Against Technoableism, by Ashley Shew, offers a grounded look at how technology misunderstands disability by trying to "fix" people rather than addressing the barriers built into our world. The book consists of six chapters. "Disabled Everything" sets the foundation by showing how disability shapes every area of life, and how technofixes often ignore systemic ableism. "Disorientation" explores the author's own disability journey and shows how spaces, workplaces, and everyday environments become hostile when they are not designed with disabled people in mind. "Scripts and Crips" examines the stories, stereotypes, and cultural tropes that frame disabled people as objects of pity, inspiration, or fear, and shows how these narratives influence technology and policy. "New Legs, Old Tricks" looks closely at prosthetics and assistive technologies, revealing how design often centers nondisabled expectations instead of actual disabled users' needs. "The Neurodivergent Resistance" highlights autistic and neurodivergent activists and presents neurodiversity as a framework for rethinking technology and inclusion. Finally, "Accessible Futures" argues that disability is not disappearing, and that the future will be more disabled, so building a livable world means placing disabled people's insights at the heart of how we think about technology, care, and the future.

Disabled Everything

The author starts by joking about the dramatic, inspirational disability stories people usually expect: stories of tragedy, bravery, or "overcoming". They explain that disabled people are constantly asked to share personal details just to be taken seriously, even when they are invited as professionals. However, real conversations between disabled people are not dramatic at all; they are about everyday life: kids, work, surgeries, insurance, and which prosthetic foot is less annoying.
The book focuses on these real, messy stories and on the many barriers disabled people face because the world is built without them in mind. A small mistake, like someone blocking the space next to a wheelchair van, can ruin an entire day, not because of the body, but because systems do not care. This leads to the idea of technoableism, the belief that technology should erase disability and that disabled people are better only when they are "fixed". The author pushes back, saying disabled people themselves, not engineers or charities, understand what disability and technology actually mean in daily life. The book moves through stereotypes, mobility devices, neurodiversity, and the ableism baked into tech and science, showing how disabled ways of living can help us imagine better, more inclusive futures.

Disorientation

The author starts the chapter by expressing how different it feels to attend an amputee conference compared to everyday life. Instead of being the only disabled person in the room, they are suddenly surrounded by people who move, walk, roll, and adapt in familiar ways. It is relaxing, even joyful, to be in a place where comparing prosthetic feet, sharing tricks for daily life, or deciding not to use a prosthetic at all is completely ordinary. Some people love their devices; others stop using them because they hurt, cost too much, or simply make life harder. The author's friend, Mallory, switches between a wheelchair, crutches, and walking depending on what works that day, what she calls being transmobile. It shows that disabled people often have more flexible ways of living than nondisabled people imagine.
The author contrasts this everyday reality with the way disability is usually portrayed, often as a problem that one perfect technology will "fix". However, real disabled life is full of many tools, changing needs, and constant adaptation. That is why disabled people themselves, not engineers, doctors, or charities, are the real experts on disability and technology. The author also explains how deeply ableism is woven into society, from outdated medical labels to immigration laws to old "Ugly Laws" that once banned visibly disabled people from public spaces. Ableism does not stand alone; it is tied to racism, sexism, classism, and the long history of judging people by their supposed productivity or "fitness".
This chapter also looks at how language shapes identity and community. Different people prefer different terms, and the important thing is to respect what individuals choose. The author prefers "disabled person", a term created by disabled activists themselves, because it reflects pride and belonging rather than avoidance. Euphemisms like "differently abled" often bury the truth and make it harder for people to find community. Some disabled activists even reclaim the word "crip" as a form of solidarity and political power. The chapter ends by noting that society often pushes disabled people to strive for "normal", even when that pressure ignores their needs. Real change begins when disabled voices are centered, because they understand disability and technology from lived experience, not assumption.

Scripts and Crips

The author shares Lynn Manning's poem "The Magic Wand", where Manning, a blind Black poet and athlete, describes how quickly people project stereotypes onto him. When strangers see him only as a tall Black man, they assume things shaped by racism. But as soon as he unfolds his white cane, those assumptions switch to clichés about blind people being helpless, gifted, or tragic. Neither set of ideas has anything to do with who he really is. The poem shows how easily people rely on simple stories instead of seeing the actual person in front of them.
Using this example, the author explains how disability stereotypes blend with racism and other biases. Disabled people of color are rarely shown in movies, TV, or books, and when disability does appear, it's usually created by nondisabled writers and actors. As a result, the same narrow images keep repeating. People often fall back on the same five familiar tropes: the pitiable freak (a disabled person treated as sad or pitiful), the moocher or faker (someone assumed to be exaggerating or pretending), the bitter cripple (portrayed as angry or villainous because of disability), the shameful sinner (framed as deserving their disability as punishment), and the inspirational overcomer (celebrated only for trying to appear "normal"). These patterns shape how people think about disability long before they ever meet a disabled person in real life.
Each trope tells a misleading, one-dimensional story. Together, they flatten real disabled lives, pushing aside the ordinary, complex, and varied experiences that do not fit these clichés. Instead of helping people understand disability, these stereotypes get in the way of seeing disabled people as full, diverse individuals.

New Legs, Old Tricks

In this chapter, the author describes becoming an amputee by moving backward through key moments. Friends kept insisting she was being "too negative", even when her tumor was visible, and surgery was clearly coming. As the operation approached, people repeated the same line: "prosthetics are so advanced now!", as if technology would erase pain and loss. A prosthetist eventually told her the truth: walking would never be the same, and real life was nothing like the upbeat news stories. Before surgery, she tried to enjoy small moments with her kids; after the amputation, she relearned basic tasks one by one. Nothing was quick or magical, just slow, ordinary adaptation.
She then challenges the way the media shapes public ideas about amputees. Most people only see Paralympians, dancers, and veterans with high-tech legs, so they assume all amputees "bounce back" or become superhuman. But most amputees live normal lives with pain, limits, financial stress, and long adjustment periods. Real disability is shaped far more by the built environment and healthcare systems than by gadgets. Racism makes this even clearer: Black Americans face far higher amputation rates because of unequal medical care, yet these realities rarely appear in glossy tech stories. Instead, amputees are treated as symbols, such as heroes, tragedies, or sources of inspiration, rather than as ordinary people with varied needs and experiences.
Throughout the chapter, the author explains that prosthetics are tools, not cures. The process of getting and using them is slow, messy, physical, and expensive. Many arm amputees stop using prostheses entirely; many leg amputees prefer wheelchairs or canes; and Deaf people face similar pressures to "be normal" through cochlear implants. Across all these stories, the message is the same: disability is not a technical problem to fix, but a part of human life shaped by access, culture, and community. Today, the author's daily routines, including clinic visits, adjusting liners, taking off her leg at night, and rolling around her house, are simply her life. Not inspirational, not tragic, just real.

The Neurodivergent Resistance

In this chapter, the author writes about autism and neurodivergence even though she is not autistic because disability communities constantly overlap and support one another. After cancer, she found her university suddenly overwhelming: too loud, too bright, too inaccessible. What helped her stay grounded was finding other disabled people, many of whom were autistic or had ADHD. They introduced her to ideas like neurodiversity (brains work in many different ways) and neurodivergence (minds that do not match social expectations). These ideas question the belief that there is only one "normal" way to think or communicate. The author explains that neurodivergent people often become exhausted from masking or dealing with environments that ignore their needs, and that autism is still misdiagnosed or misunderstood, especially in girls, women, and people of color.
She shows how much life improves when environments are designed with flexibility, clear instructions, quiet spaces, ramps, captions, good lighting, places to rest, and reasonable deadlines. However, she also stresses that even with better surroundings, disability does not disappear, and it is not meant to. The deeper issue is a world built around a very narrow idea of "normal". The chapter also highlights the long, painful history of how neurodivergent people have been treated: eugenics, institutions, forced sterilization, and the belief that disability should be fixed or eliminated. Modern charities and therapies often repeat the same mindset. Autism Speaks and ABA therapy, for example, focus on making autistic people act less autistic. Many autistic adults say ABA is traumatic because it teaches children to hide their natural ways of communicating, such as stimming or avoiding eye contact.
Autistic advocates offer a different vision: one built on autistic voices, autistic joy, and autistic ways of being. They show how community forms through shared interests, games, online spaces, and supportive environments. They call for designing technology with autistic people, based on what actually helps them thrive, not on what looks "normal". The author ends by reflecting on her own mix of disabilities and how small tools, routines, and community make daily life easier. Her message is clear: neurodivergence is not a flaw. The real problem is a world designed for only one kind of brain and body. When we listen to neurodivergent people and build more flexible environments, life becomes better, not just for them, but for everyone.

Accessible Futures

The author says that "the future is disabled" because disability will become more common, not less. Anyone who lives long enough will experience some disability through aging, illness, or injury. Climate change, pollution, environmental racism, and new diseases like long Covid are already creating more chronic illnesses. Even space travel harms the human body. So, imagining a future without disabled people is unrealistic. Instead, we should build societies and technologies that assume disability is a normal part of life and make the world accessible for people of all ages and bodies.
She also explains that the future is unpredictable, and no one can design a perfect human for an unknown world. Writers like Alasdair MacIntyre and Ursula Le Guin say that uncertainty is part of being alive. The author connects this to her own experience with cancer, when her seemingly stable life suddenly collapsed into worry, scans, and fear. Disability did not create uncertainty; it revealed the fragility of the control she once felt. Her point is that instead of trying to erase disability, we should accept uncertainty and focus on building care, support, and environments that help everyone live well in a world where disability is expected.
Disabled people already know how to live with uncertainty: elevators break, batteries die, flare-ups happen, and emergency plans rarely include them. Through this, they become experts in adaptation, care, and survival: the skills that matter for all of us in a future shaped by climate change and instability. Disability justice groups like Sins Invalid offer principles for living in this world: intersectionality, interdependence, collective access, and shared leadership. Disabled artists and activists also imagine futures, on Earth and in space, where disabled people are central, not erased. The author argues that rejecting "technoableism" and listening to disabled people's stories can help us design a future that welcomes many kinds of bodies and minds. Kids often show this naturally, treating disability with curiosity and ease rather than fear. That, she says, is the attitude we need for the future.