I’m Not Running Out of Time — Y’all Are Running Out of Excuses
My grandma used to say, when the bills were due and the fridge looked deserted:
“The Lord may provide, but the state sure doesn’t.”
“I was hungry,” and you cut SNAP.
“I was thirsty,” and you cut funding for clean water.
“I was sick,” and you cut Medicaid.
“I was a stranger,” and you deported me.
“I was in prison,” and you left me there to rot.
“Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto me.” – Jesus
Here we are, barely six months into 2025, and the MAGA members (because calling them Republicans would be a slight to actual Republicans) are drunk off power — and trying to slash Medicaid again.
Not chip away.
Not “reform.”
Slash.
Like it’s a luxury or a gym membership, we can cancel in a recession. As if the people who rely on it don’t bleed, cry, or breathe — just like everybody else.
I wasn’t surprised. But I was furious.
Because every time the government needs to “tighten its belt,” it starts reaching for our oxygen.
Literally.
In 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 outbreak, hospitals were calling disabled people who used ventilators daily—not just in emergencies—and asking them to bring the ventilators back. Why? so those machines could be used on “other patients, " people deemed more urgent, more valuable, and more worthy of survival.
Let me say that again: they told disabled people — who were using ventilators to live — to give them up, because someone else might “need it more.” That’s not just ableism. That’s genocide-adjacent.
The pandemic exposed the cracks in our healthcare system for those who hadn’t seen them before. But if you’ve ever been on Medicaid? You already knew. You already saw the rot.
My back pain started in October 2020.
At first, it was just a dull ache.
Then a sharp stab.
Then a full-on shutdown.
I went from strutting the streets of D.C. in a cute nude lip to not being able to sit, stand, or sleep without pain. Not to rest. Not to pray. Not to exhale.
And when I asked for help, the doctors said what they love to say when they don’t want to see you as a whole person:
“Hmm. Probably your weight.”
“People with cerebral palsy tend to lose mobility around your age.”
“We still don’t really know how to treat pain.”
“Well… this all tracks.”
Tracks for whom?
At 32, I was told — flatly — to start planning my exit from the workforce— that I was “running out of time,” and that I should focus on maintaining some “quality of life” with what I had left. Like I was on borrowed breath and should just be grateful to have made it this far. Like I should go quietly into some dusty corner of irrelevance with my Medicaid card and a prayer.
But that little paper card? It’s been my lifeline. Not just for pain management, but for survival. For dignity.
It took me two and a half years to find a doctor who actually knew what cerebral palsy was—not in theory, but in practice.
Two and a half years of being treated like my body was some mystery novel nobody wanted to finish.
You know how I finally found that doctor? An email. The National Council on Independent Living sent out a quality-of-life survey for disabled folks. I didn’t fill it out. I replied to the email and asked:
“Do y’all know anyone who treats disabled people like we’re real?”
They pointed me to the FullSpan program. And for the first time in years, I started to build a care team that saw me as a whole person.
But by then, the damage was already done.
I had spent months spiraling.
Depression clung to me like sweat.
Suicidal thoughts weren’t strangers — they were roommates.
Imagine watching the life you built — finally, on your own terms — unravel right in front of you.
My friends still saw me on IG, looking fabulous.
Out for a good meal. Skin moisturized. Edges laid.
But behind the scenes?
I was mourning the version of myself I had just started to love.
The version that could move through the world with some ease, some joy, some sense of arrival.
And here’s what folks don’t talk about enough:
What happens to your relationships, your work, your intimacy, your sense of self — when your body changes?
What happens when you realize this whole thing — your body, this system, this life — is fragile as hell, and you were never meant to survive it?
Let me make it plain: Medicaid isn’t just policy.
It’s the difference between life and death for millions of us.
It’s what lets me get out of bed.
Keep insulin flowing.
See a therapist.
Get a wheelchair repaired.
Live at home instead of in a poorly staffed institution that smells like bleach and broken promises.
It’s the very thing that lets me write this blog post from my kitchen table — and not from a hospital bed three counties over, where no one knows my name.
And if you’re queer, disabled, Black — or all of the above (hi, it’s me) — then this isn’t just a budget debate.
It’s a declaration of war on your existence.
They say “cuts.”
I hear casualties.
They say “personal responsibility.”
I hear “die quietly.”
And for the love of God, will someone please explain how anyone benefits from repealing Medicaid?
How much will you save, exactly?
How many cents back on your paycheck is worth knowing hundreds of thousands of people died under the guise of “saving money”?
Let’s be clear: this is calculated.
Cruelty is not a byproduct — it’s the plan. Our safety net is already held together with duct tape and prayer. Cutting Medicaid is like setting fire to a rope bridge while we’re still crossing it — and then blaming us for not knowing how to swim.
And it’s not just disabled folks. You know who else relies on Medicaid?
Kids.
Elders.
Low-wage workers.
Cancer patients.
New moms.
Veterans.
Queer folks in rural towns who can’t get care unless it’s federally funded.
That bartender you tipped last night.
That teacher with a side hustle.
Maybe even you — someday soon.
Because illness and disability are not moral failings.
They’re just… part of living.
You can be a Trader Joe ‘s-shopping, yoga-doing, green-juice-drinking health nut— and still end up on a gurney tomorrow, wondering why the ER is asking about your insurance instead of your symptoms.
This is about all of us.
So what do we do?
I held a Juneteenth-themed birthday party to protect Medicaid just last weekend. It was really cute. I created a handy little toolkit you can use to take action. You’re welcome.
We organize.
We raise hell.
We remind these policymakers that “small government” sounds great until it’s your mom who needs chemo, or your best friend who’s about to get priced out of their antidepressants.
We speak plain.
We get loud.
We refuse to die quietly.
Because I don’t care what party you’re from —
If you’re cutting Medicaid, you’re cutting into me.
And I’m not going down without saying something first.
Blessitt’s Corner: Calls to Action
Call your reps — especially if they’ve got an (R) next to their name and a Bible in their bio. Tell them: Medicaid cuts = mass suffering.
Write a letter. Show up at a town hall. Email the damn committee.
Support mutual aid for disabled, queer, Black, and poor folks. Government neglect is deadly. Community care is survival.
And always remember: it’s our duty to stay loud, stay soft, stay blessed, and always a little bit petty.
