Welcome to Part Four (the final part) of Our Realities series. Meet Rory, who shares with us story of resilience, identity, and hope. A 26-year-old bisexual Ghanaian man living in Southampton, Rory describes himself as an open-minded extrovert who thrives in social spaces. His experiences as a Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled individual have shaped his journey in profound ways, often exposing him to challenges but also opportunities for growth. Through our conversation, Rory shared how these intersecting identities affect his life, the struggles he has faced, and the joy he has found in his chosen family and supportive communities.

With optimism for the future, Rory reflects on the need for greater understanding, inclusion, and collaboration among Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled communities. Despite systemic barriers and personal hardships, his story highlights the power of belonging, the importance of visibility, and the enduring hope for societal change.

E: Can you please introduce yourself; how do you identify, and what should people know about your background?

R: I’m Rory, I use he/him pronouns. I’m 26 years old, bisexual, and Ghanaian-born, but I’ve been living in Southampton for a while now. I’d say I’m an open-minded, welcoming extrovert who loves being in social spaces. My identities as Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled have all shaped my life, but not always in the same way or at the same time.

E: How do being Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled affect your everyday life and interactions?

R: It’s complicated. When I was younger, at school, my race was the dominant factor. It was hard to make friends with the white boys—I felt like they looked down on me, like they thought they were superior. That was a pivotal experience for me. Now, at work, my disability plays a bigger role. I work as a data analyst, and unfortunately, discrimination around disability is common in my industry. I’ve had interviews where I disclosed my disability honestly, only to be turned down. Once, at a conference, someone outright said that disabled people couldn’t possibly do jobs in this sector. It’s disheartening. I’ve learned to hide my disability at work because I’m not physically disabled, so I can mask it. I’m scared of being sidelined, demoted, or even fired if people knew.

E: That sounds incredibly challenging. I’m sorry you’ve had to experience that. Can you share a personal story that shows what it’s like to be Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled?

R: One that stands out is about my sexuality and how it affected my relationship with my family. Growing up, my culture taught me there were only two genders. When I realised I was bisexual and attracted to more than two genders, it caused a rift between us. I’ll never forget the day I wore a bisexual flag pin around my family. Their reaction was so negative, and we haven’t reconciled since. But I’ve found support in my chosen family—friends who are LGBTQ+ of all races. Being part of Black queer spaces in my city has been healing. One of them told me, “Another family will welcome you,” and they were right.

E: That’s such a lovely statement. I’m glad you’ve found a chosen family that supports you. What specific challenges do you face in Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled communities, and how do you deal with them?

R: Misunderstandings come from a lack of awareness and reliance on stereotypes. Being Black and LGBTQ+ is hard to hide, but my disability is easier to mask. Race shapes everything—it’s like the first filter people use to see me. My disability can make people write me off as unable to contribute. And my sexuality isolates me from heteronormative spaces. Coping means finding strength in the communities I’m part of and leaning on my chosen family.

R: Yes, absolutely. I’m part of groups and Black queer spaces here in Southampton. These spaces have given me a sense of belonging and courage to accept myself. They show me that I’m not alone and that my experiences matter. I think Black, disabled, and LGBTQ+ organisations working together can provide even better support for people like me.

E: That sense of belonging is so important. How does your disability change your experiences in LGBTQ+ spaces? What improvements would make these spaces more accessible?

R: My disability is invisible, so it doesn’t always affect how people interact with me upfront. But I’ve noticed a general lack of accessibility in many LGBTQ+ spaces, whether it’s physical access or understanding invisible disabilities. Raising awareness and ensuring spaces are accommodating for all disabilities would make a huge difference.

E: Accessibility is something we all need to think about more. What do you think the future looks like for people with identities like yours, both for yourself and your community?

R: I’m optimistic. I hope people will become more tolerant of differences. With that, our chosen family—our LGBTQ+ family—will grow. I believe my biological family and I will reconcile one day, too. I want them to know that I haven’t changed and that I still care deeply for them. Even in Ghana, where it’s illegal to identify as LGBTQ+, I believe change will come.

E: Your optimism is inspiring, Rory. It’s clear you have so much hope for the future. What are some common misunderstandings about being Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled that you wish people knew?

R: People often stereotype us without understanding. For instance, being disabled doesn’t mean you’re incapable of contributing. Being LGBTQ+ doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned your culture. And being Black doesn’t mean you’re defined only by struggles. These misunderstandings hurt, but they’re opportunities to educate and shift perspectives.

E: That’s such an important point. Educating others can make such a difference. What brings you joy or makes you feel strong, even with the challenges you face?

R: My chosen family brings me so much joy. They’ve taught me to embrace all parts of my identity. I also find strength in the idea that change is possible and that I can be part of making that change happen. Black, disabled, and LGBTQ+ organisations working together gives me hope.

E: It’s wonderful to hear how much your chosen family has supported you. How can Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled communities better support each other and work together?

R: Social networks are key. If we’re open and accepting of one another, we can create stronger connections and collaborate on shared goals. It’s about recognising our common struggles and amplifying each other’s voices.

E: That collaboration sounds so powerful. What does Black History Month mean to you, and how do you think it connects with Disability History Month in terms of visibility and recognition?

R: Black History Month shows me that the Black community is resilient and indispensable. It’s a time to celebrate our contributions and demand the recognition we deserve. Disability History Month reminds us that disabled people, from all histories, matter too. For those of us with intersecting identities, it’s about broadening the conversation and ensuring everyone’s experiences are included. These months create safe spaces to make our existence purposefully more mainstream.

E: Is there anything else you’d like to share about being Black, disabled, and LGBTQ+?

R: Everyone with intersecting identities should have access to resources, but so many don’t. We need to celebrate individuals with overlapping identities because they’re often overlooked. It’s about creating an inclusive celebration that hears all voices. Change is possible if we embrace everyone’s full experiences.

E: Thank you so much for sharing your story with us Rory.

R: You’re welcome

The powerful narratives of Tamsin, Femi, Loushaé, and Rory remind us of the complexities and strength involved in navigating multiple identities at the intersection of Black, LGBTQ+, and disabled experiences. These stories do more than highlight the challenges—they show us the beauty of resilience, hope, and the importance of community. They underscore the necessity for spaces that are not just inclusive but truly supportive of every facet of who we are, affirming our identities and recognising the richness that comes from living in multiple, often marginalised, realities.

The theme of chosen family emerges as a cornerstone in their stories—illustrating that community and support do not always have to come from blood relations, but can be formed through shared experience, understanding, and solidarity. This sense of belonging is vital in navigating a world that can often be isolating for people whose voices and lives have been historically sidelined.

The call for visibility and inclusive spaces echoes the urgency of breaking down the barriers that silence many within these communities. As these stories unfold, they show that intersectionality is not just an academic concept—it is a lived, everyday reality. By acknowledging the layers of identity that people embody, we foster a world that celebrates difference rather than diminishes it.

As we reflect on these powerful accounts, we are reminded that the path towards a more compassionate and equitable society starts with listening, learning, and amplifying the voices of those who have too long been unheard. It is through this collective effort, in the spirit of unity and care, that we can dismantle the systems that divide us and build spaces where all identities are not only accepted but celebrated. The resilience shown here proves that change is not just possible—it is already unfolding, driven by the strength of community and the desire for justice. Together, we have the power to create a future where inclusion is the norm, and every voice is a vital part of the conversation.