My voice is loud because it has to be but also because I know how lucky I am to have it. The skills I have, the ability to tell stories, to give people a glimpse into my life and the lives of the community I’m part of, are privileges I never take for granted. And I’ll be damned if I ever stop using them to make things better.
“And the Advocate of the Year for 2023 is… Hannah Diviney!” These were actual words spoken out loud at the Marie Claire Women of The Year Awards two weeks ago.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around them ever since, that one of the glossiest and most sought after magazines in the country would deem me, the same person who barely goes a day without spilling food on herself (thank god I resisted that trend while wearing the gorgeous H&M dress I was lucky enough to borrow) their Advocate of the Year. What a title. What an honour. What a mess for my imposter syndrome.
I said on that stage, in a room full of Australia’s most influential women, that as grateful as I was to win the award and receive that kind of recognition from my peers and people I admire, the truth is, I’d be an advocate whether it was recognised or not. I said that in my world, the role of advocate was one I took, because I didn’t have a choice. What I should have explained, had my brain been fully cooperating with me that night, instead of overawed by the real-life Matildas in the room, was that no matter what, as a disabled person, I’d always be advocating for myself (it’s public advocacy that is the choice). Whether that was in doctor’s waiting rooms, on dating apps, or in whatever career I chose to have.
“My voice is loud because it has to be but also because I know how lucky I am to have it.”
- Hannah Diviney, Co-founder and Editor-in-Chief and Missing Perspectives, and Marie Claire’s Advocate of the Year 2023
If you don’t advocate for yourself as a disabled person, or in the event that you can’t, have a team to advocate for you, you will be made small. Silent. Forgettable. Some people might read that and think it is an over exaggeration. In that case, may I suggest having even a cursory glance at the horrifying findings of the latest Royal Commission into Violence, Abuse, Neglect and Exploitation of People with Disability, or googling the death of Anne-Marie Smith who had Cerebral Palsy (like me) and died from septic shock after being horribly neglected and abandoned by the carers paid to support her. Anne-Marie couldn’t advocate for herself and her family put their trust in systems built to serve her and them. Systems that are broken.
When I was originally diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy as an extremely premature newborn who had already been found to have a bleed on her brain, the doctors gave my parents the worst-case scenario. They told them that it was likely I’d never walk, talk or feed myself. Luckily, none of those things are true, even if the walking does leave a LOT to be desired and it’s something I’ll never do on my own. But if it weren’t for that luck, the random chance of circumstance, I could’ve been Anne-Marie Smith. I could be someone whose voice doesn’t get heard because I literally don’t have one.
My voice is loud because it has to be but also because I know how lucky I am to have it. The skills I have, the ability to tell stories, to give people a glimpse into my life and the lives of the community I’m part of, are privileges I never take for granted. And I’ll be damned if I ever stop using them to make things better.
