Liesl Hammer is a 24-year-old writer from Norwich with German roots and a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. In this personal story, she explores her experiences of accessing disability sports, from powerchair football and wheelchair dancing to the gym, highlighting the importance of inclusion, community and challenging assumptions about cerebral palsy.
Growing up with Cerebral Palsy is not that different from growing up able-bodied, and that’s something most people don’t understand.
I am Liesl Hammer, an independent, driven woman striving to educate people on what lived experience really looks like. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, I physically struggle more than my able-bodied counterparts, but that doesn’t mean my life is any less fulfilling. I just do things differently.
Growing up not so different
I am the oldest of three siblings in a very active family, so sports were always going to be a big part of my life. If my sister climbed a tree, my dad would hold me as I attempted to get as high as possible. When a cycling tour around Bavaria, Germany (where half of my family live) was suggested, I got on my tricycle and off we went.
I never thought I was any different. Until I grew up and began to experience other people’s perceptions of me. Suddenly I didn’t feel like a ‘normal’ kid, destined for great things. I felt like a toddler getting praised for stringing together two sentences. I thought I had to prove myself. To some extent, I still do. But probably not in the way you’re thinking.
I’m still me. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. But I do everything I want to do loudly. I love classic fashion, writing, going to concerts, hanging out with friends and sports.
Having CP means it’s extra important for me to keep my body moving. I spend most of my day in my electric wheelchair, only getting up to transfer or reach something on a high shelf. My grandfather used to say, ‘You either use it or lose it.’ Much as it pains me to admit, he was right.
Unfortunately, disabled bodies don’t understand that they’re disabled, and they therefore start yelling at you. If I didn’t regularly go for a walk with an aid or stretch, my body would just get tighter and tighter, probably until I couldn’t function independently anymore.
A new sport on the horizon: discovering powerchair football
Towards the end of primary school, I discovered Powerchair Football. I remember the moment. It was at the school’s summer fête when an unbelievably cool older girl in an electric wheelchair approached me and asked me if I’d ever considered football. I hadn’t. I didn’t think that was a possibility.
Soon enough, I was playing for Norwich City. It was one of the coolest sports I’d seen! The powerchairs were seemingly modified to turn at high speeds, so fast that the front wheels often lifted off the ground. A sturdy guard boxed around your legs and footplates. This was how I kicked the ball.
Disabled sport isn’t just about doing an activity. It’s about being part of a community that understands each other more deeply. Not that we ever really talked about our diagnosis; we were just active disabled people brought together.
We competed in Surrey and other parts of the country, which was fun, but unfortunately I lost my spark for the sport. I was the only club member with a lack of fine motor skills, which I felt really hindered me. Powerchair Football is such a fast, precise sport. The ball comes at you with such speed, and then you have to swing at the perfect moment; I just felt like I was letting the team down, so I said goodbye to the beautiful game.
Dancing for joy in a wheelchair
Dance, on the other hand. Now that has been a love affair that will last a lifetime. I remember growing up watching Strictly Come Dancing with my family, toasting marshmallows and dancing with my siblings.
Around the beginning of high school, I obsessively watched contemporary dance videos from academies in America. I’m specifically thinking of Sean and Kaycee’s dance to False Confidence in 2012. I loved watching them have so much control over their bodies. But again, I was sure that this just wasn’t a reality for me. Then, I told my mum and, like the amazing woman she is, she found Abby Page, who just so happened to be forming a wheelchair dance group.
Over the last 8 years, it has morphed and shaped into a plethora of iterations, but we have always stuck. We quickly evolved from a wheelchair class to a disabled class to an inclusive company, and with every form and every new person, it has remained the highlight of my week.
Much like the feeling I got at Powerchair Football, our connection as a group is undeniable. I have been reluctant to join clubs labelled as ‘disabled’ or ‘inclusive’ for fear of being infantilised. Never at dance. Sure, people need to get used to everyone’s different abilities, but we are never underestimated. We are always encouraged to listen to our bodies and enjoy the movement. We are pushed to achieve our personal best. Not the personal best of the other members. I love it.
Dance has shown me how important it is to find spaces where I can feel empowered and challenged. But what about outside the studio?
Read: Ben Wilson: A Dancer With Down’s Syndrome Breaking Barriers
Accessing the gym with cerebral palsy
On my mum’s advice, when I got to university, I tried going to the gym. Honestly, I had no idea how it would work (I walk slower than my Grandma on a bad day), and I had no idea how I would fare on the equipment.
Luckily, my university had an incredible scheme where I could steal a personal trainer to assist me. They set me up with a training plan to fit my goals and abilities and then helped me whenever I needed it. And, bonus, we got on really well.
Six years later, I still use the gym twice a week; we gossip, and I boss them around. I even got them to turn down the speed on the treadmills to 0.5 mph. I’m practically Usain Bolt!
My takeaways on accessing disability sports
From football to dance to the gym, each experience has given me something different, but they’ve all reminded me that sport is about so much more than physical ability.
So, what does sport mean to me as a disabled woman? Above all, it’s about being part of something. It’s about finding people who understand you, being encouraged to push yourself for yourself, and discovering that your body can do things you never thought possible.
For a long time, disabled people were excluded from sporting spaces or had to fight to be taken seriously within them. There is still work to do, but my experiences have shown me what can happen when opportunities are available, and people are willing to look beyond assumptions about disability. I’ve found spaces where I can challenge myself, make connections and, most importantly, have fun.
Follow Liesl Hammer on Instagram.