Kim Brock

Good morning beautiful people. My name is Kim Brock. I’m a mother of two, a disability advocate, and a woman with Cerebral Palsy, who navigates this world on wheels. I want to be very clear today: advocacy is not a buzzword for me. It’s survival.

When we talk about disability advocacy, we often stay comfortable—talking about policies, budgets, and future goals. But I live the consequences of those decisions every single day. Because for me, accessibility isn’t theoretical. It’s personal. It’s constant. And it’s exhausting.

Real advocacy starts when you understand that accessibility, inclusion, community-based services are not a luxury—they are a lifeline. For example, having a personal care aide isn’t about convenience. It’s about being able to get out of bed. It’s about being able to work, parent my children, attend events, advocate in places like this, and exist with dignity.

When funding is delayed, limited, or treated as optional, disabled people don’t just “wait.” We lose independence. We lose opportunity. We lose parts of our lives. And that loss is invisible to people who’ve never had to fight for basic access.

Accessibility is also about everyday spaces—spaces that still quietly tell disabled people we don’t belong. Buildings with ramps that are too steep to use safely. Bathrooms that meet code but don’t meet reality. Events where there’s technically a place for me—but not a place with everyone else.

That’s not inclusion. That’s segregation dressed up as compliance. Yep, I said it!

And let’s talk about mindset—because policy without attitude change means nothing. Disabled people are still treated like problems to manage instead of people to include. Like our needs are inconveniences. Like access is something we should be grateful for, instead of something we’re entitled to. What the hell?

But disability is not rare. It’s not tragic. And it’s definitely not a damn burden. Period! It is part of the human experience.

And here’s the part that matters most to me as a mother: my children are watching. They’re watching how people treat me. They’re watching whether the world makes room for me—or pushes me aside. They’re learning who society believes belongs.

So, when we advocate, we can’t stop at the paperwork. Real advocacy means fully funding things like community-based services. It means protecting access to aides, healthcare, community. It means designing spaces where disabled people are expected—not accommodated as an afterthought.

Because access is freedom. Inclusion is respect. And dignity should never depend on how hard someone has to fight to be seen.

So today, don’t just support disability policy. Stand for disabled lives.

To the lawmakers in this place, I want to be very clear. Your decisions don’t live on paper. They live in our bodies. They determine whether I can get out of bed. Whether I can parent my children. Whether I can work, contribute, and show up in my community with dignity.

When services are underfunded, delayed, or treated as optional, disabled people don’t just struggle—we disappear. Independence is the first thing we lose.

Accessibility delayed is freedom denied. Inclusion postponed is exclusion by another name.

We are not asking for favors. We are demanding equity. We are demanding systems that recognize disabled people as full citizens—not line items to be cut when things get uncomfortable.

So don’t just say you support disability rights. Fund them. Protect them. Enforce them.

And history will remember whether you chose comfort—or whether you chose courage.

Thank you.