Written by Florence Limb | @cowboypanini

Identifying as both queer and disabled meant growing up and having no other choice but to learn how to translate a world that hasn’t been built for you. In my own personal experience, there have been moments where music has been the only language I understand.

Music undeniably saved my life. Coming from a working-class background, my journey with music didn’t start until my early teens, when I was given a second-hand keyboard for my birthday. The middle C key was broken, making songs significantly harder to play, but I remember crying tears of sheer gratitude in that moment.

That very same year, my world was turned upside down, I was removed from my biological parents’ care and placed temporarily in foster care. Though I was eventually adopted by my loving grandparents, the trauma of separation and the circumstances around it left deep, lasting scars. I was later diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Through it all, music became my refuge, a place where I could process pain, express feelings that words failed to capture, and rebuild my sense of self.

It wasn’t just a pastime; it was a lifeline.

However, I strongly believe that the accessibility of music remains a privilege, one not equally afforded across intersections of gender, class, sexuality and disability.

Growing up working-class added another layer to my relationship with music. The classical paths to musical success, the formal lessons, the conservatories, the expensive instruments, often felt out of reach. Like many individuals from similar backgrounds to my own, music wasn’t just an outlet, it was a form of rebellion. Which makes self-teaching and informal musical exploration not only a necessity, but a radical act of reclaiming space.

In my case, that second-hand keyboard-imperfect and broken-became a symbol of possibility. It wasn’t polished or perfect, but it was mine. It was the start of a journey building a creative identity that didn’t rely on traditional gatekeeping.Understanding the ties between class and music deepens my commitment to creating work that is accessible and inclusive as both a musician and theatre-maker. Art shouldn’t require privilege to access or create. For music to truly be a language for all of us, it must reflect and welcome the diversity of our lives and backgrounds.

On top of my social identity, I also identify as a lesbian, which is something I am incredibly proud of. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that it’s been a long journey of self-discovery. I didn’t come out until I was twenty-two.

Growing up, there was a noticeable lack of openly queer stories in music. I clung to any song that even hinted at being sapphic or queer. One of those rare, vulnerable moments came when I discovered Dodie’s “She”. That song shifted something in me, a simple, delicate acknowledgement of queer desire. It wasn’t just the lyrics; it was the fact that someone had said it out loud, without shame, without disguising it in metaphor. I possessed a hunger to feel represented. And although queer-focused music is on the rise, it still just isn’t enough. So much of what we hear continues to cater to the mainstream gaze, often flattening queerness into something performative, or palatable.

This hunger for authenticity became even more complex through the lens of being diagnosed autistic. My relationship with sound has always been varying. Vivid, overwhelming, beautiful, chaotic. As an autistic individual, I don’t just hear music, I feel it: in my body, in my skin, in my bones. Sound is so deeply immersive and emotionally charged, but it can also very easily lead to sensory overload. The very thing that brings comfort to some, can trigger anxiety or shutdowns in others. No singular person with autism is the same, despite the harmful stereotypes and narratives society pushes onto us that may suggest otherwise.

Music is more than just a form of entertainment, it is a system of emotional navigation. For me, it has helped regulate, process and communicate. When words failed, when social scripts broke down, music stepped up as a language I could rely on. It was one of the few places where I didn’t have to mask, or pretend, or translate myself for the ease of others.

But, just like with queerness, the mainstream music world rarely reflects the sensory experiences that came with being neurodivergent.

Accessibility isn’t just about physical ramps, or quiet spaces (though these things are vital) it’s also about being seen, heard, supported, emotionally and culturally in the stories being told and the ways we’re invited to engage with them.

This is why, for me, music is not only a form of personal expression but a political one.I make work that exists in defiance of invisibility.

I will always tell stories that reflect the rich, complicated, worlds that many of us live in. Worlds that rarely get the space, representation or volume they deserve. 

Because when music finally speaks in your language (whatever that language may be) it’s not just about feeling heard. It’s about finally belonging.

Because everyone deserves to belong somewhere, even if it starts with a broken middle C.