In Disability and Neurodiversity spaces, “Thank you for being brave” has become almost automatic. A reflex. A well-meant pat on the back after someone discloses something deeply personal, painful, or risky.
At GRANN, we want to pause that reflex.
Because telling your story is not always bravery. Sometimes it is survival. Sometimes it is exhaustion. Sometimes it is strategy. Sometimes it is the only way to be believed. Sometimes it is not safe at all.
When we label disclosure as “brave,” we blatantly load a lot of weight onto the person speaking, and the echo can have unintended consequences.
First, it shifts the labour. The burden of education, reform, and change slides neatly onto Disabled people and Neurodivergent people. Systems stay intact while individuals are expected to bleed meaning into the cracks. The story becomes the currency. The proof. The price of entry.
Second, it creates a moral hierarchy. If sharing is brave, what does that make choosing privacy? Silence? Distance? Are those who do not disclose less courageous? Less committed? Less authentic? Many Disabled people cannot safely tell their stories without consequences. Employment loss. Professional blacklisting. Child protection involvement. Medical retaliation. Social isolation. Re-traumatisation. Silence is not cowardice. It is often discernment, wisdom.
Third, it applies pressure where consent should live. When disclosure is praised publicly, others feel the pull to follow. To explain themselves. To justify boundaries. To offer their pain for communal digestion. This is especially dangerous in spaces where disability intersects with trauma, abuse, family violence, institutional harm, or coercive care. Not all stories are ours alone to tell. Not all truths are ready. Not all audiences are safe.
Fourth, it individualises what is structural. Disability violence, exclusion, neglect, and abuse are not rare personal tragedies. They are patterned. Predictable. Enabled by policy, practice, and culture. When we frame disclosure as bravery, we risk turning systemic harm into personal testimony, rather than collective responsibility.
And finally, it misunderstands what courage actually looks like. Courage can be refusing to disclose. Courage can be setting a boundary and keeping it. Courage can be speaking up anonymously. Courage can be telling one trusted person and no one else. Courage can be choosing rest over re-telling. Courage can be living, quietly and stubbornly, in a world not built for you.
So, what do we say instead?
We can say: Thank you for trusting us. We can say: You did not owe this. We can say: Your safety matters more than our understanding. We can say: You get to decide what is shared, how, and when. We can say: You are believed, with or without details.
At GRANN, we believe stories are powerful. But they are not a requirement. Liberation does not come from constant disclosure. It comes from changing the conditions that make disclosure necessary in the first place.
You are not brave because you told your story. You are worthy whether you tell it or not.
