We publish excerpts from remarks delivered in Brussels—streamed across Europe—at the launch of Cerebral Palsy Europe's manifesto ahead of the June 2024 European Parliament elections.
A girl with disability grows up surrounded by stereotyped images of the female body, images that demand she fit into rigid standards to be accepted by society—standards she can never meet, because the magic wand that fixes disability hasn't been invented yet. For a girl or woman with cerebral palsy, this challenge cuts deeper still. We live in bodies twisted by spasticity, wrapped in prejudices that in many societies cling to the word "spastic" itself. But we are far more than a label.
Yet people's eyes follow you everywhere—not in admiration, but as if searching for answers to questions they're too uncomfortable to ask. So parents often silence their children with "Don't ask!"—when a child simply wonders aloud, "Why does she walk like that?" Unspoken questions build walls of ignorance.
For teenagers with disability, there are two paths through these walls: retreat to the safety of your bedroom and watch the world through social media, or step outside and face the stares. I chose the second path. I faced life on the running track, one step at a time, alongside classmates society labels nondisabled.
The first time I competed in a national track finals wearing a sports top and shorts, the stadium gave me a standing ovation. I was alone, running a lap—400 meters—with nothing to hide my twisted body but the chance to run as fast as I could. Even in 1999, I still needed hand support to run.
For a girl with disability, there's another way to engage with life: go out with friends, get dressed, put on makeup. But have you ever tried applying eyeliner with a spastic hand? You end up with a cubist painting, and your eyes burn like fire. It takes endless practice just to manage it. Or tried finding a dress that fits a woman with disability's body? Assuming you can find an accessible dressing room to try it on before you buy. Fashion houses need to start designing inclusive lines for women with disabilities.
Growing up means reckoning with a changing body, with the same dreams and desires as any teenager—friendship, love, a normal life. And here the real problems begin. Because everyone treats people with disability as angelic, asexual beings—dolls frozen in childhood. We grow up with the same longings and insecurities as anyone else. But there's a serious problem. While parents of nondisabled girls warn them about dangers in intimate relationships, no one seems to worry about girls with disability. We grow up unaware of the threats hiding in the fabric of society, and too often we fall victim to sexual harassment and assault—sometimes from people who are supposed to care for us. I want to thank Emanuela, an Italian woman with cerebral palsy who publicly named her rapist, sharing her story and her defenselessness. As she told journalists, "I didn't know what sex was."
Growing up means reckoning with a changing body. With the same dreams and desires as any teenager—friendship, love, a normal life
Growing up means reckoning with a changing body.
With the same dreams and desires as any teenager—friendship, love, a normal life
It's time to recognize: locking a woman's arms is all it takes to render her defenseless. This is why girls with disability must learn to know and trust themselves. And boys need to be taught that a woman with cerebral palsy can get infections, can get pregnant, just like any other woman—that having sex with a woman with disability doesn't exempt you from using contraception. It sounds obvious, but I can tell you from experience that some boys disappear the moment they learn this fact.
If you're lucky enough to find the right person, a woman with disability wants to build a family and have children too. Sometimes her own family resists—trying to convince her to abandon the idea or terminate a pregnancy. Years ago, before I became pregnant myself, I met a woman my age with cerebral palsy. She started asking me about my relationship. I answered honestly that I was ready to face pregnancy. Her face darkened. She lowered her voice and confided that she'd been pregnant a while back, but her father had convinced her to end it. "Because," she said, "I could never be a good mother." But what does it mean to be a "good mother"?
To break through that wall of ignorance, I launched a social media campaign documenting my own pregnancy. Over four years, it helped me build a network of Italian mothers with disability—most with cerebral palsy—who support each other and show young women with cerebral palsy that we, too, can be mothers.
But here's what needs to be said: when a woman with cerebral palsy discovers she's pregnant, she also discovers there's no medical literature on the subject. You proceed empirically, day by day. For me, the real problems started right after delivery, when spasticity began to interfere with uterine contractions. No one knew. No one could have predicted it. There were no protocols, no pain-relief therapies compatible with breastfeeding. This is why I want to stress the urgent need for gender-specific medical research on pregnancy, labor, and spasticity. Gynecologists need specialized training. Architectural and sensory barriers must come down—not just during pregnancy and delivery, but in preventing women's health problems altogether. We need electric examination tables and accessible equipment for testing. And we need to stop being treated like children playing at adulthood, stopped in our tracks by doctors who say, "You do know you have to have had sexual intercourse to get a pap smear, right?" I answered: "If I'm here, you don't need to tell me—you need to tell every girl, disabled or not, who doesn't know about preventive care." A comment like that can be a bigger barrier than any staircase. It can be your first and last visit.
But pregnancy is absolutely manageable for a woman with cerebral palsy. After my son was born, a beautiful life began. We started playing together—all those games my elementary school teachers had forbidden me, all out of fear and prejudice and ignorance. They had wanted me seated, a spectator to life, while they taught me that chair was my place in the world. My son is teaching me that it's a springboard for a thousand challenges and adventures—the ones he imagines as he spins around me.