Welcome to Part Three of Our Realities series. In this part, Beyond the Labels we look at the transformative journey of Loushaé, a 31-year-old Black, bisexual, non-binary, and disabled individual who navigates the complexities of their multifaceted identity.

Loushaé’s path to self-acceptance has been anything but straightforward. Identifying as both she/they, Loushaé reflects on the process of coming to terms with her diverse identities. She has faced prejudice not only from wider society but also from within the LGBTQ+ community, where the intersection of their identities often goes overlooked.

Living with scoliosis and ADHD, Loushaé’s story is one of confronting and transcending the barriers posed by disability, all while challenging societal expectations of what it means to exist as a Black, queer, and disabled person. Their narrative explores how these different aspects of identity intersect and shape their experiences.

Beyond the Labels is a powerful reminder that self-acceptance isn’t a fixed destination, but a lifelong journey. Loushaé’s story encourages us to embrace the complexity of who we are, to celebrate the parts of ourselves that society may not always understand, and to create space for everyone to live authentically.

A special thanks to Loushaé for sharing their story and allowing us to be part of this important conversation.

E: To start with, could you please introduce yourself, how you identify, and share a bit about your background?

L: Sure! My name’s Loushaé, I’m 31, and I currently live in Southwest London, though I’ll soon be moving to Northeast London. I identify as bisexual/pansexual, leaning a bit more towards bisexual, but I tend to use both terms interchangeably. I also describe my sexual identity as queer. My pronouns are she/they. As for my disabilities, I have scoliosis, which is a curvature of the spine. I’ve had it since birth, but I wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was 12 or 13. I also have ADHD, and I’m currently on the waiting list for further assessments, which is always fun! [laughs]

I work as a disability advisor, which is a bit ironic, really. I’m helping my clients navigate the same system that I’m struggling with myself! I was born in Ealing, West London, but spent my early years in Norfolk. When I was twelve, my parents moved us to Bedfordshire. My dad is Sierra Leonean on both sides, and my mum (I had to check with her before we started) is a quarter Sierra Leonean, a quarter Gambian, and half Nigerian.

E: Wow, that’s quite a mix! I can understand why you needed to double-check that. Got it. So, let’s move to the next question: how does being Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled affect your everyday life and interactions?

L: How much time have you got? [laughs] Well, it’s interesting because I’ve always been Black, obviously, but the way my Blackness impacted me has varied depending on where I’ve lived. Growing up in West London, it wasn’t the most predominantly Black area, but it was still quite diverse, so being Black didn’t feel as significant there. It wasn’t until we moved to Bedford that I really noticed how much my Blackness stood out. That’s when I had to be more aware of my race. You’ve probably heard terms like “coconut” or “bounty,” right?

E: Oh yes, I know those terms.

L: Well, my brother and I were often called that in secondary school. It wasn’t even considered offensive by the people using those terms. But for us, it was a constant reminder that we didn’t quite “fit” anywhere. As a teenager, that’s tough enough without having to deal with additional layers of scrutiny.

E: Exactly, you’re already figuring out who you are, and then people try to force you into these boxes. [sigh] What about your disability?

L: I’ve known about my scoliosis since I was 12—about 15 or 17 years ago now. But I didn’t start identifying as disabled until I was around 26. Even then, I didn’t fully embrace the term. For years, I just saw it as a “back problem.” There were moments that forced me to confront it, though. When I was 16, I woke up one day and couldn’t move. I had a back brace for years before that, but still, I didn’t think of myself as disabled. I thought it was just a bad day. But now, I experience pain every single day. There are still days when I physically can’t get out of bed, though that only happens about twice a year now. It wasn’t until the pain started affecting my work that I really began to think of myself as disabled.

Up until then, I could manage—just about—but I was still able to do my job. Then one day, I couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone make it to work. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just an inconvenience anymore; it was shaping my life in ways I couldn’t ignore. I was working as a social worker at the time, and I ended up having to take sick leave. That was huge for me—I never took sick days. Like, ever. But around 25, I realised: this is actually disabling. Looking back, I can see how much I’d already adjusted and adapted my life, in ways that most people never even think about.

For example, I can’t carry things over long distances. I have to sit in certain chairs, and I can’t stand for too long. Even walking certain distances can be challenging. Moving house has been especially difficult—it’s taken me ages to get everything sorted. All these little things add up, and they’ve completely shaped how I engage with the world.

It took a lot of reflection to realise just how much of an impact it’s had. I mean, it’s not something I thought about daily—it was just my normal. But now I know it’s been affecting me all along. Being disabled in a space where you’re also Black makes everything so much harder to navigate. It’s like, wait a second, I can’t be ‘the problem person’ in two different ways. I can’t be the one causing issues because I’m disabled, and I also can’t be the one causing issues because I’m Black. I felt like I had to perform as this ‘model Black person,’ and at the same time, I couldn’t let my disability be seen as a problem.

Looking back, I realise there were so many things I didn’t say, didn’t do, or didn’t ask for. I just pushed through. I had this mindset that I needed to manage everything on my own because I couldn’t let myself stand out or cause issues. So, I just powered through. And that was before I even knew I had ADHD. I only found out about that maybe a year or a year and a half ago. Same with the scoliosis—I knew I had it, but I didn’t connect it to my identity as a disabled person for the longest time.

E: How did your experiences in your personal and professional life shape your understanding of queerness?

L: So, for me, a lot of LGBTQ+ stuff wasn’t happening around me, and in school, it wasn’t happening either, even though I knew it was there, it was very distant. I never encountered it… if I did, it was so far in the back of my mind because of the way my family is structured—my family is really religious, like really Christian. I feel like it wasn’t something that ever came up, even when it might have been relevant. I think, in the context of my mum and dad, their comments might have seemed malicious, but I think it was more about not knowing how to discuss it. When I moved to Cambridge, and after leaving social work, I realised that, in social work, even though I worked with some people who might have been queer, the profession itself wasn’t particularly focused on or involved with queer issues. Then I moved to Cambridge, and after leaving social work, I realised that, even though I worked with people who were likely queer, the social work profession itself wasn’t very focused on queer issues.

E: But wait, going back to what you were saying about the people you were working with—do you think your understanding of queerness changed when you started interacting with these different families?

L: I came from a lower-middle-class background, and I didn’t really encounter much queer culture or spaces. It wasn’t something that was really part of my life. I didn’t see it happening around me, especially in social work, where I worked with older people, mostly African families, and it wasn’t really something that came up at work. But then, I started working with some families who had queer parents and queer families, and that was pretty eye-opening for me. I also worked with a lot of children in care, and many of them were from queer families or had different gender identities and orientations. It was like seeing a wide range of experiences under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, which was something I hadn’t really thought about before. Looking back, it’s interesting, especially considering how my upbringing was.

E: There are a lot of people that are LGBTQ+, but not a lot of focus on bisexuality. When did that start changing, or did it change at all?

L: I think it was a process that took time for me. It wasn’t until I figured it out internally that it really clicked. Once I admitted it to myself, I started recognising it more and acknowledging it. It all sort of came together. I realised, “Oh, I’m definitely bisexual,” and said it out loud. That was a big moment for me. It felt good to admit it. But at the same time, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was drawn to certain things for certain reasons—and that’s when it all started making sense.

E: Are there any spaces or groups that you feel part of? And do you have anything else to add about the challenges and support from people in your life?

L: I think the main challenges I’ve faced have been around disability and being Black, especially when it comes to some of the stories we’ve shared. The whole she/they thing is really new for me, like in the past six months. The challenges around that have been surprising, to be honest. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. There’s been a lot of erasure, and some things have been confusing.

For example, I had a counsellor who didn’t understand anything about queerness, and that was difficult. She used to give examples based on her sister, who was a lesbian, but then wasn’t anymore. It was a bit of a mess, and I found it hard to communicate. It felt like I was explaining everything just to get even a little understanding.

E: Oh my gosh, literally.

L: Exactly, it was exhausting. But then, I underestimated how impactful it would be when I first entered the LGBT community. At first, I just thought, “I’m queer, I’m here, I’m in a good space.” Then I realised, people just assumed I was a lesbian, and that was weird for me. I’m a woman, so I’m attracted to women, and I’m okay with that, but I also like men. I didn’t know if I could even mention that without it feeling strange. It felt uncomfortable when I realised that the assumption was, I was only attracted to women. It made me question how I would be received if I mentioned dating a man. That really highlighted how complicated it can be when you’re bisexual in a space that’s mostly for lesbians.

When I first came out, I was primarily in white queer spaces, which is still somewhat the case, but I try to balance it now. I’ve always had a bit of trouble fitting into Black spaces, so when you add queerness into the mix, it gets even harder. I spent a lot of time in predominantly white queer spaces, and I started feeling out of place for multiple reasons.

The key challenge for me was feeling caught in the middle of both worlds—being in queer spaces as a bisexual person when people assumed I was a lesbian, and being in male-dominated queer spaces where I didn’t fit either. It was tough. And then there was the added layer of whiteness.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just outnumbered; I was also in spaces where I didn’t always feel like I belonged. Things have gotten better though, mostly because I’m more aware of it now, and I’m a bit more careful in choosing where I spend my time. I’ve stepped back from a lot of lesbian-heavy spaces recently because there’s been a rise in resistance and some really great changes, especially in London. It’s been amazing to see new spaces popping up for queer women.

That being said, I’ve become more cautious. Even though these spaces claim to be inclusive, I often feel like they overlook bi+ identities. I was part of a group called the “Big Queer Picnic,” and I had some interesting experiences there. It’s a great group, but there was an issue when someone asked whether the event was open to all women, bi, and non-binary people. The response was that it “should be,” but there was no clear affirmation of inclusion. It made me realise how much work there is still to do, even in queer spaces that claim to be inclusive.

It’s been a challenge, but I’ve started taking a step back and giving myself some perspective. My new counsellor is Black and bi, which has made a huge difference. She’s much more affirming and understanding compared to my previous counsellor. It’s been really helpful in how I support myself. That’s been a positive change.

E: What about your disability? How has that changed or affected your experience in queer spaces?

L: To be honest, I think my experience with disability has been kind of awful in queer spaces. A lot of these spaces do try to be accessible, but because my disability is hidden, it’s often overlooked. I don’t use any walking aids—though I technically could—but over the years, I’ve found they don’t really help and just make things worse. If I rely on them too much, it actually makes my body worse. So, my disability is hidden, and that causes its own issues.

If a disability is physical and visible, it’s easier to get access and accommodations. But for hidden disabilities, like mine, there’s still a long way to go. For example, you wouldn’t know by looking at me that my back is in such bad shape. My spine’s a mess from the middle down. I have metal rods in my back. But unless I actively make myself look disabled, you wouldn’t know that just by looking at me. And if I do that, it makes my pain worse, as I have to hold my body in certain ways. You might see that I’m in pain sometimes, but it’s something I’ve dealt with since I was 13. So, it’s been 20 years of pain that I’ve learned to live with.

Just yesterday, I showed my friend an x-ray of my back, and he couldn’t believe how bad it was. He said, “I would never have known.” And that’s the thing—because my disability is hidden, people often don’t understand the extent of it.

Neurodivergence, on the other hand, is generally more understood in most spaces, especially in queer spaces. They’re often more accommodating. In fact, I’ve found that neurodivergence is quite well-supported in queer spaces, but with my hidden disability, that’s more difficult.

In Black spaces, neurodivergence is hit or miss, depending on where you are. I have a cousin who’s really similar to me. We both grew up together and we both have ADHD. He’s a little older than me, but he was always very open about it, saying, “Yeah, I have it.” But when we’re around family, no one really acknowledges it as a disability. They just say, “This is how you guys are.” It’s not really recognised as a disability in Black spaces. In queer spaces, though, neurodivergence is more accepted. However, when it comes to hidden physical disabilities, that’s still a problem. I try not to bring it up too much. I only mention it when I absolutely need to, but I often just push through it. If they can’t see my disability, I don’t expect accommodations, even though I need them. Sometimes, I feel like it would be ridiculous to ask for help because I don’t use a crutch or something obvious.

E: Noting all of this, how does the future look for you as a Black queer and disabled person? I really like this question because it makes people think more introspectively [laughs].

L: My friend actually made me think about it yesterday, and it gave me a bit of an existential crisis! In terms of the future for people like me—Black, queer, and disabled—I’m hopeful that there will be more understanding and unity. Right now, there’s a lot of division between these different spaces, but I’m slowly building connections with more people who share similar identities—Black, queer, and some are also disabled or neurodivergent. I hope that, in the future, these communities will come together more, and I believe we’ll get there. It might take some time, but that’s what I’m working toward, and I’m optimistic that we’ll make progress.

E: The last thing I want to ask before we wrap up and give you the chance to share anything we haven’t covered yet is: What does Black History Month mean to you, and how do you think it connects with Disability History Month in November?

L: That’s such an interesting question! When I lived outside of London, Black History Month felt like a bigger deal, ironically. It was the only time of year when anything related to Blackness was celebrated. But now that I’m in London, it feels a bit overwhelming. There’s so much happening throughout the year that when Black History Month rolls around, I find myself juggling multiple events happening at the same time.

For example, I’ve already booked a cabaret show next Thursday in Peckham, but then my friend invited me to another event, and I found out there’s a third happening that same night. It’s hard to manage everything, and it makes me feel like Black History Month could be spread out over the year instead of just being confined to one month. There’s so much happening in London year-round that the focus should be on Blackness all the time, not just one month.

As for Disability History Month, I honestly forget it exists most years. This year, I remembered because I’m planning events for my job, but it’s not something I usually see much information about. Even when I do see something about it, it rarely feels relevant to me. My disability is invisible, so I don’t often get involved in the events that are organised. I don’t think the conversations around Disability History Month always reflect my experiences.

E: I totally get that. It’s frustrating when things like Disability History Month and Black History Month are restricted to just one month. These aspects of our identities are part of who we are every day, not just once a year.

L: Exactly. It’s like these months are meant to highlight something that should be part of the conversation all year long. I remember learning about Black history in school, but it was always just during Black History Month, and I didn’t even know much about disability history until I was older. I think these conversations should be happening every day, not just in isolated months.

E: Yeah, it’s a good point. I worked with students with disabilities, and many of them weren’t properly supported. There was even a deaf student in my class, and I had to learn sign language on my own because the school didn’t provide that support. Things like this shouldn’t be limited to one month of the year. They should be happening year-round.

L: I completely agree. It’s almost like society puts things in boxes, where we only focus on these issues during a designated time, but that doesn’t really address the ongoing challenges. Disability and Black history are not things that should be confined to just a month. They should be part of the conversation every day.

E: Exactly, and that’s why it’s important to raise awareness and ensure that the conversations continue beyond these designated months. And I think it’s really meaningful when we can discuss the intersection of identities—Black, queer, and disabled. It’s a unique experience that needs more attention.

L: Yes, the intersection of these identities is huge. It’s something I’ve been reflecting on more lately, and I really appreciate being able to discuss them. It’s important to recognise how these different aspects of who we are shape our experiences.

E: Absolutely. And I think it’s empowering to look at your life now and realise that the person you are today is someone that your younger self might not have imagined. I feel the same way about myself. Working in a Black, queer space is something I never thought I’d do, but here I am.

L: That’s so true. When I think about where I am now compared to when I was a teenager, I’m honestly grateful. I used to think I had lost so much time, but now I realise how much I’ve learned and grown. I’m in a much better place than I ever imagined.

E: I love that. It’s a really powerful reflection. You’ve come so far, and that’s something to be proud of. I really, really appreciate it. I’ve got some really good stuff written down here.

L: Well, thank you so much. I’ll speak to you soon.

E: Bye, bye.