My therapist asked if I was pessimistic in love, and I said, “No, I’m realistic.”

As a disabled woman, I have to be.

I am a power wheelchair user with spinal muscular atrophy, a condition that causes severe muscle weakness. I went on my first date at 24 with someone who didn’t know this, despite clear pictures of my wheelchair on my dating app profile.

I have had many such encounters since. Maybe men don’t look at profiles closely enough, though I find a nearly 300-pound wheelchair hard to miss, or maybe they aren’t used to seeing disabled people dating.

There’s a reason I sighed with relief when my doctor asked about my sex life and reproductive plans. Too many medical professionals assume that disabled people are asexual and can’t have children. There’s a reason Gem Turner, an outspoken disability activist, wrote about dating for the first time at 28 like a confession. There’s a reason, when I read Rebekah Taussig’s love story in her memoir, “Sitting Pretty: The View from My Ordinary Resilient Disabled Body,” I clung to it like a prayer.

Disabled people often live an apology. Sorry my needs are an inconvenience. Sorry I can’t attend the inaccessible event. Sorry I am also a person looking for love.

Before reading Rebekah’s memoir, I didn’t really see disabled people in relationships, and now I see them everywhere: dating, engaged, divorced and remarried with a baby in tow, just like anyone else. But disabled people face unique challenges in this realm.

When I first started dating, I rejected that my disability would be an obstacle. It was simply an automatic filter ensuring that I would match with open-minded, socially aware men.

In February, I matched with Ben, who was inquisitive and kind and even excited about my glittery wheelchair and its USB port (“Can you plug speakers into it?”). By this stage, I not only had a full-length shot featuring my wheelchair, but also a video of me blazing through a corridor with fairy lights.

We spent hours sending rambling voice messages and teased each other about our accents. We played Wordle until he introduced me to the death spiral of Sedecordle. Before our first date, I asked if he was concerned that I was a wheelchair user and needed help.

“I’m only concerned that I can’t guarantee I’ll always be around,” he said.

I paused, unsure of what to say.

Then he added: “But you could have a helper?”

I rejoiced. Until then, I had never directly asked whether my disability made me undesirable or impractical as a romantic partner. I started to think I had a realistic shot at love. But I should have leaned toward pessimism, because soon after this conversation, the messages stopped. By Monday, Ben made his excuses.

Even though it didn’t lead to a relationship, this experience encouraged me. I downloaded Bumble, threw up some pictures, had meaningless conversations. But a year after joining dating apps, I had nothing to show beyond amusing anecdotes.

Then came Josh, who briefly pulled me back from an impending spiral. We flirted on Hinge, had a video call. He messaged me after and the next day. I fawned over his sunburn and found the fact that he rang his church’s bells deeply appealing. Then he ghosted me.

My mother’s first question: “Did he know you’re disabled?”

Considering how much he told me I was cute in pictures, I can’t believe he didn’t. But some form of my mother’s question has always been in my mind. I am a London-based lawyer by training and trade, and we are taught about but-for causes. They work like this: But-for my disability, would men view me as a potential romantic partner?

With nothing to break my fall after Josh, I was confronted with the question I had been pushing aside.

Almost everyone I know is in a serious relationship, which only sharpens the distinction of my singleness. Some friends accuse me of being picky, but I only have three non-negotiables: that he and I be in the same city and have cultural and religious compatibility. I have no hangups about height (my wheelchair is height-adjustable), and I am not looking for a man who shares my every interest. Still, being thought of as picky is far preferable to being thought of as undesirable.

Soon I met Julie, who has the same medical condition as I do and had just moved from France to London, where she promptly joined Hinge. As we swapped stories, she said, “I’ve always thought more educated guys would be more respectful and open-minded, but they’re really not.”

This mirrors my experience. Cambridge, my university town, was crawling with well-educated men. A good proportion of my current social circle are fellow London lawyers. Some of this pool I have fancied a little; others I have fancied a lot. None have fancied me back — or at least, none have dared to admit a crush on the disabled girl.

When Julie said this, I laughed. It turns out, Cambridge men and French business school men are the same — lovely to a fault, happy to be our friends (sometimes suggesting more), but never crossing the line.

The part of me posting proudly about disability on Instagram says that my disability doesn’t make me any less datable — or lovable. But when I have never known someone to fall in love with me, it is easy to take pessimism as realism.

My experiences have left me with a nagging feeling that most men are only vaguely aware I am female — enough to be soft and comforting, but not enough to be desired. Of course, I have never been told this directly; it would be impolite.

My suspicions were once strong enough to ask if a friend had feelings, and I was sorely mistaken. At first, I was happy, because all I had wanted was clarity, and I figured we were close enough for him to know he didn’t like me. But lately I have pondered his unquestioned clarity.

I am not so conceited that I believe every man will be beguiled by my winning personality, but I fear those who are beguiled have already dismissed attraction as impossible: How can a disabled person be the object of desire?

There are two main concerns people seem to have about dating a disabled person. First, whether we can have sex, and second, whether our partners must become our caretakers.

For me, the answer to the first question is easy (“Yes, but not with you”). The second, however, is more loaded. Although it’s safe to say that while disabled people want many things from love (a best friend, a partner, a lover, an Instagram photographer), none of those roles is a nurse.

These questions arise from fear rooted in ableism. Disabled stories aren’t mainstream or seen as sexy, certainly not disabled love stories, and it’s easy to fear the unknown. I have hidden my disabled reality from friends, swerving between wanting to trust them with my full self and my fear of being seen as a burden. But when I have been open, in fits and spurts, I have been met with love. The result has been a mélange of understanding: One friend helps with my heavy water bottle while another suggests accessible venues instead of leaving it to me.

At times, feeling the weight of their care, I have wondered how a romantic relationship might fare in this context. But my concern is internalized ableism. People care for each other every day: They pour water for the table, steady a clumsy friend, ensure a vegan colleague has food. Why are these normalized while my care is a dreaded dependence?

Disabled people are often viewed as only capable of receiving care and as such are unable to be equal partners. But love and care manifest in many ways. I have helped loved ones with problem-solving, fighting for worthwhile causes, providing comfort at the end of a long day, knowing someone’s vulnerabilities and holding them with love.

I am ready to take my lifetime of experience with the complexities of care and pour it into a romantic relationship. But for too long I have endured society’s ableism and assumptions in ways that have impeded my efforts. I am tired of this being my singular problem. I am tired of looking for the rare man who will embrace me as fully and wantonly as if my disability were a peanut allergy.

Love is not a solo journey, and the onus should not always be on me to be open, willing and comforting to a society that fails to recognize my desires and desirability. While it isn’t my responsibility to educate, I will keep hoping to find someone who is unafraid to learn how extraordinary we could be in our very ordinary life together.

Alicia Loh is a commercial lawyer in London. You can follow her on Instagram at @ExploreDisabled.

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