Ruth Codd Rolls Into Fame—Hollywood’s Most Fearless Disability Advocate Yet

Max Sterling, 11/27/2025Ruth Codd navigates her journey from disability advocate to star in *The Midnight Club* and upcoming roles, embracing humor amid challenges. With two amputations and a candid online presence, she redefines representation in Hollywood, proving resilience and authenticity can thrive beyond the glossy narratives.

Broadcasting from her parents’ house—where home comforts mix with reminders of hospital corridors—Codd delivers the latest update with the kind of candor that would turn most celebrity PR managers a delicate shade of panic. “So,” she addresses her audience, the corners of her mouth flickering with that characteristic mischief, “full circle moment: I’m back making TikToks from my parents’ house. Bad news? I can’t film in front of that lovely blue floral wallpaper now. Why? Because, well, it’s upstairs, and I’ve just had my second below-knee amputation. Those facilities are currently… a no-go.”

There is no swelling orchestral score, no carefully choreographed reveal. Instead, there’s Fat Tony—the wheelchair, painted with a name worthy of a Scorsese bit part—cursed with what she describes as “the top speed of f*** all per hour, unless there’s a step, in which case it’s negative miles an hour.” The internet, of course, is quick to respond. One follower (or perhaps an AI bot with a taste for lunchmeat) offers: “Sorry to hear about your second bologna,” a classic autocorrect blunder that could only happen in 2025, when algorithms are still aspiring comedians.

But as much as Codd prefers humor as her chosen armor, there’s a deeper story thrumming beneath the jokes. Her trajectory, on paper, looks cribbed from a 19th-century melodrama—with the difference that instead of faded velvet curtains, the backdrop is a relentless digital feed and modern wit. A seemingly fuss-free football injury at 15 unraveled into years of irreversible nerve damage—doctors, surgeries, pain that seemed to stretch as long as the Irish winter. She summed up that decade-long spiral to the Irish Examiner with her typical directness: “For years, I didn’t see it getting any better. I was stuck in a really bad mindset, and I was pissed off at life.” No tidy bows, just exhaustion and honesty—a refreshing contrast to the polished “journey” narratives so often paraded by publicists.

By age 23, after enough surgeries to fill the B-side of a medical drama, Codd decided it was time to amputate her right leg. Eight years of navigating vanished hope and malfunctioning hospitals had left her more than ready for a change. Relief, instead of grief, followed. The plot twist wasn’t healing, but something close enough: “I could just get on with my life.”

It would be nice—tempting even—to pretend the story tied itself up there. But chronic pain doesn’t really follow the customary three-act structure, nor does it honor dramatic symmetry. Prolonged crutch use put Codd’s already fragile balance through an Olympic trial, her body forced into adaptations that most orthopedists would simply call ‘unfair’. “My foot looks like a little hamburger,” she once joked, after losing all her toes on the opposite side—a one-liner only possible for those who’ve watched their own anatomy rewritten and decided not to romanticize it. When the second amputation became inevitable, she chose it. The logic was cold, pragmatic—quality of life simply wasn’t on offer if things stayed the same.

Still, despite everything, self-deprecating humor remains very much intact. Hollywood loves its sanitized pain-candy—consuming red carpets and talk shows flavored with just enough adversity to charm, but not enough to ruffle sponsors. Codd takes the opposite approach, airing out her messy realities for an audience more accustomed to highlight reels than real talk. A single scroll through her TikTok unfurls awkward jokes, sly hashtags (“No legs who dis? #paralympics2026”), and the gentle swatting away of well-meaning fans: “Guys, stop being nice to me, you’re weirding me out.”

That journey from TikTok wisecracker to Netflix star happened by accident—no agent, no ten-year plan, just sharp timing and raw honesty. Her leap onto the screen as Anya in *The Midnight Club* wasn’t the product of an industry hustle; she was spotted, pure and simple. No formal acting pedigree, but an undeniable presence. *The Fall of the House of Usher* followed, with Codd more than holding her own among Flanagan’s house of gothic madcaps. And now, in a twist that probably has DreamWorks animators pinching themselves, she’s set to take on Phlegma the Fierce in 2025’s live-action *How To Train Your Dragon*. Hollywood’s checks and balances rarely allow such authentic casting—characters with amputations played by actors who reflect that reality—making Codd’s role a small revolution.

What does that representation mean, really? In a world still utterly fixated on able-bodied archetypes, seeing someone like Codd in a blockbuster isn’t just a detail; it’s a statement. The original *How To Train Your Dragon* handled disability through metaphor, letting Hiccup and Toothless adapt and thrive rather than brood over loss. The live-action approach, with Codd at its heart, looks poised to serve something even rarer—a form of representation that doesn’t feel like insurance-sponsored checkbox theater. It simply feels true.

Naturally, her online community processes every update in typical 2025 fashion—with layered memes, in-jokes, and “blame Jonathan Ross” gags referencing her brief, unlucky turn in *Celebrity Traitors*. Even co-stars chime in; Rahul Kohli’s banter bounces off Codd’s own sharp wit: “Excuses, excuses.” Her reply? “How do I block someone twice?” It’s a peculiar sort of support system—more roast than toast, but solid.

At the center of all this, Codd is quietly redrawing the map. Rather than aiming for some glossy, triumphant arc, her narrative offers something more unruly—a blueprint for how to wrangle meaning from a mess, to crack wise while standing at the eye of the storm. Audiences are invited to sit in that lived-in discomfort, to acknowledge the chaos along with the victories, and to maybe—just maybe—find something bracingly hopeful in the laughter.

She recently gave a now-viral answer, reflecting on what comes next: “I feel like I’ll be pretty unstoppable.” Unstoppable, not in Fat Tony’s souped-up-staircase sense, but in spirit—and maybe that’s the mark of a comeback worth rooting for. Sequels, after all, don’t always have to retread the same ground. Sometimes, as Ruth Codd is proving, they just find a way to move forward—against the odds, and apparently, with a grin.

Somewhere in the swirl between TikTok’s fleeting in-jokes and the sharper focus of streaming stardom, Ruth Codd is busy narrating her own unpredictable saga, and she isn’t about to let anyone else write the punchline. The Irish actress, who transitioned from online disability advocate to face of the supernatural in *The Midnight Club* and Mike Flanagan’s *The Fall of the House of Usher*, has just completed her second below-knee amputation—and the aftermath is about as sentimental as a stand-up routine on open-mic night.Broadcasting from her parents’ house—where home comforts mix with reminders of hospital corridors—Codd delivers the latest update with the kind of candor that would turn most celebrity PR managers a delicate shade of panic. “So,” she addresses her audience, the corners of her mouth flickering with that characteristic mischief, “full circle moment: I’m back making TikToks from my parents’ house. Bad news? I can’t film in front of that lovely blue floral wallpaper now. Why? Because, well, it’s upstairs, and I’ve just had my second below-knee amputation. Those facilities are currently… a no-go.”There is no swelling orchestral score, no carefully choreographed reveal. Instead, there’s Fat Tony—the wheelchair, painted with a name worthy of a Scorsese bit part—cursed with what she describes as “the top speed of f*** all per hour, unless there’s a step, in which case it’s negative miles an hour.” The internet, of course, is quick to respond. One follower (or perhaps an AI bot with a taste for lunchmeat) offers: “Sorry to hear about your second bologna,” a classic autocorrect blunder that could only happen in 2025, when algorithms are still aspiring comedians.But as much as Codd prefers humor as her chosen armor, there’s a deeper story thrumming beneath the jokes. Her trajectory, on paper, looks cribbed from a 19th-century melodrama—with the difference that instead of faded velvet curtains, the backdrop is a relentless digital feed and modern wit. A seemingly fuss-free football injury at 15 unraveled into years of irreversible nerve damage—doctors, surgeries, pain that seemed to stretch as long as the Irish winter. She summed up that decade-long spiral to the Irish Examiner with her typical directness: “For years, I didn’t see it getting any better. I was stuck in a really bad mindset, and I was pissed off at life.” No tidy bows, just exhaustion and honesty—a refreshing contrast to the polished “journey” narratives so often paraded by publicists.By age 23, after enough surgeries to fill the B-side of a medical drama, Codd decided it was time to amputate her right leg. Eight years of navigating vanished hope and malfunctioning hospitals had left her more than ready for a change. Relief, instead of grief, followed. The plot twist wasn’t healing, but something close enough: “I could just get on with my life.”It would be nice—tempting even—to pretend the story tied itself up there. But chronic pain doesn’t really follow the customary three-act structure, nor does it honor dramatic symmetry. Prolonged crutch use put Codd’s already fragile balance through an Olympic trial, her body forced into adaptations that most orthopedists would simply call ‘unfair’. “My foot looks like a little hamburger,” she once joked, after losing all her toes on the opposite side—a one-liner only possible for those who’ve watched their own anatomy rewritten and decided not to romanticize it. When the second amputation became inevitable, she chose it. The logic was cold, pragmatic—quality of life simply wasn’t on offer if things stayed the same.Still, despite everything, self-deprecating humor remains very much intact. Hollywood loves its sanitized pain-candy—consuming red carpets and talk shows flavored with just enough adversity to charm, but not enough to ruffle sponsors. Codd takes the opposite approach, airing out her messy realities for an audience more accustomed to highlight reels than real talk. A single scroll through her TikTok unfurls awkward jokes, sly hashtags (“No legs who dis? #paralympics2026”), and the gentle swatting away of well-meaning fans: “Guys, stop being nice to me, you’re weirding me out.”That journey from TikTok wisecracker to Netflix star happened by accident—no agent, no ten-year plan, just sharp timing and raw honesty. Her leap onto the screen as Anya in *The Midnight Club* wasn’t the product of an industry hustle; she was spotted, pure and simple. No formal acting pedigree, but an undeniable presence. *The Fall of the House of Usher* followed, with Codd more than holding her own among Flanagan’s house of gothic madcaps. And now, in a twist that probably has DreamWorks animators pinching themselves, she’s set to take on Phlegma the Fierce in 2025’s live-action *How To Train Your Dragon*. Hollywood’s checks and balances rarely allow such authentic casting—characters with amputations played by actors who reflect that reality—making Codd’s role a small revolution.What does that representation mean, really? In a world still utterly fixated on able-bodied archetypes, seeing someone like Codd in a blockbuster isn’t just a detail; it’s a statement. The original *How To Train Your Dragon* handled disability through metaphor, letting Hiccup and Toothless adapt and thrive rather than brood over loss. The live-action approach, with Codd at its heart, looks poised to serve something even rarer—a form of representation that doesn’t feel like insurance-sponsored checkbox theater. It simply feels true.Naturally, her online community processes every update in typical 2025 fashion—with layered memes, in-jokes, and “blame Jonathan Ross” gags referencing her brief, unlucky turn in *Celebrity Traitors*. Even co-stars chime in; Rahul Kohli’s banter bounces off Codd’s own sharp wit: “Excuses, excuses.” Her reply? “How do I block someone twice?” It’s a peculiar sort of support system—more roast than toast, but solid.At the center of all this, Codd is quietly redrawing the map. Rather than aiming for some glossy, triumphant arc, her narrative offers something more unruly—a blueprint for how to wrangle meaning from a mess, to crack wise while standing at the eye of the storm. Audiences are invited to sit in that lived-in discomfort, to acknowledge the chaos along with the victories, and to maybe—just maybe—find something bracingly hopeful in the laughter.She recently gave a now-viral answer, reflecting on what comes next: “I feel like I’ll be pretty unstoppable.” Unstoppable, not in Fat Tony’s souped-up-staircase sense, but in spirit—and maybe that’s the mark of a comeback worth rooting for. Sequels, after all, don’t always have to retread the same ground. Sometimes, as Ruth Codd is proving, they just find a way to move forward—against the odds, and apparently, with a grin.