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Jason Diederich, Transformation Director for Health Assessment Advisory Service reflects on how a seemingly simple change to their prosthetic leg became a catalyst for greater confidence, self-acceptance, and a deeper appreciation of what it means to show up authentically and with pride.
Disability Pride is about more than visibility. It's about challenging stereotypes, fostering understanding, and recognising the strengths, experiences, and perspectives that people with disabilities bring to our communities and workplaces.
There’s a moment in life where something small shifts… and then quietly (or not so quietly), everything changes.
For me, it wasn’t a grand speech, a life coach, or a dramatic turning point.
It was a leg.
Well… technically, a cover for a leg.
Let me explain.
I was born without muscles below my knee, and at age 10, I had my right leg amputated so I could use a prosthesis. For most of my life, that prosthetic leg was… beige. Very beige. The kind of beige that tried, valiantly but unsuccessfully, to look like a “real” leg. It didn’t fool anyone, but it did its job quietly. And that’s how I treated my disability too.
It was there. Not hidden. Not denied. But not exactly celebrated either.
Then, in 2018, my prosthetist suggested something different: a custom prosthetic cover. Not beige. Not subtle. Something a bit… bold.
I chose a blue and gold, slightly cybertronic-looking cover. Subtle, it was not.
And somehow, that changed everything.
The first thing I noticed wasn’t how I felt. It was how other people reacted.
People smiled. Strangers commented. One guy even stopped beside me at traffic lights and said, “Mate, I love that. I love the way you own that.”
And I remember thinking: Oh… is that what I’m doing?
Because he was right.
For the first time, I wasn’t neutral about my disability. I wasn’t trying to downplay it or blend it in. I was owning it. Saying, “Yep, this is me, and actually, I think it looks pretty great.”
Something fascinating happened after that. Kids would stare (as kids do), but instead of being hurried away, their parents would let them ask questions. Apparently, a bright blue leg signals, “Yes, questions welcome!”
And that matters. Because those little moments help normalise disability. They turn curiosity into understanding instead of awkwardness into avoidance.
Not bad for a bit of colourful plastic.
At the same time, I attended a conference in Darwin, Australia. It was hot, relaxed and importantly, very pro-shorts weather.
So, there I was, new to the disability sector, feeling slightly out of my depth… wearing shorts and my very unmissable prosthetic cover.
And something unexpected happened.
People assumed I knew what I was talking about.
Now, I’d love to say it was purely my dazzling intellect, but I’m fairly confident the leg helped.
For the first time, my disability seemed to add to my credibility rather than detract from it. It flipped a narrative I’d never really questioned: that disability was usually seen as a negative.
Suddenly, it wasn’t.
And that was a powerful shift.
Once you start embracing one part of yourself, it has a funny way of unlocking the rest.
As I grew more comfortable and frankly, proud of my disability, I realised something bigger. If I was going to embrace that part of me fully, I probably needed to embrace all of me.
And for me, that meant coming out as a gay man.
At 48.
No big deal. (Spoiler: it was a big deal.)
But just like with my leg, it wasn’t just about one label or identity. It’s about freedom. Freedom to be open about who I am, what I enjoy, and yes occasionally dancing to ABBA without shame.
Because true inclusion isn’t about one dimension of identity. It’s about all of it, how those parts intersect and shape who we are.
Here’s the bit that’s a little harder to say but important.
Over the years, I’ve spoken to many people across different diversity communities. And almost everyone says the same thing:
“I just want to feel included.”
Completely fair. Absolutely valid.
But sometimes, those same people wanting inclusion can unintentionally (or indeed intentionally) exclude others, whether it’s different disability groups, people with mental health conditions, LGBTQ+ communities, or people from different racial, ethnic or religious backgrounds.
And here’s the thing:
You can’t ask for inclusion without offering it.
Inclusion isn’t a one-way street. It’s a shared responsibility.
If we want to be seen, heard, and valued – we need to create that space for others too.
For me, Disability Pride Month is about more than visibility. It’s about ownership.
It’s about moving from, “this is something I have”, to “this is part of who I am and I’m proud of it.”
It’s about challenging the idea that disability is something to minimise, hide, or apologise for.
And yes, it can start with something as simple as a bold, unapologetically cool prosthetic cover.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: Pride is contagious.
When you show up as your full self, it gives others permission to do the same. And when enough of us do that, we don’t just change perceptions.
We change culture.
Take a moment to reflect on how you can help create a culture where everyone feels seen, valued, and celebrated for who they are. Pride and inclusion go hand in hand. If we want others to recognise and embrace what makes us unique, we must be willing to do the same for them.
Jason Diederich is the Transformation Director at Ingeus, a former Australian Paralympic silver medallist, occupational therapist, and disability inclusion advocate. Having lived with a disability since childhood and competed at the highest levels of sport, Jason has dedicated much of his career to supporting people with disabilities to thrive in work and life. Through his leadership of disability networks and inclusion initiatives, he champions the idea of “making disability ordinary”, creating workplaces and communities where people feel valued, supported, and proud to be themselves.
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