“What the hell did you just do?” I could hear the little voice in my head screaming before I could make sense of the words coming out of my mouth. “Yes, I will do shots of Funfetti vodka with you guys.” We were at Bill’s Bar and Burger, and it was my birthday. I knew the vodka would be gross, but looking around the table at the small gathering of friends smiling warmly at me, something told me that this would be the best birthday ever. It only took 28 years.

The flavored vodka wasn’t the only unusual aspect of that party. It was also the first time I dined with someone in a wheelchair. In fact, everyone at the party was disabled. We had just attended a meeting of the Adult Cerebral Palsy Support Group, a monthly gathering organized by The Weinberg Family Cerebral Palsy Center at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. I had only been attending for a few months, but the mothership had clearly arrived to take me to my wheelchair-accessible home planet.

Being born with a congenital disability means I have used a power wheelchair for my whole life. Also, like many others, I am the only one in my family who lives with cerebral palsy. Consequently, my life since my late teen years has been a search for people who “get it.” That night, something clicked, and I knew I was among people who did get it.

Life with a physical disability is complex and always evolving. As your needs and wants change, you must constantly reinvent ways of working with your disability to achieve your goals. This is why it is extremely important to connect with other disabled people and find community. Thanks to these awesome humans, I have begun uncovering my own internalized ableism; now, I view my disability as a joyously complicated experience that is a crucial part of me.

Until I graduated from high school, I thought that my CP only affected me physically. I became painfully aware that disability has complex emotional, psychological and social components. I still don’t feel comfortable sharing this with my caregivers. I keep thinking: Why make them feel bad for something that is out of their control? And would they understand? Through the support group, I realized these are manifestations of internalized ableism.

When I was 13, my parents did try to connect me to the wider disability community. They sent me to Camp Jawonio, a summer camp for people with disabilities. I still cringe at my excitement. I could not wait to discover how many surgeries we all had, who our doctor was, what hospital they worked at and just how often we saw them. Honestly, I thought that was what disabled people did.

I arrived to find everyone in music class. They were singing about the Rainbow Express, a train that takes you to the end of the rainbow to find the leprechaun’s pot of gold. Later, I reluctantly introduced myself to my fellow campers via “the name game.” Most of the campers had intellectual disabilities and I struggled to connect.

I went home that night mortified, thinking, “Why would my parents have me join a camp that didn’t fit my needs?” My mother maintains that Jawonio’s administration told her that they had a group that would suit me. As angry as I was, it was not my parents’ fault. Rather, the people who run the camp failed to recognize that disability is not a monolith. You can’t group people without paying attention to their needs.

When I joined the New York support group around 2017, I finally found people who were witty, passionate, outspoken and supportive. It quickly became more than just a safe space for me. Not only could we talk about anything ranging from sex to inspiration porn, but I learned by example how to live with my disability and advocate for my needs as an adult man with CP. Some members even live independently. It is unbelievable what merely seeing disabled people taking charge of their lives can do. I still have a long way to go, but without them I would not be where I am today.

Thanks to the support group, I finally realized that I could have a voice in my own medical care. I receive regular Botox injections to manage spasticity. Normally, to enhance the treatment’s effects, the shots are accompanied with a painful electrical stimulation. When I mentioned the pain to my doctor, they were surprised. No one ever told them how painful this was. I brought it up to the group, and not only did I find several people with the same experience, but they asked me, “Do you still want them? Because you can always say no.”

This was a shocking revelation. My parents had always been in charge of my medical care, and I didn’t realize that I could decline treatment. I thought my parents obviously must know what’s best. Why would I ever contradict them? So I took the bold step of talking to my doctor. Now they use ultrasound instead of electrical stimulation. A few months later, I participated in a panel discussing sex and CP. As I stressed that patients have a right to ask their doctors questions in private, I could hear everyone from the group cheer me on in my head and how proud of me they would be.

Returning to my birthday party: We had the Funfetti vodka, along with questionable burgers and milkshakes. However, all the cheap booze and dive bar food in the world could not erase why I look back on that birthday as the beginning of my disabled adulthood. Life with a disability never stops being difficult. But once you find the right people, you have a whole community behind you, and if CP has taught me anything, it’s that finding your tribe is the best thing ever.