The ask for humble curiosity

A lens for framing allyship

Last year, I was speaking on a panel on making workspaces more inclusive, and I stumbled on the concept “humble curiosity.”

And now that I’ve sat with it for some time, I think it might be one of the most important (and potentially overlooked) parts of showing up for disabled people.

Here’s what I mean.

So much of what makes navigating the world as a disabled person exhausting isn’t the disability itself — it’s inaccessibility, the systems that support it, and the many assumptions people hold.

The assumptions are perhaps the most annoying part. Because they force us, as disabled folks, to justify our needs or existence or autonomy.

I’ve seen this everywhere.

In the workplace, where employers decide that hiring a disabled person will be complicated or burdensome — without ever actually asking what that person needs and how they can meet those needs.

This means the door closes before the conversation even starts because no one was curious enough to find out how to make it work for everyone. And even if the disabled person does get hired and likely compromises on their needs so as to not draw attention to themself, people in leadership are often not humbly curious enough to check whether there’s anything they could be doing better.

I see it in doctor’s offices. There’s a specific kind of frustration that comes with sitting across from a medical professional who treats their textbook knowledge of your condition as the full picture. Who doesn’t ask about your day-to-day. Who doesn’t get curious about what living in your body actually looks like. Who doesn’t believe that you might know more about your lived experience with a condition than the one paragraph they read for one class, maybe. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve left an appointment thinking, if you had just asked.

I see it in everyday interactions, too. Someone stepping in to “help” without checking if that help is wanted. Someone assuming what you can or can’t do. Someone interpreting your needs through their own lens rather than yours. It usually comes from a kind place. But kindness without humble curiosity can still cause harm.

And I see it in systems. Benefits systems, insurance, policy — places where decisions get made about disabled people’s lives without input from a variety of disabled realities. There’s often this undercurrent of suspicion baked into these systems, an assumption of ill intent, as though needing support is something that requires proof beyond what should be necessary.

What all of these things have in common is the absence of what I’d call humble curiosity.

To me, humble curiosity is the willingness to say: I don’t know what this person’s experience is, and I’m not going to pretend I do. I’m going to ask. I’m going to listen. And I’m going to let their answer shape how I show up.

It’s humble because it requires setting aside the idea that you already know. It’s curious because it means genuinely wanting to understand because you recognize that someone else’s lived experience holds knowledge you don’t have.

I think this is one of the most foundational things that can shape allyship for the disability community. The willingness to not know, and to be okay with that. To approach someone’s experience with openness rather than assumption — and to ultimately understand that there are no universal experiences within the disability community. So you need to keep practicing humble curiosity over and over again.

Here’s what this could look like. The employer who asks “what would help you do your best work here?” instead of assuming the worst. The doctor who says “tell me what a typical day looks like for you” instead of relying solely on a diagnosis code. The friend who checks in with “how can I support you?” rather than deciding on your behalf.

These aren’t radical acts. They’re small. But I genuinely think they have the power to change so much.

I think a lot of us in the disability community are so used to being on the receiving end of assumptions that we’ve almost stopped expecting curiosity. And that’s worth sitting with for a moment, the idea that we’ve had to lower our expectations of being asked about our own lives.

(Aside: there is a balance to be had here. Because we’re often confronted with acts of invasive curiosity about or condition or our visible differences, and that’s not ok.)

So if you’re reading this and you’re thinking about what it means to be a good ally, I’d offer this: start with humble curiosity.

You don’t need to have all the answers. You don’t need to be an expert on someone’s disability. You just need to be willing to ask, to listen, and to let what you hear actually inform how you move forward.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

I’d love to hear from you — where have you experienced (or practiced) humble curiosity? Where do you wish you’d seen more of it?