Every Mother’s Day, social media and magazines celebrate parenthood. But for disabled women like me, the conversation is different – if it happens at all.

I never expected to be a mother. Not because I consciously chose that, but because the world had decided for me. Non-disabled women grew up hearing about how they would one day have children – whether they wanted to or not. That was just how society was in the 90s and early 00s. And while I’m glad to see that expectation shifting, that wasn’t my reality.

From the moment I understood what motherhood was, I also understood that it wasn’t for me. No one said it outright, but the message was everywhere. I still remember the first time I saw a woman with my condition, spinal muscular atrophy (SMA), become a mother. I met her through a local SMA charity as a child, though I didn’t know her well. But when she appeared on the news, it became clear that this wasn’t considered ‘normal’. I already knew she was pregnant, but the way the media framed it made me realise that disabled women having children wasn’t just rare – it was controversial.

Medical professionals were interviewed, who warned that her body was too weak to carry a baby and that pregnancy posed serious risks to her health. Doctors were on the news saying, “Don’t do this.” At the time, I didn’t know what to make of it. I remember thinking it was strange to see someone like me on TV, but mostly, I felt a little scared for her. She was doing something doctors said she shouldn’t. The tone of the coverage made it seem like she was reckless, determined to have a baby at all costs, no matter what the consequences were for her or the child. I’m sure they must have asked her why she wanted to do this, but I don’t remember hearing about her dreams of becoming a mother – only the risks.

Looking back, it’s staggering how powerful that message was. Before I ever had the chance to consider whether I wanted children, my decision had already been made. I wasn’t just discouraged from parenthood; I was told, by implication, that it wasn’t a safe option.

It’s not that I ever longed for motherhood and was denied it. I genuinely don’t know if I would have wanted children because the option was never presented to me as a real possibility. That’s what makes it unsettling – I never made an informed choice about it. Now, I question whether my lack of maternal instinct is genuinely who I am or if I simply internalised the belief that motherhood wasn’t for me.

I have seen disabled women have children, and I have mixed views on how some present their experiences. But what isn’t up for debate is the invasive questions and judgment they receive. Their ability to be good parents is constantly questioned. The assumption that their partner must be doing all of the parenting alone is ever-present. The comments I see are often the same: How are they going to take care of their baby? or They won’t be the ones looking after their child, so it’s not the same experience of being a mother. These are the ‘polite’ versions of the invasive questions pregnant disabled people get online.

Clearly, these comments are rooted in ableism, in the belief that there is only one way to be a good parent – physically doing every aspect of care. But parenting doesn’t look the same from one family to another or from one child to another. How can disabled parents be judged when parenting is supposed to be unique to each parent and child?

But I’ll be honest, I’ve had the same questions, albeit from a different perspective. Not in a judgmental way, but because I genuinely didn’t know the answers. How would I look after a newborn if I didn’t have the strength to hold it? Until I did a podcast episode about disabled motherhood, I had never spoken to a disabled mother about her experiences. That shows just how much representation is needed. We need disabled mothers to be included in conversations about parenthood because they do exist, and they are loving, caring parents.

This Mother’s Day, I want to celebrate disabled mothers – not as exceptions and news stories but as part of the fabric of parenthood. I also want to see real change, by media and by medical professionals, to ensure that disabled women are recognised as potential parents, not dismissed before they are old enough to consider it. We need media to include disabled parents in conversations about family life. We need doctors to ask disabled women about reproductive health as standard practice. And we need society to accept that disabled mothers are just as real, valid and capable as any other parent.

It took me years to realise that I had never made a conscious decision about whether I wanted children or not. That choice had been taken away before I even knew it was mine to make. Wouldn’t it be great if future generations of disabled women weren’t faced with the same quiet erasure? If disabled women could grow up seeing parenthood as a possibility – not as something they had to fight for or justify, but just something that could be. If a disabled woman could announce her pregnancy and simply be congratulated like everyone else, without a debate about her capability? We deserve the right to dream of parenthood – or not becoming parents – on our own terms.

Images: Emma Vogelmann