Something genuinely awesome happened on 11 March this year, and it’s taken me a while to sit with why it mattered so much.
Actor Warwick Davis received an OBE (Officer of the Order of the British Empire) for his contributions to television, film, and the disability community—particularly significant given that he is disabled himself. Whether I’m late to the party or simply needed time to reflect, the recognition hit me harder than I expected.
For those unfamiliar with Davis’s work: he portrayed Professor Flitwick throughout the Harry Potter series, appeared across the Star Wars franchise, starred in Willow, and has worked on dozens of productions besides. Beyond acting, he co‑founded Little People UK with his late wife, Samantha in 2012, creating a charity that provides friendship, advocacy, and support to people with dwarfism and their families.
That alone is impressive—especially because it broke through into mainstream media. I can think of a disabled person here in Aotearoa New Zealand who was knighted for decades of disability advocacy, yet it barely registered in the news cycle. Visibility matters, and this moment had it.
But that’s not actually what got me excited.
What stayed with me was a photograph from the ceremony. It showed Prince William deliberately positioning himself at eye level with Warwick Davis. For someone like me—who uses a motorised wheelchair for mobility—that image is enormous in meaning.
On the surface, it’s a small courtesy. In reality, it’s a profound act of respect.
Being on eye level isn’t about physical mechanics. It’s about power, hierarchy, and dignity. In our society, standing is unconsciously associated with authority and importance. When a non‑disabled person remains standing over a disabled person—particularly someone seated in a wheelchair or of short stature—it reinforces a silent but powerful message: you are beneath me. Prince William broke that dynamic. He didn’t require Warwick Davis to look up—literally or symbolically. Instead, he chose to meet him as an equal in shared space.
That simple act communicates, wordlessly:
You belong here.
You are not an inconvenience.
You are not a novelty or an inspirational object.
You are my equal in this moment.
For disabled people, especially in formal or ceremonial settings, those messages are rare—and that rarity is precisely why they matter so deeply.
From personal experience, I can tell you how these gestures land.
When you’re disabled, particularly in public or high‑status spaces, you often feel like a problem to be managed. People hover. They rush. They talk over you, around you, or past you. You become hyper‑aware of the space your body occupies and the inconvenience others might feel. But when someone comes down to your level—physically and socially—everything changes. You go from feeling like a hindrance to feeling included.
I vividly remember the first time a celebrity I admired growing up met me. They dropped to one knee, spoke with me at eye level, and chatted as if I were simply another person worth their time. I also remember the captain of the Otago Nuggets basketball team shaking my hand properly—firm, respectful, man‑to‑man—rather than barely touching it, as if I had “cripple cooties” or something.
Those moments weren’t grand gestures. They were ordinary acts done with awareness. And they mattered.
They shaped my self‑esteem.
They altered how I saw myself.
They influenced how I believed society might see me.
Feeling seen as an equal is powerful. It stays with you.
It’s not just the act—it’s the influence behind it. Prince William’s position gives that moment weight. When someone with visibility and authority models disability‑aware behaviour, it quietly resets expectations. It teaches others—consciously or not—that respect and inclusion are normal, not exceptional. That’s why I celebrate this moment. Not because he’s royalty, but because he clearly had a clue.
For me, it’s less about how inclusion looks in every scenario and more about the fact that people with influence understand it at all.
Interestingly enough, moments like this also point toward a larger question: what can public figures actually do to promote disability inclusion? Some answers are surprisingly simple. Small, visible actions—like being on eye level, making proper eye contact, and engaging directly—teach audiences how inclusion looks in practice. Treat disabled people as equals, not symbols. Avoid framing disabled people solely as inspirational, tragic, or heroic. Engage with them as professionals, peers, and contributors.
Use platforms to amplify disabled voices. Speak with disabled people, not for them. Share the microphone rather than dominate it.
Normalise access and accommodations. Make access expected, not exceptional. When accommodations are treated as routine, the stigma associated with them decreases. Most importantly, in my books, I acknowledge disability without awkwardness or pity. Disabled people don’t need discomfort, distancing, or overcompensation. Calm, respectful engagement goes a long way.
I don’t expect every interaction to be flawless. I don’t need grand statements or symbolic gestures. What I do value—deeply—are moments that affirm equality in practice. That’s why this mattered to me. A simple act of eye‑level engagement transformed a ceremonial moment into a visible statement about dignity. It reminded me that inclusion isn’t abstract policy—it’s lived, embodied, and relational.
And for once, it was done by someone the world was watching.
That’s worth celebrating.
