The R-word is everywhere again. It’s showing up on social media, in schools, in entertainment, in the media, and in everyday conversations.

People throw it out casually as a joke or a way to tear someone down. But for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities (IDD), it has never been “just a word.” It’s a slur—a word used to devalue their worth and humanity.

The disability community has fought for decades to end the use of this word. While we’ve made real progress, its resurgence today is a warning: progress is fragile. Every time this word is spoken, it reinforces outdated and harmful ideas about who belongs, who matters, and who is worthy of respect.

This isn’t a minor slip in language. It’s a sign that empathy, dignity, and basic decency are being lost—and that impacts all of us. Choosing not to say the R-word is a start, but it’s not enough. We need more people to understand why the R-word is offensive, why it’s still harmful, and why it must stop.

Listen to people with IDD who have lived with the weight of this word their entire lives.

Why The R-Word Is Harmful: In Their Own Words

“I am one of those people who was called the R-word simply because I was different my whole life. I tried to tell people how hurtful that was, and that my name was Jill, but no one listened. It made me feel so little and useless. Like many people with IDD, I struggled with not fitting in at school and being fired from jobs after high school because of the wrong fit—all while being called the R-word. I wanted to have friends like everyone else, but instead I was made fun of and ignored. I was so lonely and unhappy in those days. But I learned that having an IDD is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m a caring, loving person trying to find her place in this big world.”
— Jill Egle, Louisiana

“I have been called the R-word and that makes me feel less than human. It invalidates my experience as a person, and every time I hear that word, it makes me feel like we’re going back to the old days—when they used to use that word to justify putting us in institutions. The R-word Is a dangerous word because it demonizes those who have the disabilities and suggests that we’re not human. I’m scared that they might try to use that word again as a medical term. We cannot let them do that.”
—Shawn Aleong, Pennsylvania

“If you use the R-word, it tells me you don’t care about me or people like me. If you use the R-word, it tells me you don’t really respect me or people like me. If you use the R-word, it tells me you don’t know who I really am or what I can do—but it also tells me all I need to know about you.”
— Veronica Ayala, Texas

“Every time I hear the R-word, I want to run, hide, and curl up into a ball. I was bullied and called the R-word from elementary school to early adulthood. I often wished I was normal. My only friends at school were the teachers on the playground. I also grew up with a brother saying the R-word when he would get pissed off, and it took years to get him and others to understand how harmful it is. We need to stop the R-word now more than ever. It’s just as harmful even if it’s not being said to someone’s face. It’s time to demand a world where people with disabilities—visible or invisible—are respected and accepted for who they are!”
— Nicole LeBlanc, Maryland

“The R-word hurts me. I was called the R-word by my school psychologist when I was in kindergarten. They told my parents I would not amount to anything—that I’d always be dependent on someone. Considering where I am today, I would say she was very, very wrong. I am not the only one who has been called this harmful word. Many of us with disabilities still face this same type of ignorance and discrimination.”
— Taylor Crisp, Washington State

“Back in the day, people referred to people like me as the R-word. We are not that word. We may all communicate differently and have different needs—that is normal. We also have strengths and values. We fought for many years not just to change the use of the R-word, but also the negative thinking about people with IDD. Using this word goes backwards. The younger generation should go forward. I want to see them have an easier time than I had. It is time to finally bury the R-word.”
— Ricky Broussard, Texas

“As someone born with a disability, it is heartbreaking that the R-word is still being used. People with disabilities have been trying for a very long time to have their inherent worth and value acknowledged by society, and have campaigned for the R-word to be removed from use. It is disgraceful that we still have to ask for basic respect. The R-word is derogatory and dehumanizing. I wish that people would look beyond themselves and see people with disabilities for who we are and the abilities we have, not just our disability diagnoses. We want to be treated with dignity and respect, just like everyone else.”
— Charlotte Woodward, Virginia

“The R-word really hurts, even if someone says it as a joke. I’m a person, not a label. I matter, we matter, and everyone deserves to be treated with respect and kindness.”
— Zoe-Rebekah Bostic, Georgia

“I was called the R-word for many years in school, especially on the bus. It meant I was dumb or stupid, and I buried my head in books to deal with it. To hear people use that word is demeaning. There’s no real excuse for it. It’s sad that in our schools, this kind of thing isn’t taught. Before you use it again, you should find out what the word means because you have offended me and hundreds of thousands of people by using it.”
— Chad Widing, Connecticut

“In high school, I was called the R-word all the time. It made me shrink away—it felt terrible. I can’t believe it’s coming back. I feel very hurt, especially after we fought to get rid of that word. No one should be called it, even if they “don’t mean it.” We are people, just like everyone else.”
— Barbara Coppens, New Jersey

“Back in the 1970s, I was called every name in the book. They called me the R-word, crazy, and other hateful stuff. People told me I didn’t belong in the neighborhood or I didn’t belong at work. That is bullying! It lowered my self-esteem. People who use that word must not have any idea what it’s like to be labeled the R-word. I wish they could walk in my shoes to see how it feels. We need to stop labeling people. We are all somebody. I should be able to freely go into the community without this stigma.”
— Ray Schuholz, Michigan

“The R-word makes me feel sad. I feel that I should speak up and ask people to stop using the R-word. The word is ableist and derogatory. It stereotypes people, promotes institutionalization, and encourages eugenics.”
— Sarvesh Chandran, Arizona

If reading this made you uncomfortable—good. That means you care.

But not saying the R-word isn’t enough.

Some of the people you’ve heard from here—like Jill, Nicole, and Ricky—have helped lead efforts in their states to remove the R-word from laws and policies. Changing laws is an important step, but changing hearts, language, and culture takes all of us.

We need you to say something when others use the R-word.
We need you to share this blog widely.
We need you to be part of the reason this word finally fades from our culture.

The R-word still hurts. But together, we can make sure it has no place in our future.

Note: Throughout this piece, we’ve chosen to refer to the slur in question as “the R-word,” and we’ve capitalized the R to recognize the serious harm the word represents. Naming it this way centers its weight and impact, without unnecessarily repeating a word that has caused so much pain.

What makes a great dad or father figure?

For some, it’s a quiet kind of support that needs no spotlight. For others, it’s encouragement, guidance, a sense of safety, or someone who listens without judgment.

Sometimes that person is a biological father. Other times, it’s a stepdad, grandfather, mentor, teacher, or chosen family member. What matters isn’t the label—it’s how they show up and what they make possible. It’s not about being a perfect dad. It’s about being present, flexible, and fiercely in your corner.

This Father’s Day, we asked people with disabilities: How has your dad—or a father figure—shaped your life?

Here are six real stories about strength, support, and showing up.

Jonathan and his dad

“When I was 18, I was diagnosed with Ewing’s sarcoma, a rare and aggressive cancer. I also have autism, so I experience sensory things like touch and routine differently. When I found out I needed a port placed in my chest for chemotherapy, I was overwhelmed and scared. But my dad knew exactly what I needed. He gave me a Cookie Monster plush, one of my favorite characters, that had a real chemotherapy port sewn into his chest—just like mine. My dad made sure it looked exactly the way I would look, with tape and bandages too. Being able to feel the port on Cookie Monster helped me understand what was going to happen to my own body. That Cookie Monster, who we named Patient Cookie, came with me to every single appointment. It was like having a piece of my dad with me, especially on the days he couldn’t be there because of work. I am now 3 years Cancer Free and use Patient Cookie to teach medical students through Operation House Call with The Arc of Massachusetts. I use him to show future doctors and nurses that caring for someone with a disability means more than just treating their illness, it means taking the time to understand the whole person. My dad is the perfect example of that. He gave me comfort, safety, and a way to face something scary. He turned my fear into understanding, and that’s just one of the many reasons why my Dad is so important to me, and why I love him so much.”
— Jonathan Gardner lives in Massachusetts and has autism

Veronica and her stepdad

“My stepdad, Charlie, never tried to replace my father—he wanted to be my friend. I don’t call him Dad, but he’s been more of one than anyone else. He is very reserved but shows his love by being in my corner constantly and occasionally in my apartment with a wrench or a screwdriver. I often hear about how proud he is or how amazing he thinks I am from others. He doesn’t define me by the things I don’t have or can’t do because I have disability. He always just waited for me to tell him what I needed rather than assuming anything about what I couldn’t do. It feels great to know that someone as strong as he thinks that you are just as strong but in a different way. I recently lost my purse with my phone and ID in it before boarding a plane. I was able to contact my sister to let her know I might be stuck at the airport overnight. My mother went into a panic and wanted to jump in the car and bring me back home. Not Charlie. He calmly tells my mom not to worry. “She is a smart girl, she’s going to get herself on the plane and get herself home.” He was right. I talked to the right people, I explained my situation, I got through an extended TSA security check, and I made it on to my flight home. What did Charlie say? “I told you she would do it.” Thank you, Charlie, for always being there and believing in me.”
— Veronica Ayala lives in Texas and has cerebral palsy

Marina and her dad

“My dad helped me through my traumatic brain injury [following a car accident]. I was in inpatient therapy and my dad would help me read the Harry Potter books. I lost my ability to read, but it was through practice and hard work and love that I was able to regain my reading ability. When I was discharged to outpatient therapy, he took me home and [my mom and dad] took turns driving me to therapy every day of the week.”
— Marina Agerter lives in Virginia and has a traumatic brain injury and aphasia

Ray’s grandparents

“I was adopted and raised by my grandparents when I was very young. I called them mom and dad growing up. My dad, George, was and always will be my best friend. He taught me how to play piano, and we would sit on the bench together and play our favorite tunes. My dad was a priest for the episcopalian church most of his life. Although his faith was strong in his religion, he never judged anyone’s beliefs or culture. He welcomed discussions about life and the world. My dad taught me how to be responsible and independent with finances and to always be prepared. When he passed away in my early twenties, it left a hole in my heart. Each year on Father’s Day, I light a candle and tell him how much he meant to me.”
— Ray Simpson lives in Minnesota and has anxiety, sensory processing disorder, chronic nerve damage, and complex regional pain syndrome

Taylor and her dad

“My dad has been my constant rock throughout my life. He continues to show unconditional love regardless of how old I get. He has been my number one coach and cheerleader—but also the one who teaches me to be tough in times of hardship. My autism and different support needs have never stopped him or prevented him from being the best father he can be. He is the dad that will help me face my fear and insert my dignity of risk because he believes in me and believes I deserve happiness and success. He has gone above and beyond for me, showing me what tough love and unconditional love is like. I also want to recognize my stepdad. From day one, he has been supportive and there for me. I am not only lucky to have one dad, but to have two dads to celebrate.”
— Taylor Crisp lives in Washington state and has autism

Mark and his dad

“My father served as an advocate by attending IEP meetings, reading books about the special education regulations, and making sure I had the right services to receive a free and appropriate education. He also served on a lot of boards to help people with disabilities. When I graduated from high school, my father made sure services were available so I could live in the community as independently as possible. Having watched my Dad advocate for me through the years gave me the desire to advocate for others.”
— Mark Dixon lives in Virginia and has cerebral palsy

These Father’s Day stories from the disability community show how deep an impact dads and father figures can have.

To the fathers and father figures: thank you for listening, encouraging, adapting, and advocating. Your impact is lasting.

To the people who shared their stories with us: thank you for your honesty and vulnerability.

And to anyone for whom Father’s Day brings up mixed emotions—whether because of loss, distance, or difficult experiences: you’re not alone. We honor all the ways love and support can take shape.