Swipe Left on Ableism

“I shouldn’t have asked,”—The famous last words from one guy I’d been having a really great message exchange with over several days. Then, the conversation went quiet, and eventually he was gone. If this were a one off, I might not think much of it — just a mismatch of values, perhaps? Or maybe I failed the vibe check — having standards and a personality doesn’t quite fit the ‘chill girl’ brief.

But it’s a familiar story. A repetition I’ve come to know intimately, and after all this time, that silence, those words, can still sting.

It’s a pattern we can all relate to: opening a dating app and feeling that familiar flutter of possibility. I scroll through profiles, swiping the ones that catch my eye. We match, connect over a flirty volley, and everything seems great — until it isn’t.

Eventually, the topic shifts. They ask about my life, what my days look like, why I mostly work or create from home. Naturally, I mention my health. It’s not easy to bring up, but it’s part of me, and I’m not ashamed of being ill. I try to answer the question with grace, keeping it light. A quick mention of my conditions if they press, a few details about how they affect my day-to-day life if they’re interested. But even as the words leave my fingers, I can feel it. The hesitation. The wall building up inside the pit of my stomach, bracing for what comes next.

And then, like a familiar shadow, the messages begin to fade — or stop altogether. The air feels heavier, more distant. Eventually, it’s just me, sitting in the silence. And I’m left wondering: why does this always happen?

I’m not the only one who’s experienced this. We all know the feeling of being “too much” in one sense or another.

For people with chronic illnesses or disabilities, however, our conditions are seen as a burden — and not the ‘makes you sound cool on a podcast’ kind, but baggage that’s too heavy, too complicated to deal with.

It’s not the type of baggage that’s socially acceptable — like having kids from a previous relationship, being a divorcée, or a person still ‘figuring out their dating goals’. Those things seem “understandable,” “manageable,” even if they come with their own set of challenges. And meanwhile—meanwhile—they get to be messy, complex, wounded, burdened, and still feel entitled to love. Still feel worthy.

But if you’re disabled or chronically ill, your health is perceived as something else entirely. It’s not just a fact of life — it’s an obstacle. Something that might “ruin” the relationship. And I’m not talking about practical concerns, like needing extra support or being cautious with physical activities. I’m talking about the emotional toll. The anxiety of knowing that your illness will likely be a dealbreaker, even before getting to know you, no matter how carefully you open the door to someone.

Let’s call it for what it is: this often isn’t a problem with preferences, this is a problem with ableism.

There’s a strange and frustrating double standard when it comes to what counts as socially “acceptable” baggage.

Take, for example, a single parent with kids. Their responsibilities might add complexity to a relationship, but largely, society doesn’t view them as a “problem” to be fixed. Instead, we see them as just another layer of life. We understand that children come with their own challenges, but they don’t carry the same stigma.

Then there’s the physically demanding career — a doctor, engineer, FIFO worker away for weeks at a time. These lifestyles can be intense, but they’re considered admirable. Difficult, yes — though not particularly disqualifying.

Another example could be someone navigating a complicated relationship with their parents, or carrying student debt from a dream they chased whilst young — we show understanding in these instances, it’s not something that makes others disconnect or bail out, in fact it’s often relatable.

But when someone is chronically ill, or disabled, suddenly it’s a whole different ballgame. Our health automatically categorises us as high-maintenance, as though we come with a warning label that reads, “too difficult.” And yet, of all the forms of ‘baggage’ that exist, this is the one no-one chooses. It wasn’t a decision we weighed up or planned for — it’s something entirely out of our control.

That’s what makes the slow fade or ghost so painful: it’s not just about the person. It’s about the underlying belief within our society that our “baggage” is incompatible with love. Not something to be understood or held — just something to be avoided.

And it’s not just theory — it’s lived. Recently, I connected with someone who seemed different. He spoke with depth. Kindness. He labeled himself as someone with Intention. We shared stories, laughs, the kind of spark that makes you think maybe. And when he pushed for details about my life, I answered honestly — gently, but truthfully. I mentioned my illness. I didn’t dramatise it, I didn’t ask for pity.

And in return? Silence. A few days passed. Then, I saw he’d deleted me altogether.

It’s a gutting kind of pain. Not just because this man was gone, but because he asked. He opened the door, invited vulnerability in, and then slammed it shut the moment it became real. He didn’t ghost because I was too much — he ghosted because he couldn’t handle being the kind of person who stays when things got less convenient. Again, it wasn’t the first time. Or the fifth. Or even the tenth. It’s a pattern — a relentless erosion — where people pull you close, only to vanish when asked to hold the reality of your life.

It’s not just one man. It’s not just men. It’s a reflection of something deeper — the way disabled people are constantly asked to perform palatable versions of ourselves, only to be met with silence the moment we stop masking. Still, when something happens again and again, it starts to feel like a law of the universe instead of just people failing to be who you hoped they were. People revealing they weren’t strong enough to hold something real.

And that’s the quiet cruelty of ableism in dating — it masquerades as preference, as timing, as “not the right fit.” But beneath that, it’s often fear. Assumption. A refusal to believe that disabled or chronically ill people can offer love that’s not just worthy, but expansive. Steady. Fierce. Human.

At this point I can already hear someone saying, “Why not just meet people in real life? What happened to exchanging glances across a coffee shop or bar?”

First of all, I’m flattered you think I have the energy to be mysteriously alluring in public. Second — I want to gently name the reality that many of us, especially those who are significantly impacted by illness or disability, don’t have regular access to social spaces like that.

These kinds of dismissive interactions happen offline too — they just take longer, and usually involve more effort and real pants. So while dating apps aren’t perfect, for some of us, they’re the only accessible way to connect. It’s not about convenience. It’s about being seen at all.

We all have preferences when it comes to relationships — shared hobbies, certain lifestyle choices, or how we connect emotionally. These are natural. Personally, I gravitate towards nerdy aesthetics and head-shake worthy humour. Wanting a partner who loves to travel or enjoys quiet nights in, binge-watching ‘The Last of Us’ — that’s valid.

But there’s a difference between having a preference and rejecting someone because of something unavoidable. When we start viewing someone’s chronic illness or disability as an obstacle, it crosses the line from preference into ableism.

Of course, we all have deal-breakers — but it’s worth questioning whether they are based on genuine compatibility or influenced by biases, cultural norms, or an ableist lens. It’s easy to think preferences are just personal choices, but they’re often shaped by societal pressures, particularly when it comes to disability.

My goal isn’t to make anyone feel guilty, but to encourage reflection: are those choices truly about what’s best for you, or dictated by assumptions about what it means to date and love someone with chronic illness.

Everyone carries some form of baggage — whether it’s emotional, physical, or circumstantial. And while having a chronic illness or disability can be challenging, it’s no more “damaging” to a relationship than any of the other forms of baggage we see as acceptable.

For anyone tired of showing up just to be shut down, I need you to hear this: Anyone who sees your illness or disability as the dealbreaker, while assuming their “baggage” is inherently easier to accept, is showing a very limited kind of love.

As much as this merry-go-round can make you feel like it, you are not the problem. You are not too much. You are not unlovable. And your illness, your life, your truth — they don’t diminish your worth. They deepen it. The people who can’t sit with that truth aren’t deeper than puddles, no matter how soulful or good willed their words sound.

Our health isn’t the real dealbreaker. The real dealbreaker is a world that still fails to hold space for difference with tenderness. But that’s not ours to carry. Our softness is not a flaw. Our honesty is not a burden. And our presence—full, real, resilient—is not something to apologise for.