If we want different outcomes, we must change the story we tell about people with intellectual and developmental disabilities who also have medical, behavioral, or trauma histories. Stop picturing them as burdens, problems to be managed, or tragic footnotes in someone else’s life. If we truly believe in dignity and belonging, we must shift the mindset from containment to co-creation. And do it now.
I’ve spent four decades doing the messy, human work most people prefer to ignore. I’ve seen people labeled “difficult” because their anxiety explodes into screaming fits, or because trauma shows up as aggression. I’ve watched systems respond by locking doors, calling security, or sending people to institutions where autonomy withers. Too often, help arrives only after a crisis, and the crisis gets hidden away. That pattern is moral failure and public policy malpractice.
These personal and systemic failures ripple into broader patterns of exclusion that show up in employment, mental health, and housing. In 2024, only 22.7% of people with disabilities in the U.S. were employed. That figure reflects exclusion, not inability.
Mental distress is far more common among adults with disabilities, leaving millions in need of integrated support that blends physical, behavioral, and social care. Yet barriers persist well beyond clinical settings. Housing discrimination complaints are overwhelmingly rooted in disability, underscoring how exclusion permeates both health systems and civic life.
This pattern extends into the criminal justice system, where people with disabilities are significantly overrepresented in jails and prisons. It’s a failure of care that escalates into a public safety and human rights crisis. Meanwhile, the financial toll is staggering. Reactive institutional care and crisis responses consume vast resources that could be far more effective if invested in early, community-based supports.
You might ask, “So, why start with changing people’s mindset?” Programs without humane attitudes reproduce the very harms they aim to heal. You can pump money into services, write better regulations, or expand beds, and still end up managing people instead of supporting them. Systems are built by people; those people bring biases, fear, and hand-me-down assumptions. If the practitioner still sees a person as a checklist of symptoms, the service will be transactional: medication given, forms filed, box ticked. But healing and inclusion remain out of reach.
Stigma is cultural. We can change funding formulas and leave communities afraid. We can build accessible housing and still have neighbors file complaints because they fear “danger” rather than welcome a new neighbor. Mindset shapes every interaction, from front-desk attitudes to courtroom language. Those moments accumulate into either belonging or exile.
Critics will say: fund more programs, reform policy, expand institutional capacity. Funding and policy are essential. Skilled staff, trauma-informed clinical teams, sensible regulation, and stable reimbursement matter. But without a concurrent cultural commitment to dignity, those investments risk being hollow, short-lived, or even harmful. A new housing voucher means little if landlords refuse to rent; a new clinic means little if the staff speak down or avoid complex cases.
Findings demonstrate this. Reactive, congregate care that only responds after a crisis usually ends up being more expensive in the long run and doesn’t stop people from returning to emergency services. In contrast, preventive community support helps stabilize lives while reducing long-term public expenditures. Likewise, exposure and everyday contact reduce fear and prejudice far more effectively than lectures or pamphlets. People change when they know someone, not when they only hear statistics.
If we don’t change our mindsets, the consequences are foreseeable. Think of rising crisis spending, deeper social segregation, and generations consigned to institutions or the criminal justice system. Communities lose potential workers, neighbors, artists, and mentors. Families burn out. Taxpayers pay more for worse outcomes. Morally and economically, that is an unsustainable bargain.
What can we do? First, reframe language and expectations. Replace pity with respect, and curiosity with solutions. Train every direct support professional, teacher, judge, landlord, and public servant in relationship-based, trauma-informed practices. Invest in stabilization homes and small, community settings where privacy and dignity are the default.
Build incentives for employers to hire people with complex needs and fund long-term coaching that supports workplace success. Compensate front-line staff at levels that reflect the difficulty and importance of their work. And most importantly, give people with lived experience real seats at the table to design support. Co-creation beats paternalism every time.
Overall, early intervention matters. The sooner communities offer respectful, integrated support, the less likely individuals are to spiral into crisis and costly institutional care. But without a shift in attitude, early intervention is like planting seeds in poisoned soil. We must cleanse the soil first.
What I’m proposing is evidence-informed policy rooted in moral clarity. If we want safer, fairer communities rich in human potential, we must begin by seeing people as contributors. That shift will reshape budgets, laws, and most importantly, daily lives.
We can apply technical fixes and still fail unless we change the story we tell about one another. Let us begin by choosing dignity: the simplest, hardest, and most essential reform of all.
About the Author:
Charlene Bennett is a longtime disability rights advocate and CEO who has spent over 30 years developing community-based supports and person-centered programs for people with complex needs. She is the co-founder of Individual Advocacy Group (IAG), which provides individualized, trauma-informed services and advocates for systemic change.