the environment, not the student, needs to evolve.

Or think about a student who uses a wheelchair. The medical model says they can’t get to class because of mobility issues. Inclusive education says the school needs to install ramps, elevators, and accessible seating—because that’s what inclusion requires.

So when we say inclusive education is a social response, we’re saying it’s rooted in justice, not charity. It’s about recognizing that disability is not just a diagnosis—it’s also a mismatch between a person’s needs and the environment they’re in.

And that’s the shift we need: from “How do we fix them?” to “How do we build systems that welcome everyone from the start?”

That’s not just inclusion.

That’s equity in action.

And therein lies the point: if we view each other as people with different abilities, rather than dividing the world into “desirably able-bodied” and “undesirably disabled,” we can focus on what a person can do—not what they can’t.

I can’t slam dunk a basketball. I can’t hold my breath like a freediver. But I can shoot the ball. I can hold my breath for a while. So does that make me less? Does that mean I don’t count?

Of course not.

I can do plenty of things—in my own way, at my own pace. And that should be enough. Because ability isn’t about doing everything—it’s about doing something, being someone, and showing up as you are.

Society conditions us toward labeling and categorizing. From the moment we’re born, we’re placed into boxes—boy or girl, typical or delayed, advanced or behind. What starts as a few checkmarks on a pediatric form quickly grows into a powerful narrative that shapes how we’re treated—and how we come to see ourselves.

And the same goes for the systems that support individuals with disabilities. They rely on labels too—diagnostic ones. These aren’t just cultural judgments; they’re embedded into the very structure of how support is delivered. These labels serve a purpose, yes—but they also carry weight. And we have to pay attention to how that weight is felt.

If a child struggles in school, they don’t just get extra help—they get evaluated, assessed, and often given a diagnosis: ADHD, autism, dyslexia, emotional disturbance, and so on. And these labels unlock access. They help professionals develop IEPs, design accommodations, track progress, and advocate for funding.

I see the benefit—absolutely. Labels can be a lifeline in a system that demands documentation, accountability, and specificity. They help teachers and therapists tailor strategies, and they can open doors to services that might otherwise remain closed.

But that usefulness comes with a cost. Because once the label is assigned, it can start to overshadow the person. Instead of being seen as a student with autism, a child might be seen only as autistic. Instead of being recognized for strengths, creativity, or personality, they’re reduced to a checklist of deficits.

And worse, the label can follow them—from grade to grade, classroom to classroom, and sometimes long after school is over. It can shape how others treat them, how much they’re challenged, and even how they see themselves.

So while the system relies on these labels for support and structure, we have to be careful not to let the labels become cages. They should serve the individual—not define them.

Because a diagnosis might tell us how someone learns differently, but it should never tell us what they’re worth.

tional Library of Medicine, a: 2020

“Despite its acceptability, the term disability has not shed the sense of incompleteness, lack, deprivation, and incapacitation embodied in the prefix ‘dis-’. This study argues for the use of ‘differently abled’ because of its transformative and anti-discriminatory perspective.”

The study concludes that the term disability is exclusionary and stigmatizing. It implies imperfection and inferiority. Against this backdrop, “differently abled” offers a more empowering alternative.

For example, from BrightHubEducation.com: The label “learning disabled” can result in reduced expectations and goals, both from educators and students themselves. This may lead to low self-esteem and peer issues. Students may internalize the label and believe they are incapable or “stupid.” The label becomes the identity—a fait accompli.

Dr. Danielle Farrel, Managing Director of Your Options Understood, says it best:

“Labels are for jars.”

From the ADA National Network:

“People with disabilities are, first and foremost, people. Labeling a person equates them with a condition and can be disrespectful and dehumanizing.”

In an article from the University of Wisconsin–Madison’s Dept. of Psychology, Dr. Will Cox, a social psychologist, says:

“Labels are complicated. On the one hand, we need words and labels to talk about issues. But they can also bring stigma or stereotypes.”

The article highlights that while the Deaf community may use their label as a part of identity, many Deaf individuals do not consider themselves disabled.

Differently abled persons deserve what everyone else does: opportunity, respect, and recognition. They are not here to make others feel better about themselves, nor are they to be discarded as inconvenient. They are individuals with ups and downs, challenges and triumphs—just like the rest of us.

Comedian and journalist Stella Young, who used a wheelchair, once said:

“I’m not your inspiration, thank you very much.”

Oda Skasgeth, who describes herself as “a tad dyslexic,” shares:

“I’ve always thought of myself that way. So for me, being labeled ‘disabled’ was very weird—and actually kind of funny. I didn’t think ‘disabled’ was a word that applied to me. But apparently, I was wrong.

After the initial laughter, I started to reflect. This gesture from well-meaning people made me feel like something I didn’t wish to be.”

Maybe we should let each individual define who they are, rather than letting the rest of us do it for them. If we can agree that different is healthy, inspiring, and essential to a thriving society, then we can finally recognize the one “same” we all share: our humanity.

Peace, and Keep Rising.

#SpecialEdRising #NoParentLeftBehind #DisabilityAwareness

#UnlearningAbleism #InclusionMatters #LabelsAreForJars #EmbraceDifference

#Neurodiversity #DifferentlyAbled