At a certain point in the night, the smoking area becomes the most interesting part of a club. Not because I smoke (honestly mum, I don’t) but because it also provides some respite from the gaggle of public school kids in their Ralph Lauren snapbacks dancing with gun fingers to Stormzy. More importantly though, it is where the pivotal discussions of the night take place: whether or not to get an Uber, what to eat on the way home, and how to spend the summer now Love Island is over.

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I never thought one such conversation would lead to me to question my identity for the first time since I was 13 – when a furore erupted over the BBC’s decision to hire Cerrie Burnell, a presenter with one arm, to present on CBeebies. As a conversation with a girl moved from our mutual love of Kanye West to trainers, I mentioned the fact that I couldn’t tie my own laces. She suddenly said: “You’re so brave, if I had one hand I’d probably never leave the house.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Oh it’s just, you know, I don’t know how I’d live with one hand.”

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I’ve had one hand since I was born and in 22 years, no one had ever said anything like that to me. I’m more than used to people being curious about it, asking questions from the basic and innocent “did you lose it in an accident?” to the more intrusive and awkward “how do you have sex?”, with people even making jokes about it if they’re comfortable enough. But there has never been a statement that’s left me feeling how that one did. I didn’t know what to say. I was offended that my very presence in that place was being questioned, but also that I was seen as some sort of hero for “overcoming” my disability to be an ordinary member of society, enjoying myself on a night out.

Sensing that the conversation had come to an end, and frankly unable to look her in the eye, I made my excuses and left. I needed some time on my own to think everything through. Was she being serious? What’s brave about being disabled? Is having one hand such a disgusting and grotesque thing that I should be ashamed of it and lock myself away like Quasimodo?

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I know that as a child I rarely saw people with physical disabilities in the media.’

I appreciate that having one hand is unusual; it’s something that I’ve been aware of for a long time. It was difficult to escape the fact that I was the only child in my class at primary school who had to bring one of their limbs in a bag and charge it at the back of the classroom, the only one who needed help doing their tie, and the only one who struggled with using scissors. But I made it through. As a kid I knew I didn’t want to be treated differently just because of my arm, so I tried everything including rugby, cricket, and even playing the guitar. And yet here I was as an adult, all those years of struggles undone in a single comment.

I’d like to think it was an innocent comment on her part – that she’s the product of a society whose only real interaction with disabled people is through inspiration porn. I know that as a child I rarely saw people with physical disabilities in the media, and when I did they were either athletes like Ade Adepitan, subjects of pity like the Elephant Man, or villains like Captain Hook.

The more I thought about what she said, the more I realised the opposite was true. I wasn’t brave, I’m not brave for doing something as basic as leaving the house. I appreciate that there are some people for whom that is a massive achievement, but I’m not one of them. I have one hand and that’s who I am. I’d be more worried about leaving the house because of acne than because of my arm.

If I could go back and explain to her how I felt, I would. I’d tell her about how characterising disabled people as brave and inspirational can be quite a damaging label, and something that shouldn’t be used for everyone, especially not someone like me, who enjoys making memes and spends the holidays eating their own body weight in samosas. But ultimately, it’s only through increasing the representation of disabled people as ordinary humans, going about their lives like everyone else, that we – as a society – can move beyond such outdated notions of “bravery”.

• Devarshi Lodhia is a freelance journalist and history student at the University of Cambridge