Touch Hunger: How Well-Meaning Politeness Isolates Disabled Bodies

This opinion piece was originally published in German on Raúl Krauthausen’s website.

Sometimes I can feel the distance to other people before a single word is spoken. It stems from uncertainty or shame, and often it fails to dissolve. I don’t wish for these uncertainties to disappear or for people to play off their shame with cool nonchalance. Quite the opposite: I wish for more ease with our own awkwardness. Encounters would be so much easier.

I experience it often: a very specific tension in the room—at the supermarket checkout, in a crowded elevator, or when greeting someone at an event. I sit in a wheelchair; facing me is a person without a physical disability. And the moment our eyes meet, something happens inside the other person: a learned protective reaction kicks in.

The program is called “Just act completely normal.”

I can see it in their body language immediately. It’s a brief moment of freezing. The muscles tense up, the gestures become cautious. I have a clear idea of what is going on inside them: the fear of doing something wrong, staring for too long, or asking the wrong question. Out of this tension, an invisible wall emerges. It is often mistaken for politeness—the politeness of simply ignoring the disability. Of pretending the wheelchair isn’t even there.

And because of this politeness, we are no longer in a human moment of carefree connection. Instead, we are caught in an awkward dance of social anxiety. That leaves me feeling lonely.

Where to put the energy?

This tension is not unique to me. We all know it. The difference is that in many situations, this tension dissolves. Like when out for a walk: someone approaches, you try to step aside for each other, but what happens? You dodge to the right, then to the left—always in the same direction as the other person. Then a short laugh, until you finally navigate past each other and walk on relaxed.

Sharing a laugh reduces stress and creates a sense of connection. Out of a clumsy moment of social navigation, a brief intimacy emerges. Sometimes the tension is also discharged with a high-five or a hug.

But many disabled people don’t experience this. Non-disabled people rarely release their tension around us through laughter, a touch, or a quick shared moment. When people freeze out of uncertainty in front of the wheelchair, their impulse energy gets stuck.

The pressure remains hanging in the room; it stays inside the other person and inside me. And it lingers with me. Because I can’t just shake it off either. Many of my non-disabled friends find an outlet in sports, go for a run, and release the tension. Because of my disability, that kind of stress relief isn’t available to me. Talking to a psychological professional only helps to a point, too. For me, it’s simply a different kind of energy—not one I want to get rid of because it’s inconvenient, but one I want to give space to because it exists.

And so, I often don’t just feel moments of embarrassment intensely, but have to sit with them for a really long time.

Functional touch vs. casual intimacy

There is a lot of physicality in the life of a disabled person with my level of daily assistance. I have no shortage of physical touch. But often, those are not moments of human closeness.

As a disabled person, I am touched all the time: during assistance, transfers, physiotherapy, and care routine. These are functional touches—manual steps with a clear purpose. They don’t dissolve social tension or create intimacy; they merely manage everyday life.

What is missing is casual, emotional physicality: a spontaneous pat on the shoulder, a hand on the arm, an easygoing hug hello.

Why is it missing? Because closeness in a wheelchair also requires physical adjustment. Whoever is standing has to lean down, adjust their angle, compensate for the height difference. When the freezing pattern compounds this physical hurdle, the movement stops mid-way. Body tension remains blocked, and touch fails to happen.

In this way, the wheelchair becomes a buffer against intimacy. I call this touch poverty. You are politely guided around, yet remain physically isolated.

We need to untie the knot.

I genuinely wish people would reach a state of relaxed physicality with me. A simple “What’s the best way for us to greet each other?” isn’t proof of one’s inadequacy; it instantly takes the stress out of the situation.

It relieves the other person of the mental game of having to navigate the situation perfectly on their own and dodge every potential blunder. It allows the stuck tension to drain away while giving me back control over my own space. Because I don’t want to be left holding the residual energy of a stranger’s shame. I want to be a completely normal counterpart who gets to laugh along at awkward moments and release that energy together.

The courage to stumble

So I’m not saying that uncertainties aren’t allowed to exist. Or that you can only talk to me once you know everything about ableism, inclusion, and accessibility, and act impeccably inclusive by the book. I wish for interactions in which the fear of contact isn’t played down.

I want to experience real moments of connection. Moments of tension that dissolve in laughter, in movement, or in a touch.

A hug can be clumsy. Eyes and postures might need a brief moment to adjust to one another. That isn’t a flaw—it’s the presence of genuine human closeness.

What creates distance isn’t the brief stumbling, but dodging the touch altogether.

Let’s not leave the tension standing in the room like a dividing wall. Let’s make room for mistakes, connection, and physical encounters.

(Spoiler: But please still establish consent real quick before touching people.)

Feature photo credit: Anna Spindelndreier