Leaning on the edge

On ableism, fortitude, and equanimity

A couple of weeks ago, President Biden declared the pandemic over. Pundits and the great masses on social media descended on this pronouncement like carrion birds on fresh roadkill. “Yes! Finally!” some crowed. Others protested, insisting that a desire to move on from society-wide Covid precautions like universal masking represents ableism.

I keep encountering this word, ableism, being used in new and interesting ways. I was accused of it by a (former) reader of this newsletter, in response to the essay I wrote about being glad to have gotten my breakthrough case of Covid out of the way last Christmas. I had written that I was grateful to no longer have the virus be a scary, unknown foe, and was relieved to have acquired sturdier hybrid immunity.

This person emailed me to let me know that they found my perspective (on my own experience) “ableist and privileged and with a total disregard if not erasure of the disabled, elderly, and immunocompromised.”

I said I was sorry my words had landed that way, and agreed that it was probably best for them to unsubscribe. But naturally, I’ve been thinking about it ever since. 

I feel I have a basic understanding of the meaning of ableism, but I googled it to make sure. Here’s how a group called Access Living defines it:

“Ableism is the discrimination of and social prejudice against people with disabilities based on the belief that typical abilities are superior. At its heart, ableism is rooted in the assumption that disabled people require ‘fixing’ and defines people by their disability. Like racism and sexism, ableism classifies entire groups of people as ‘less than,’ and includes harmful stereotypes, misconceptions, and generalizations of people with disabilities.”

Examples of ableism might include lack of compliance with disability rights laws, refusing to provide reasonable accommodations, choosing inaccessible venues or platforms for meetings, or asking invasive questions about someone’s medical history. All bad things, I think we’d all agree.

But it feels like there’s a bit of scope creep in how the word is being used these days. Suggesting that it’s ableist for vaccinated people who’ve already had Covid to stop exercising hypervigilance against infection, for instance. Or labeling a strong work ethic and hustle “internalized ableism,” springing from capitalism and white supremacy. 

Here are some of the top results from a quick search of “ableism” on Instagram:

This framing seems to encourage a certain sense of grievance — a way of seeing the world as oppressive and ourselves as very fragile. It feels like part of a broader push to make strength, resilience, and agency dirty words — as if because we can’t all achieve those things all the time, they’re no longer worth embracing at all. 

We seem to be in a bit of a spiral. It started with a well-meaning attempt to recognize the limitations and shadow side of virtues like toughness, tenacity, adaptability, and fortitude, but we got carried away. In some vocal factions of the political left, we’ve now declared those things not virtues at all, but toxic traits to be rejected and condemned. 

I wonder: Can we reclaim them, while also acknowledging the merits of inclusivity, empathy, and tenderness? What does balance look like here? 

It’s important to note that not everyone who’s dealing with an illness, disability, or immunocompromising condition conceives of it in the same way. To some extent, vulnerability is a subjective lens. There are well people who feel their health is very much at risk. There are objectively vulnerable people who don’t worry much about their safety. 

A friend of mine has prostate cancer that’s metastasized to his bones. His doctors have warned him that the consequences of a musculoskeletal injury would be severe, but he loves to mountain bike. He’s decided that the risk/benefit balance for him favors continuing to ride. He wants to enjoy his life while he still can. He posts pictures on Instagram of his trail rides, the beautiful scenery, the adrenaline-filled afternoons with his friends. Many are captioned, “FU, cancer.”  I like every one of them. I’d like them twice, if I could. 

Who is anyone else to tell him how he should spend his one precious life? Even his doctors can only give him information — it’s up to him to weigh it against his values, his sense of purpose and meaning, his sense of fun. (Remember fun?) We all have to make our own calls on this stuff. And we don’t get to make them for anyone but ourselves.

In yoga, practitioners are encouraged to “find our edge” — the limit of what we’re capable of doing in any given stretch or pose — and hang out right there with deep breath and a calm mind. Every person’s edge is different, and just fine. There’s no perfect place to arrive. 

It’s not about what it looks like from the outside; it’s about how it feels from the inside. It’s about walking up to your current limit, and leaning on it until it scooches a centimeter further out. It’s about learning how to be uncomfortable without freaking out or walking away. It’s about expanding what you’re capable of, because there is merit in expansion, capability, nonreactivity, and resolve. Progress is measured in your ability to stay equanimous while you shake.

At the end of class, we balance all that effort with corpse pose — lying flat on our backs, absorbing and integrating the new space we’ve created in our minds and bodies. There’s pleasure and wisdom in this balance — in pushing and reposing, striving and letting go. 

I worry that in demonizing half of this equation as supremacist or colonialist or somehow harmful, we’re doing ourselves a grave disservice. We’re rejecting our own power, agency, and yes, ability. 

Your edge is your business. I’ll root for you to hang out there with breath, calmness, and determination, wherever it is. I’ll be over here, pushing up against mine. Eventually, inevitably, we’ll all meet up in corpse pose.