by Beatrice Leong, Independent Documentary Filmmaker, Gender-Disability Rights Activist, Autistic, Human.

This year marks the fifth anniversary of a promise I made to myself—a contract, really—to plunge headfirst into advocacy and activism. It wasn’t born out of inspiration or hope, but out of anger and despair. Five years ago, I couldn’t see anything for myself in the world as it was. I felt invisible, unheard, and unworthy. At the time, the thought of challenging that invisibility seemed impossible. But the alternative—accepting it as it was—was even more unthinkable.

It began with questions so loud, so insistent: Why had it taken so long for me to be diagnosed with autism? Why had no one seen me for who I truly was? Why had I spent years trying to “fix” something that was never broken to begin with? Why had my life been decided for me all these years based on psychiatric misdiagnoses?

I reached out to an organisation that claimed to support people like me, hopeful that I’d find community and validation. Instead, I was met with a wall. I didn’t fit their mould, their criteria. I was told that without a specific type of formal diagnosis—I didn’t belong there either. I was also supposed to be in a “good place” before I could even access peer support, as though healing was a prerequisite rather than a goal.

It was a cruel paradox, one that left me more isolated than ever. The very systems meant to uplift people like me had turned me away, forcing me to question whether I was even deserving of help. For the first time, I understood what it meant to feel completely disempowered—not just as an individual, but as a person whose very existence was up for debate. Their power to decide who was “valid” and who deserved help left me hollow. I had never felt smaller in my life.

But in that hollow space, something unexpected happened. Anger began to take root, followed by determination. If no one could—or would—create space for someone like me, then I would create it myself. I gave myself five years. Five years to learn, to grow, to try. I didn’t know what it would look like then, but I knew things needed to change. I wanted to build something meaningful, something transformative. I needed the world to change. For me, and for every other woman and girl, like me.

Five years later, here I am, and I think about the meaning of power, a lot. It’s time to reflect on what’s next—for myself, for my community’s voice, and for the future of the advocacy space I’ve worked so hard to carve out. The next five years feel both daunting yet hopeful. I’ve grown into this role, but I know there’s still so much more to do. As a reluctant leader, it’s also time to step up, to push not just for representation but for transformative leadership within the OKU community. I had felt it’s time for us to embrace being a voice that bridges where we are and where we need to go—a voice for a new generation of leaders, of women leaders (not just as a disability leader) who will fight fiercely for systemic change, true equity, and the justice we’ve all been owed.

The next five years aren’t just about advocacy; they’re about growth, courage, and building something bigger than myself. They’re about creating a space where we don’t just exist—we thrive. But as elections loom, it’s clear that our lives—and the policies and decisions that shape them—will be at stake again. We looked at the administration that came into power this year with hope, yet where are the promises now? Where is the action, the accountability, and the commitment to the futures we were told to believe in? These next five years must hold more than hope; they must demand action.

So we must start talking about power. Because the OKU community is powerless, now.

Power is a complicated thing. There have been moments this year when I’ve felt it coursing through me: when I spoke at international conferences, led workshops, or advocated fiercely for disability justice in spaces that often ignore us. These were moments when I thought, this is it. This is what it means to have the power of being a voice, to affect change.

Power is not just about what you hold—it’s about what is withheld from you. And this year has also been a stark reminder of how much is still withheld. I have been disempowered in ways that feel small but cuts deeply into my heart: being excluded from decisions that affect the very communities I represent, being spoken over in meetings, being a tick in the checkbox for inclusion, being expected to give and give without receiving anything in return.

Power is also about looking at failures—acknowledging them, learning from them, and finding the strength to move forward. This year, I’ve had to face moments where I felt I failed, where things didn’t go the way I hoped, and where I didn’t live up to my own expectations. But the measure of power is not in avoiding failure—it’s in continuing to move, to grow, to fight for what matters, even when the road feels impossible. To me, real power is the refusal to stop, no matter how many times you stumble.

And disempowerment doesn’t just come from “outside” forces. It comes from within our community too. I have seen how quickly people shift from support to isolation based on whose “side” you’re on. I have experienced how I am praised when I am friendly with certain individuals or organisations, and how I am siloed the moment I challenge them. It feels like walking a tightrope—balancing on the thin line of who I can be friends with, whose side I am on, and which relationships are considered “acceptable” or “dangerous.”

But what side is there to take when all I want is for us to transform? What side is there to take when the only loyalty I have is to the idea of progress, courage, and demanding better for ourselves? I am not interested in playing factions. I am not interested in who is more respectable, more agreeable, or more liked. I want us to demand better, not just from the government, but from ourselves. Because real power is not just about holding onto what you have—it’s about being willing to let it go when it no longer serves the greater good, to admit fault, and to start again with courage.

In reflecting on this year’s International Day of Persons with Disabilities (IPWDP) theme of leadership, I’ve thought deeply about how I map my own advocacy onto the fault lines I see within our community. We are deeply fragmented. Beneath the surface of our collective fight for inclusion and justice, there are currents of disenfranchisement that we rarely address. As we speak of the powers that oppress us—the systems that silence us, the policies that exclude us—we forget to also examine the power dynamics within our own spaces.

We have lost sight of our common goals. Too often, we focus on individual gains or the fear of losing what little ground we’ve secured. The idea of collective leadership—of lifting each other up rather than competing for scarce resources—has been overshadowed by mistrust and factionalism. I see this, and I feel it, in the way we divide ourselves: by who gets the most attention, who is perceived as “authentic” enough, and who is allowed to speak on behalf of others.

I understand this fracture because I live it. My advocacy exists on these same fault lines, where collaboration sometimes feels impossible, and trust is fragile. But I also believe this is where our greatest potential lies—if we can confront the uncomfortable truths about how we treat each other, we can begin to rebuild. Leadership, in this context, isn’t just about representation or visibility. It’s about having the courage to mend what is broken within us, to heal the divides, and to move forward together.

Living as an autistic person in a world that isn’t built for us adds another layer to this struggle. Autism isn’t just a “condition”—it is a way of being, of sensing, and of relating to the world. But for too long, autistic voices have been silenced, pathologised, or forced into moulds that do not fit. We are told to mask, to behave, to conform. We are expected to fit into neurotypical frameworks of power, advocacy, and “respectable leadership.” But here’s the truth: I do not fit those frameworks. I never have, and I never will. And I no longer want to try.

I am not without fault in all this. Reflecting on the year means acknowledging where I fell short. I have made mistakes. I have hurt people unintentionally. I have sometimes held too tightly to control, afraid that if I let go, everything I’ve built would fall apart. I have let my own anger and pain spill into spaces where collaboration should have been possible. I have been too tired to explain myself, too jaded to believe in change. But I have also learned. I’ve learned that power is not just about what you can do alone but about what you can inspire others to do with you. I’ve learned that I cannot be all things to all people, no matter how much I want to. And I’ve learned that my worth is not measured by how much I give or how loudly I speak, but by the integrity of the work I do and the love I bring to it.

As we step into a new year, I ask this of all of us: take a moment to reflect. What does power mean to you? How are you using it? Are we building something lasting, something just, or are we letting ourselves be fragmented and divided? Let us hold ourselves accountable and be brave enough to challenge the systems and habits that hold us back—even when those systems exist within our own communities. Let’s be bold, not just for ourselves, but for the generations who will inherit what we leave behind. The work is hard, but it’s also necessary. Together, we can create a world where we are not just seen but valued and understood.

Let’s lead with courage, integrity, and the collective hope that we can build something better—together. We can no longer live in fear to ask for better, to want for better. We cannot be afraid. We must start looking this fear in the eye and move beyond it—together. Fear has kept us silent, divided, and hesitant for too long. It is time to recognize its grip on us and choose something different: bravery, unity, and the resolve to demand the change we deserve. This is the only way forward—not just for ourself, but for the generations who will follow.