Before she started dating her current partner, Jen, a 34-year-old transgender autistic woman, didn’t even think of herself as disabled. In a previous relationship with a non-autistic person, her shutdowns and periods of dissociation — which sometimes render her non-verbal or semi-verbal and unable to move — led to conflict. Her ex didn’t get what she was experiencing or know how to help, which made Jen feel like a burden when what she needed most was support.
Now, she’s with Jules, a hard-of-hearing autistic person with chronic illness. The love and empathy she’s received from her partner has allowed Jen to claim space as a disabled person and get her needs met.
“The biggest joy is that for the first time, I feel like I’m with someone who understands me,” she tells Them.
Jen and Jules are among the estimated 61 million Americans living with a disability, including neurodivergence or chronic illness. For disabled people, interpersonal relationships can be particularly challenging to navigate. Often, we don’t have access to large support networks or endless resources, so we rely on ourselves and the people in our lives for care. It’s easy to see why disabled people would seek out romantic and platonic relationships with people who can personally identify and empathize with what they’re going through. These dynamics can feel especially safe and affirming for queer and trans disabled people, who experience multiple dimensions of marginalization and harm simultaneously.
Research indicates that disabled people are more likely to experience intimate partner violence, including sexual and psychological abuse, than able-bodied people. Many of us are treated as burdens for asking for extra help, let alone advocating for our rights. Plus, media narratives perpetuate harmful stereotypes about our lives. When books, movies, and television shows depict disabled people in relationships, it’s usually with a non-disabled partner portrayed as virtuous for choosing them — or disabled people have to be “cured” in order to be chosen.
“So often, due to ableism, many disabled people believe they’re not worthy and that they have no value in this world. The more we connect with each other, the further we get from those societal narratives we so often hear,” Briana Mills, a California-based therapist who is disabled herself and often works with disabled clients, tells Them. As a kind of tongue-in-cheek joke that’s also serious about seeking out our own, disabled people often refer to our attraction to each other as “sick for sick.”
Like Jen and Jules, partners Urayoán Verges-Rodriguez and Gabriela Ramos Tavárez have helped each other understand their respective disabilities through dating. Ura is a 28-year old physically disabled bisexual man; Gabriela is a 25-year-old bisexual woman living with fibromyalgia, ADHD, and OCD. For four years, they’ve been each other’s main support system. Together, they navigate everything from the medical industrial complex, to internalized and external ableism.
“We try to give each other what we need, not what we think the other needs. We validate each other’s feelings and pain,” Gabriela tells Them. “If one of us thinks the other person is not resting enough or is taking on too much, we will convey it, but allow them to deal with it as they see fit.”
One of the biggest joys of being in a romantic partnership with another disabled person is a mutual understanding of a person’s fluctuating physical, mental, and emotional limits, which may change daily or hourly. Like crip time, the standard for what it means to show up for someone else while honoring your own capacity is different for disabled people. The power dynamics in these relationships are different, too. Where disabled people are used to being resented or treated unfairly, Ura emphasizes that his relationships with other disabled people — including friendships — have granted him a profound sense of empathy. “We consciously and unconsciously accommodate each other better than others would,” he says. “We can be our authentic selves with each other.”
Disabled or not, being human “is challenging, and human connection is a key component for survival,” adds Mills, who works with disabled clients and is disabled herself. “Feelings of isolation can increase rates of depression, suicide, and anxiety. We all need people who remind us that we’re not alone and we belong.”
Tida Nohra, a 30-year-old nonbinary lesbian, says when it’s difficult for them to want to and remember to eat, their partner, Ren, a 28-year-old nonbinary person, reminds them to do so. “We often stay home and do dates that do not stress our bodies, do our best to be there for each other virtually when we can't be in person, and are very encouraging of each other building community to make support networks wider and for general wellbeing,” they tell Them.
Tida navigates living with hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (hEDS), Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), and a spine injury, while Ren has chronic migraines and what may be Long COVID symptoms. They each cook for each other when there’s capacity and provide support surrounding medical appointments.
Genuine love is its own form of care, adds Jen. “[I can be] difficult to reach in moments of overstimulation or meltdown. Jules understands what is and isn’t useful in bringing me back to Earth,” Jen says. For her, that’s often physical touch. “Before Jules, I never really liked anyone touching me, but they have just done such an amazing job of showing me that they are a safe person.”
Sick-for-sick relationships also come with difficulties. When both people are having a hard mental health day or flare-up, providing support becomes tougher. “Having to compromise on our own access needs for each other in times of crisis is challenging,” says Scout Graves, an autistic, 26-year-old agender lesbian, of their relationship with their partner (who wishes to remain anonymous for safety reasons).
Scout, who has Tarlov cysts, multilevel degenerative disc disease (DDD), functional neurological disorder with seizures, and more, acknowledges that conflicts do arise from unmet needs. Their partner experiences even more marginalization as a Black autistic person with physical disabilities, which causes internal pressure that leaks out in understandable ways.
“The world is unbelievably cruel to disabled people. Sometimes, my partner and I will fight simply because there is nowhere safe for our pain and anger to go except at each other,” they admit. In these dynamics, patience, generosity, and commitment are vital. Scout and their partner consistently share responsibilities for household tasks, show up to each other’s medical appointments, and support each other emotionally.
Societal stigmas against disabled people have led to not just isolation, but cruelties like forced sterilization and laws making it nearly impossible to marry. In this context, finding love among each other is all the more meaningful.
Like any intimate relationship, sick-for-sick dynamics have learning curves. For example, Tida and Ren don't live together, so travel often affects when and how they can show up for each other. Scout says they and their partner have learned to plan for more severe health crises in advance. It only works by operating as a team.
Platonic relationships with other disabled people can be equally loving. “In some ways, we can even be more intimate… [my disabled friends] know more about my body and the struggles that I face than my able-bodied friends,” says Ura. Tida agrees: “While [Ren and I] do our best, there are times we need support from other folks in our community because the other person doesn't have the energy to meet needs. Having that community is really important.”
As disabled writer and organizer Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha writes in their book Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice, creating these care webs — groups of people who work together to provide care for each other — can be particularly crucial to queer disabled survival. These communities focus on mutual aid and long-term support, not just emergency assistance or experiences with being temporarily disabled.
Ultimately, for many queer disabled people, the pros of sick-for-sick relationships outweigh the cons. Tida recalls their previous dynamic with a non-disabled ex, who often became frustrated by their limitations. “She tried to be understanding but ultimately as an able-bodied person couldn't fully empathize with the way my disabilities affect my life each day,” they share.
As Scout explains, disabled people often have no choice but to ask for more support than they are capable of giving. Non-disabled people may “struggle to stomach this.” Their partner echoes the sentiment, and affirms the refreshingly “deep level of reciprocal care” in their relationship with Scout. “They are my place of comfort,” they share. “Without their help and patience, I would be lost.”
Jules, Jen’s partner, says they have also never experienced this kind of care in other romantic relationships. “Jen can tell when I’m overwhelmed or in pain and is so good at making me feel safe to communicate my needs,” they explain. Sometimes, she even anticipates Jules’ needs before they do.
“There’s a somewhat intangible quality that a lot of disabled people have that allows us to think outside of the box, approach problems creatively, and give grace to others,” they add. “Having a partner who sees the world the way I do in that regard is so special.”
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