Re-Turning to Recognition and the Ongoing Search for Creative-Relational Belonging: A Collective Biography of Living with Disability

Abstract

We, five co-authors of this paper, came together for a three-day collective biography workshop to reflect on moments of recognition that have impacted our lives. We told our stories from lives lived with disability; we listened to each other’s stories and wrote and read them to each other with careful attention. In the discussions that followed, both during the workshop and during the following months of finalizing this paper, we explored the ways in which disability is made to matter and how. In that process, we each moved beyond our own singularity, our own particular memories of recognition and belonging, to a new, emergent understanding of our shared materiality and response-ability.

1. Introduction

“Re-turning” is not just going back. In this collective biography, re-turning involves actively engaging with the past as it continues to work on us:

[Returning is about] Responding—being responsible/response-able—to the thick tangles of spacetimematterings that are threaded through us, the places and times from which we came but never arrived and never leave… [1] (p. 184).

We held our three-day workshop near Ypres, a historic town in West Flanders in Belgium. Each evening at 8, the Last Post ceremony rings out there, honoring fallen soldiers with the words “We will remember them.” On our final night, we stood together in the cold, paying tribute to those who lost their lives in the battles that once raged. The surrounding landscape—marked by cemeteries, memorials, and war museums—provided a provocative backdrop to our reflections on recognition, belonging, and disability.

Re-turning to disability, we consider how being seen and listened to shapes lives and, in particular, here, living with disability. Mobilizing the strategies of collective biography [2], we investigate the complexity of recognition, laying bare the ways in which recognition is vital for life and yet may unwittingly work to reinforce exclusionary norms. We explore the intricate and intimate moments of resistance to those norms and of resilience in the face of them.

1.1. Recognition as a Process

In her analysis of recognition, Davies [3] identifies three interrelated dimensions: recognition as possession, recognition as dispossession, and recognition as creative relationality. Recognition as possession aligns with and reinforces the dominant social order, offering a sense of belonging within established norms. Recognition as dispossession also upholds these norms by simultaneously granting recognition to some while denying it to others. Those who are dispossessed—whether intentionally or not—help define the qualities and the boundaries of what will count as acceptable in everyday life. The third dimension, recognition as creative relationality, emerges when human beings engage with difference in a way that values the unexpected and the new—open to maneuvering and transformation.

Creative relationality is an engagement with the new—not as something to be assimilated into the known but as something that shifts understanding, introducing previously unrecognized ways of being as meaningful and valuable, and opens up the possibility of transformation. Transformations may be subtle, even imperceptible at first, yet they reshape the assemblage in which they occur. The world, through these encounters, does not remain predictably the same, and neither do those within it. In those moments when established norms prevail, recognition as possession and dispossession work to preserve the status quo.

Moments of being do not always fit neatly into these three categories, since they are shaped by changing actions and shifting meanings. The very framework that grants recognition may also marginalize human beings within it, and the boundaries of inclusion and exclusion are constantly redrawn. Recognition is not a fixed condition but a process shaped by broader assemblages that determine who and what matters at any given time. Human beings may find themselves both inside and outside the prevailing order, at once benefiting from and resisting its terms. In grappling with that mobility and complexity, we draw on Deleuze [4] and his lines of flight that disrupt inherited structures, facilitating new forms of becoming. In this sense, belonging is always ambivalent—something we seek, yet often find ourselves challenging, as we navigate the conditions of our recognition.

1.2. Belonging and Assemblages as Ways of Becoming

Belonging is rarely a fixed state but an evolving process shaped by relationships and by small, cumulative changes [5]. At times, it can emerge in powerful, emotionally charged moments. At other times we do not even notice change happening. This is not about existing in a fixed world but being of the world—intra-actively shaping and being shaped by it [6]. Through creative and relational engagements, new ways of being and knowing inevitably emerge; we are differenciated, and continuously transformed. We unfold, we experience intensities, and our belonging involves change and the movement toward something new [7]. The ability to belong, to be noticed and recognized, is fundamental to one’s sense of self. Yet, belonging is not solely an individual pursuit. A concerted change, for example, toward recognition of people living with disability, requires collective response-ability—a shared commitment to breaking away from predetermined structures and meanings.

Change can be uncomfortable, but it is central to growth, learning, and transformation. Deleuze and Guattari [8] stress that dismantling the self does not mean destruction. Instead, it involves opening oneself to new connections within a broader assemblage—engaging with different intensities, territories, and thresholds. This openness does not mean losing oneself entirely. One must retain enough stability to navigate daily life while also holding onto tools for making meaning and shaping a self within changing systems. This balance is like a puzzle: while some pieces shift or transform, others remain in place to provide continuity.

Through our stories, we examine how different social and material contexts—assemblages—shape experiences of recognition and belonging. We analyze the tensions within these assemblages and trace the possibilities for breaking away from their constraints. The conditions of belonging are never fixed, and the criteria for recognition are always in flux. Stepping outside normative expectations can be both a necessary and courageous act. As we navigate encounters with disability, we bring the weight of the world’s norms with us—yet we also push against them. These acts of resistance are never simple, but they reflect the ongoing negotiation of belonging in a world that does not always accommodate difference.

1.3. Disability Beyond the Problem Frame: Rethinking Recognition

“Nearly every culture views disability as a problem in need of a solution” [9] (p. 205). This frame positions disability as something to be fixed rather than lived with, explored, or valued. Different domains that we participate in (medicine, education, work, policy…) reinforce this assumption, shaping a world where disability is either erased or managed, rarely seen as a generative force. Yet, as Michalko [10] (p. xxix) reminds us, disability matters—not just as an object of intervention but as an experience rich with complexity, entangled in both exclusion and possibility. From a critical disability studies perspective, disability is never a static condition but a relational, contextual, and embodied process that unfolds through the everyday [11,12]. Disability, then, becomes something enacted—disability as practice—emerging through the intra-active entanglements of bodies, environments, histories, discourses, and material arrangements [6,13].

Disability is often constituted as a problem in research, healthcare, media, and other spheres by people with and without lived experience [14], wrapped in fear, shame, and discomfort. At the same time, disability may carry pride, resilience, and even love, and disrupt limiting assumptions about what it means to be human. Thinking with persons with disabilities rather than about them repositions lived experience as a legitimate source of insight that can unsettle ableist assumptions and generate alternative futures [15,16]. The radical way of working in disability studies lies in its commitment to unsettling fixed categories. Instead of treating “ability” and “disability” as self-evident opposites, Kafer [17] urges us to examine moments when these distinctions blur. Indeed, as Goodley and Runswick-Cole [18] describe, people often navigate tensions between normative ideals of independence and the embodied realities of interdependence, revealing disability as an active negotiation rather than a deficit. Ability is fluid, contingent, and shaped by social arrangements [19].

Understanding disability as practice opens up space to see disability as a meshwork of relations—where humans, materials, temporalities, institutional logics, and cultural narratives co-create the conditions of access and exclusion [13]. Such a view aligns with critical disability studies’ broader aim to “complicate how disability works in society” and to move beyond essentialist or overly tidy social-model framings [20]. Research becomes a dialogical and co-constructed space in which lived, empirical, and conceptual voices speak with each other and remain accountable to the communities involved. It is a form of solidarity and world-making, where theory and practices remain tightly intertwined.

Working to change the way living with disability is done is political. How we recognize disability determines not just who belongs but how belonging itself is defined. The goal is not simply to include people with disabilities into existing structures but to allow disability to transform those structures. “The more disability can be, the more society can be” [10]. Recognition requires reimagining access, autonomy, and normalcy itself. If we are to fully engage with disability, we must move beyond any assumption that we already understand it. Following Corker’s call to move beyond binaries [21], recognition becomes an invitation to explore the dialogic interplay between disability and environment, embodiment and structure. The challenge is not just to demand inclusion but to envision what else could emerge when disability is recognized as a creative force within creative-relational belonging. Recognition, then, is not merely about “including” disability in a world already defined by able-bodied norms; it is about reimagining access itself—not as a mechanism of fitting individuals into existing systems, but as a practice of transforming those systems. Recognizing disability as a generative force asks what else can emerge when we make room for new ways of being, relating, and moving through the world.

2. Methodology: Doing Collective Biography

In our three-day collective biography workshop, we told our own stories of recognition. Through telling our stories and listening to each other, our stories lodged deeper into the embodiment of belonging, the onto-epistemology of belonging, and the ethics of belonging. What is unusual about the methodology of collective biography for many readers is that in the days of intensely working together, the participants re-live their stories both in the context of the theoretical possibilities they have embarked on exploring together and in the context of their emergent relationship with each other. That relationship is forged out of deep and careful listening, backed by questioning that aims to imagine being there, being that specific individual in that specific situation. Through listening and questioning, each story becomes lived in detail by the collective of storytellers/listeners.

Day 1 was devoted to discussing the concepts that touched us and mattered most for us while reading Davies’ Entanglement in the World’s Becoming and the Doing of New Materialist Inquiry [3] and eventually choosing recognition. We invited each participant to think of a moment when they were/felt recognized or misrecognized, or seen or heard in a particular way. Each of us described this moment in an embodied way, as if it were happening again and we were making sense of the moment-by-moment interchange—yet without explanations. We then read these stories aloud, and listeners shared what touched them and asked further questions to clarify and go deeper and be more concrete on what they recognized (or not). No one participant is dominant; each one emerges in the telling of their own story and in the listening to and questioning of each other’s stories. The stories themselves are not static narratives often told before, though they may begin as such. They emerge anew in the workshop, expanding in detail as they become both this individual’s singular story and the story the group has collectively lived [22].

The evening was spent rewriting our memory stories and adding afterthoughts at our own pace, based on hearing others, their memory stories, their responses to ours, and on the occurrence of more vivid details when thinking about what was being made to matter in the stories. This included the ethics, the sympathy, the body, and the language—all contributing to shifts toward something new or revealing blockages that closed us down in certain ways. We thought further on the theoretical concepts of ‘recognition’, ‘belonging’ and ‘disability’. Again, we reflected on how the concept(s) manifested themselves. It is in this probing, pushing, and active imagining that is made possible in the creative relational space of emergent listening that each story expands and becomes both individual and collective.

Day 2 was devoted to reading aloud the rewritten stories and sharing connections between them and to discussing how we had come to understand the concepts differently—returning, exploring what they enable us to do—thereby deepening the afterthoughts. This was followed again by revisiting our own stories and afterthoughts at our own pace and in our own manner (through writing, walking with it, and re-sensing every detail). In these relational practices, the fertile space of emergent listening and theoretical pondering keeps expanding, shaping how each narrative becomes lived and understood by the collective.

Day 3 was devoted to completion, sharing our rewritten stories and/or afterthoughts once more, in full or in summary, and deciding the next steps toward writing this collectively authored paper (order of writing, deadlines). In between the structured time of reading and listening around our wooden table, we wrote in silence wherever we wished, cooked together, ate together, and walked together. Through living the creative relational possibility of it—being with one another in mind, body, and practice—the stories continued to shift, deepen, and take on new life.

The workshop was followed by two full circles of writing in which each author spent three weeks with the paper, our workshop notes, and recordings. During this time, some lines of thinking became stronger, and others disappeared. A final call invited all authors to re-read the last version to ensure that the paper was fully carried by all. When we choose which of our stories to include in the paper, the issue is not which individuals will be featured, but which stories will enable us—as a collective—to make the theoretical, methodological, and substantive points we wish to make. We have chosen three of our memory stories—those in which disability was most vividly present—to analyze here. Each story reveals the complexity of belonging to the dominant or normative order and of moving outside it when disability is part of the event. Each one took us differently inside the doubleness of the social order, to the resistance to that order, and to the opening of lines of flight. We searched, collectively, for openness to the new, to mo(ve)ments in what mattered in each other’s encounters. As each storyteller re-lived and re-told their story, and as each listener engaged in the imaginative act of entering that experience, the stories became collectively inhabited. It was through a non-judgmental openness to oneself and the other that we found ways to think the unthinkable and speak the unspeakable.

Collective biography makes visible the co-constitutive, interwoven, interdependent, and embodied (non-)human and (non-)material processes of belonging. The multiplicities of life co-exist. We exist, within one assemblage or another, in our relations with others. We ask: What is being made to matter here? [6] How do we come to exist both in our bodies and in our language and in our mattering—and of central importance, how do we do so in relation to others? In these memories, dis/ability was always present, as it is part of our research and our lives, and as it is a magnet for themes of recognition and belonging. Of the five of us, none or one or two or three or more could appear as clearly living with a disability depending on how disability is made to matter, and all of us have been closely engaging with people with a disability. That engagement has been professional (as teachers and personal assistants) and non-professional (as friends, family members, and volunteering assistants), and yet always caring and intra-active.

3. Results

Our Stories

• Story 1: I Want a Loan to Buy My Own House.

Seated in my childhood home, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminated my surroundings as I embarked on an online meeting with a banker, seeking information about home loan applications. The voice began with routine inquiries—age, accumulated funds, and the nature of my income.

As I confidently shared details of my stable job, a PhD research position spanning four years, and the additional support from a disability allowance, the banker abruptly halted the interrogation. A cold silence ensued before his words cut through the virtual space: “You can come back when your monthly income is stable. I cannot make estimations at this point.”

While being in different rooms and only connected via the internet, I heard a blocking message: “It will not be possible for you.” It caught me by surprise, interrupting the conversation, making it impossible for me to be fully present in the relationship with the other. The unexpected rejection hung in the air, a tangible barrier separating me from my aspirations. Struggling to process the denial, I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. I sensed an unsettling shift in the conversation, as if the digital connection were strained by the weight of his dismissal of my inquiry about a loan.

Attempting to rally my thoughts, I grappled with the urge to respond, to question the validity of my income, to understand the parameters that deemed it unstable. Yet, as the seconds passed, I found myself locked in a struggle. Busy firing commands in my head to turn this situation and utter my disagreement, but at the same time unable to verbalize what I experienced. The inability to convey my frustration verbally left me feeling confined, a prisoner within the constraints of my thoughts.

Behind the veil of the online meeting, I wrestled with the surge of emotions. Unseen by the banker, my face probably betrayed the turmoil within. The tension I felt manifested in my expression, though I knew he couldn’t witness the frustration etched across my features.

Unable to articulate my dissatisfaction, different emotions brewed within me—confusion, frustration, and simmering anger. The banker’s dismissive stance fueled a fire in my mind, an eruption of repressed emotions threatening to breach the surface. I envisioned an unseen tempest, an ugly visage, with steam billowing from its ears, a silent scream echoing in my consciousness. I noticed the urge to defend myself, to raise my voice and put up my middle finger… Yet, I did not act on it, I did not lose control of myself. I maintained my composure, resisting the impulse to let my emotions dictate my actions. The digital divide shielded me from his scrutiny, but my determination remained unscathed. At that moment, I resolved to transcend the virtual blockade, to seek an alternative path to realize my dream. I wanted to buy my own home, and I decided that I did not need this person and his bank anymore. I would find another bank. I was energized by the blockage to pursue every other source available to realize my plan, and buy my home.

The story unfolds as a poignant exploration of the interplay between the embodied self of a blind woman and the outside world, where the body becomes the conduit through which emotions, thoughts, and negotiations are navigated. Central to this story is her cognitive and emotional struggle as she deals with the abrupt refusal and the turmoil of non-recognition in her pursuit of her dream of her own, independently funded dwelling place.

As she attempts to make sense of the unfolding situation she is aware of her head, where thoughts and emotions dominate. Her mind becomes a powerful tool for rationalization, a means to articulate, understand, and (choose not to) respond to the complex dynamics at play. Many ideas and thoughts can turn the situation, but we are not always able to act upon them in the heat of the moment. This story underscores that rationalization is not a mere intellectual exercise but rather an ontological act, a process of bringing the internal experience outward, a form of embodiment that profoundly matters in turning around the impossibility that is felt.

Within the would-be borrower’s mind, the business of making sense is confounded by the unexpected blockage, triggered by the banker’s rejection of her inquiry. The power dynamics at play erect a blockage, an “impossibility,” disrupting the flow of conversation and leaving her at first in a state of powerlessness. She is momentarily locked down in a power bubble, where the decision has been made, and she is left without agency—and at such a moment no answer is needed or possible.

The encounter brings to the forefront the intricate factors that contribute to this rejection. Armed with a stable job, a doctoral research position, and a disability allowance, the woman believes her combined earnings should meet the criteria for a “stable income” as required by the bank. However, contrary to the experiences of her colleagues, who are also doctoral researchers, her income is unexpectedly dismissed as unstable. This discrepancy prompts her to delve into the possible reasons behind the rejection. While the rejection may be linked to her disability, her single status, or the fact that this is her first loan application, the lack of explicit explanations and clear, reasonable arguments leaves her with a lot of uncertainties. In the absence of a transparent rationale, there is a palpable sense that the presence of her blindness, though never explicitly stated as a reason by the banker, influenced his inability/unwillingness to talk to her about a loan. Her disability is not mentioned; “It seems to be dropped from the discussion altogether, as something irrelevant to the everyday interests” [14] (p. 3). The banker makes disability invisible, omitting any reference to it, leaving the reasons for refusal unspoken and ambiguous and incomprehensible.

Disability, a key element in the woman’s daily lived experiences, becomes a contradictory yet central concern. She believes the disability allowance is an asset in establishing her credentials as one with a secure income. At the same time, it influences the banker’s reading of her as a non-credible borrower (with a disability). The disability allowance is a red flag, shaping these divergent perceptions, without these divergent perceptions, or their source, ever becoming a part of the conversation. This story prompts reflection on the interpretive relations that are thoughtlessly established with disability and the necessity of disrupting conventional understandings of ‘stability’, ‘income’, ‘blindness’, a person with a disability, or a woman ‘alone’. In the face of those normative interpretations, how can we make sense of the way we end up not being a valuable loan candidate, and how can we be sure that disability is not a central reason for the judgment of the banker?

The power circulation within the conversation, as it happened, highlighted the dismissal of the woman, leaving her feeling unrecognized and devalued. And the refusal is not just about a loan; it symbolizes a rejection of her aspirations and dream of owning her own house, a dismissal of her agency, and a failure to acknowledge her worth beyond financial parameters. The story also turns a critical eye toward the dynamics of computer-mediated communication, pointing out the dehumanizing potential to make such dismissal all too easy. The story underscores the impact of procedural interactions facilitated by computers, emphasizing the loss of human connection in favor of streamlined processes.

In the aftermath of the refusal, the story takes a transformative turn. The woman, resilient and undeterred, seeks alternative avenues, illustrating a creative relational way to belong. The narrative becomes a testament to her agency, a refusal to be confined or defined by the initial rejection. The journey toward finding other allies becomes a movement, a pathway toward overcoming obstacles and realizing her dream of more independent living. It was very interesting to not stop the story with the blockage but to continue to think of the process of undoing, reworking, and bypassing, and see how she hangs on; she is not finished yet. This story is of an action that is recognizable and remains painful, but it is not the end. It demands a lot of energy and practice, but we can rework and rethink blockages and obstacles. The story weaves a tapestry of embodied experiences, power dynamics, and the quest for recognition in the context of a seemingly routine financial transaction. The analysis prompts a deeper exploration of the woman’s journey, inviting questions about belonging within the intricate web of daily human interactions.

• Story 2: I Want to See Paris by Underground.

In the heart of Paris on a Sunday morning, our three-day adventure, orchestrated by Harry, reaches its crescendo. Harry, driven by the desire to explore Paris, had brought my partner and me along for this nostalgic journey. The final destination of our escapade is Napoleon’s Hôtel des Invalides.

Navigating Paris involves the familiar routine of trains and underground passages. Our journey takes us through the intricate web of the city’s underground maze. The excitement is palpable, the destination clear. However, as we approach the last leg of our subway journey, an unexpected obstacle halts our progress—a gate with high iron bars, impassable for Harry’s wheelchair. We grapple with the predicament, searching for a solution.

A lost sign of a pram triggers a revelation—a bell to ring for entry. I push the bell button—a voice of a woman asks me what I want. “We are here with a wheelchair, we would like to take the train towards Hôtel des Invalides.” The woman responds: “That is impossible.” I ignore the impossibility and continue to explain how we came here, but no: “It is not the intention to go there with a wheelchair. We cannot offer any services at that point. If you had looked at the plan in more detail, you would have known. You will not be able to go onto the platform. What do you expect me to do?” Unfazed, we persist, detailing our arduous journey and pleading for the gate to be opened. We hear the buzzing sound of the gate. We rush through before the opportunity vanishes, jubilant at having overcome this unexpected hurdle. Yet, as we turn the corner, a steep flight of stairs reveals itself. The unexpected challenge prompts focused determination, and we rally to assist Harry in ascending.

Collaboratively, we climb the stairs, navigating each step with precision and concentration. Harry’s long strides and our synchronized efforts propel us towards the top. At the platform, Harry secures himself with a firm grip on the iron bars, while shaking, preventing a backward fall. I stand behind him, offering support, while my partner descends to retrieve the wheelchair and our belongings.

We see the train coming into the station and it stops. Suddenly the door of the driver swings open and a man in a uniform comes out. He walks in our direction: “What are you doing here?” Explaining our mission to visit Hôtel des Invalides, we share our journey with the friendly driver and he quickly runs down the stairs to help with the wheelchair. The driver, assuming Harry is our son, engages in conversation. He opens the first compartment of the train and lets us in.

When we are in, he opens his cabin, inviting one of us to join him in the cabin. My partner seizes the opportunity and takes a picture of the man while he drives the train out of the station.

Living with disability involves the constant formation and navigation of instant, ad hoc assemblages, to which we must adapt wherever and whenever they arise. To reach Hôtel des Invalides, we draw on every available resource, human and more-than-human, and direct them towards achieving a common goal. The significance lies not only in reaching the destination but in embracing the challenges of coming as close as possible to it. Once initiated, the movement becomes unstoppable, and the focus is on sustaining the flow for as long as possible or else seamlessly transitioning to another flow. Impossibility is an integral part of the journey, always on a different level and often unexpected or unprepared.

To embark on our journey, we have opted for a seemingly universal choice embraced by both Paris residents and visitors: the underground. However, as we navigate this common path, we repeatedly encounter the ways it is inherently designed for able-bodied individuals—those who can freely use both of their legs at a certain pace and navigate spaces without physical limitations. The challenges are embedded in the very structure of our environment. Yet, this is not merely an issue of physical barriers; it reflects a broader societal reality where ableism is deeply ingrained in the design of public spaces, institutions, discourses, and everyday interactions (even of people with disabilities). For people with a physical impairment like Harry and his network, this experience is not an occasional inconvenience but a constant and recurring struggle across multiple domains of life—transportation, education, employment, healthcare, and social participation. The built world, policies, and norms often fail to account for diverse bodies and abilities, reinforcing exclusion and marginalization.

Yet, we cannot stop at merely recognizing and complaining about these barriers. In this paper, we strive to make concrete how persons with disabilities and their allies actively resist, navigate, and reconfigure these constraints. Through creative adaptations, advocacy, and collective efforts, they carve out alternative paths, challenge structural ableism (for a minute), and push for a more inclusive world—one that does not simply accommodate difference but fundamentally reimagines accessibility and belonging. The challenges manifest in the size, passages, ubiquitous steps, and transfers between lines. We navigate through these obstacles: walking, climbing, seeking assistance, and occasionally leaving the wheelchair behind to climb together (which is possible for Harry but very uncomfortable and with a lot of effort from all three people involved). Our collaborative exploration of Paris unfolds, unveiling a diverse range of possibilities and more options than were there at first sight.

In this ongoing quest to navigate the unfriendly design of the underground, there are no guidebooks or manuals. Instead, it demands of us continuous exploration and reimagining of what can be done. We extend invitations, weave seduction, ask for assistance, and invest time in devising new approaches to overcome hurdles that are considered by officials to be “impossible”. As Harry’s friends, we become aware that this situation is a microcosm of the many daily, recurring, discriminating, and exclusionary experiences confronting individuals with disabilities. What if this notion of “impossible”, we ask ourselves, is merely a never-ending process of “insisting and turning to become possible”?

Our adventure takes us into the collective yearning for the transformative potential that thinking in terms of “we” can produce. We become what Puig de la Bellacasa [23] calls an interdependent, fleeting “community of care”, working its way closer to our goal. Recognizing the “I”, or “the other”, as an integral part of “us” serves as a bridge during moments when our presence is deemed unexpected or unwelcome, such as ringing the bell at a gate where we were not expected to be. Our assemblages unfurl, expanding in numerous unforeseen directions, continuously propelling us towards Hôtel des Invalides. We stretch relational accessibility when physical accessibility is out of reach; we have no time to wait for socio-political-architectural change [24]. Embracing relational ways of living holds the promise of rediscovering intrinsic kindness and sympathy. Shifting focus towards studying micro-kindnesses, those instances of attentive connection, and concretely and explicitly documenting them, could offer a richer perspective, and future, on living with disability. Micro-kindnesses have the potential to reshape our experiences and interactions. The train driver does not merely stick to the prescribed task of operating the train; he unveils a new range of capabilities that go beyond the expected. His response-ability transcends a narrow set of rules he believes he must follow or that his employer expects from him. These broader, ethical repertoires significantly impact our reality and response-ability [6]. It aids us in locating the fissures and in deftly maneuvering together through the intricate maze of the Paris underground. This extension of the train driver’s role makes a monumental difference for those on the receiving end. It helps us to find the cracks and to become able to continue moving—move-ability instead of disability.

• Story 3: I Want to Dance in a Performance in the Black Box

In the tiny Black Box theater toilet in Ghent, I swiftly transform my appearance. Shedding my blue dress with white dots, I slip into black trousers with pregnancy stretch for freedom and a V-neck sweater. Unzipping my red velvet boots, I exchange them for tight black dance shoes, a necessary compromise for the upcoming performance. I don’t like these shoes. I don’t like the sight of my feet in the shoes. But it was either this—shoes that could not hurt my dance companion and that appeared to be an extension of my legs—or bare feet for another esthetic contrast like my dance companion’s outfit. Bare feet are the never-questioned standard. The fact that I needed fabric to protect my feet weighed more heavily during costume brainstorms than the fact that I don’t like my feet to be looked at. My feet like dwelling in red velvet boots. They cannot re-imagine themselves as the feet that belong to the well-trained, muscular bodies of dancers.

As I maneuver in the cramped space, I hear voices outside. I open the door, switch off the light, pull my wheelchair into the toilet space, jump onto it, pull my sweater down, pull my feet right and tidy. I try to remain invisible while assembling myself. Impossible, as a disappearing wheelchair attracts attention and the theater foyer reveals an eager audience awaiting my performance. I am met with kisses, shoulder pats, and excited faces. “Ah, our dancer is here!” I feel a heaviness in my body, a sinking sensation, as I navigate through the greetings. The word “dance” triggers an internal resistance, a deep-seated fear of expectations and potential failure.

Escaping to the lift outside, I find solace. In the theater, on a black floor adorned with golden organza, I immerse myself. I climb into the pile and layer myself inside 30 meters of transparent fabric. I lie down, on my back, my knees bent and twisted to my left side, towards the empty spectator seats, my hands between my ribcage and my belly. Three layers everywhere, at least, so I can move freely without being revealed. I watch my able-bodied dance companion move, striding up and down the dance floor, stretching, spiraling, walking with heavy and light feet, eventually settling down and hiding as well under a shiny black rock made of silk at the front edge of the stage. My fingers explore the inner walls of the layers, noticing the rough and yet fluid texture, leaving indents where they passed. My hands become visible, then my face underneath my messy brown hair.

The dancer delves into the intricacies of (dis)appearing and remaining (un)noticed, contemplating how she presents herself to the world. As she readies herself for the performance, the question of “how do I show myself in the world?” lingers. Adjusting her appearance, she seeks a sense of security, aiming to convey herself in the way she desires, while also desiring acknowledgment from others. The metamorphosis of her outlook, though not overtly visible, impacts her deeply. She is utterly aware and takes care of every detail. Within the confined space of the restroom, the woman engages in a tactile and caring interaction with her body, describing its sensations and fostering an ethical connection with its vulnerability.

Rolling into the theater foyer entails a delicate balance between the desire to be invisible and the simultaneous aspiration to be the most conspicuous person in the room. Stepping out of her comfort zone, she experiences the familiar yearning to disappear, but she is not able to escape the gaze from the outside. Having prepared and committed to the performance, she is present, poised for the dance. In a transitional sequence, she undergoes a shift from dealing with her vulnerable body in the bathroom to transforming into a dancer upon emerging from her golden organza cocoon.

As she moves outside in her dance attire, she is immediately perceived as one of the dancers. The anticipation of performing as a dancer introduces a sense of trepidation. Until this point, notions of readiness and competence were abstract, overshadowed by her intuitive understanding and seamless alignment with her body’s flow. Meeting the spectators initiates a recognition that feels unfamiliar or unsettling. There is something in the expected readiness to perform as a dancer that is terrifying. She is confronted with an expectation of a dancer as something she does not recognize in herself—or something that she fears being recognized as.

The momentum of the performance propels her forward, prompting action. The momentum makes her shift from wishing to disappear to consciously embracing the need to be visibly present. That is the commitment she has made. That is what she rehearsed for with her theater maker and dance companion for nine months. That is what she invested in physically—with bruises, cuts—letting go of comfortable appearances. That is what she directed her imagination towards—traveling, for the content of the dance, through the story of another woman going through the cycles of her life, finding balance between body ownership and surrender to relationality, based on a text they soon left behind because it was time for matter to speak.

Recognizing the influential power of elements like clothes, stage, organza, light, and the audience, they collectively allow the expression of unexpected beauty. Each possessing “thing-power”, “the curious ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle” [25] (p. 6). This entire process signifies a shift from a vulnerable, nervous woman to a performer. Without the tangible elements, the body’s potential remains untapped, and transformation remains elusive. Within this transformative experience lies the essence of creativity. There is no going back, no hiding. A safe plot of land is found in the trusted repetition of breathing under fabric. Space for maneuvering, and eventually for playing, unfolds. There is only breathing the same air, pulling and pushing of fabric, exploring and fighting and collapsing and resurfacing, and sliding and rolling and hopping of bodies, driven by invisible lines of charged awareness.

4. Discussion

Each of the stories we explored reveals the complexity of both belonging to and stepping outside of the normative order. They highlight the negotiations persons with disabilities undertake in environments shaped by ableist structures—whether in financial institutions, public transport, or performance spaces. The challenge lies in navigating situations where exclusion is systemic: how do you respond when a banker refuses to discuss loan options? What happens when accessibility barriers in public transport make travel seem impossible? How can persons with disabilities be recognized as full human beings in spaces that were never designed for them?

These questions illuminate the struggle for recognition and belonging, demonstrating that while we seek systemic change, we must also maneuver within the present circumstances—the place and time in which we exist. The environments we live in shape our sense of security, familiarity, and inclusion. As Davies and Gannon [26] describe, one’s “safe plot of land” is formed by predictable patterns and known relationships—entangled assemblages of bodyminds, material structures, and social expectations. Within this entanglement, we find ways to prepare persuasive arguments for a skeptical banker, to navigate inaccessible public transport through improvisation, or to step onto a stage, embracing vulnerability and transformation.

These acts of negotiation are not merely about survival; they hold the potential for change. The ability to step beyond one’s perceived limits, to challenge the dominant order through what Deleuze calls a “line of flight,” creates new movements and new ways of being. This deterritorializing break allows for the emergence of something new—what Deleuze and Guattari [8] describe as creative becoming. It is found in the refusal to accept exclusion as final: in finding an alternative way to secure a loan, in the unexpected allyship of a train driver, and in the moment a performer reveals themselves fully to an audience.

At the same time, many persons with disabilities adopt strategies of passing or partial visibility in public spaces—seeking to move through the world without drawing attention to their difference. Leaving the parental home, riding the Paris underground, or discreetly adapting in inaccessible spaces becomes an act of both concealment and survival. Recognition is not merely about being seen or heard; it is about finding spaces where inside and outside can interact fluidly, where identity is not restricted by ableist norms and expectations but allowed to shift, expand, and transform.

Belonging for those living with disability is complex. It involves stepping beyond familiar terrains, encountering gatekeepers, and facing barriers that are often presented as absolute impossibilities. Invisible figures may declare, “That is impossible,” and in that moment, exclusion is made material—solidified into a system that denies entry. But impossibility is not fixed; as Davies [3] suggests, the social order is malleable. Cultural assumptions dictate what forms of disability recognition are possible and which remain unthinkable [14]. The work of reimagining disability is the work of making the “impossible” into the possible—of asking, What else could be possible if we refuse to accept exclusion as inevitable?

Rather than stopping at inaccessibility, our stories reveal the ways people might work around barriers, using creativity, resilience, and collective effort. Each moment of exclusion generates a counter-movement—a refusal to be limited by what is deemed impossible. In each story, the response to exclusion is not passive acceptance but an active engagement with new possibilities. Through strategies of explaining, escaping, reconfiguring, and bypassing, we do not simply navigate inaccessibility; we disrupt and transform it. The challenge is in sustaining this movement—finding ways to respond affirmatively to barriers while fostering collective action as a creative-relational “we” [26].

5. Conclusions

Creating spaces of recognition and belonging for people living with disabilities requires both structural change and everyday acts of resistance. The opportunity to open up, to find or create a safe space where recognition is possible, emerges from a flow-in-between—an engagement that makes disability visible as a real, intra-acting embodiment. It happens in the moment a train driver pauses and asks, “How can I help?” It happens in the recognition of our vulnerabilities, allowing us to step into the dance. It happens in our ability to navigate exclusion, not as an endpoint but as a site of transformation.

Working with collective biography gave us the methodological means to stay close to disability as lived practice—to the ordinary, often-minor events through which disability becomes felt, negotiated, resisted, or affirmed in the everyday. What might otherwise appear insignificant or too personal becomes, in the collective space of listening and re-living, a site of theoretical possibility. In this way, collective biography enables us to work from the micro-movements of daily life to re-imagine disability not as a deficit but as generative, relational, and world-making.

The stories we tell do not exist in isolation; they connect with and spark other stories. Stories attach themselves to each other, forming a web of experiences, reflections, and resistances. In collective biography, these connections are not metaphorical—they are lived. Through emergent listening, our experiences began to resonate with and amplify one another, making visible the shared impossibilities that shape life with a disability while simultaneously opening up affirmative ways of thinking and moving otherwise. Stories can ignite rage, solidarity, or moments of unexpected possibility. They are never complete, always carrying the potential for more—more questions, more re-imaginings, and more refusals to accept exclusion.

Barad’s concept of “re-turning” [1] reminds us that stories are not simply retold but re-experienced, reconfigured, and made new in different contexts. What more can emerge in the retelling? What new connections might vibrate with collective energy? Collective biography operationalizes this re-turning: as we re-live a remembered moment together, its meaning diffracts, expands, and transforms. The method thus lends itself powerfully to disability research, because it refuses both static identity categories and the distancing tendencies of traditional qualitative inquiry. It keeps us close—close to bodies, sensations, relational textures, and the material-discursive worlds that make disability matter. The power of storytelling lies in its capacity to expand what is possible—to take the seemingly impossible and transform it into something else.

We needed the collective to do this work. We needed the shared labor of imagining, sensing, listening, and asking difficult questions—not to resolve disability’s impossibilities but to stay with them long enough that they returned to us differently. Through the collective, what felt immobilizing or unsayable in isolation could be approached anew, held open, and reconfigured into stories of potential. The method allowed us to affirm disability not through idealization but through attention to the rich, complex, embodied realities that shape life with a disability. It enabled us to practice, together, a form of world-making grounded in care, responsiveness, and multiplicity.

We do not stop at inaccessibility. We do not accept exclusion as final. Instead, we ask: What more is possible? What more can we imagine? Collective biography gives us the tools—methodological, relational, and conceptual—to keep asking, to keep creating, and to keep troubling what disability is allowed to be. In doing so, we make space for new movements, for new stories, and for a future where recognition is not a privilege but a fundamental way of being and becoming of the world.