inaccessibility

Moving around in a world not built for us means every journey becomes a negotiation with the ground beneath me, and my powerchair becomes both my balance and my freedom. But freedom is fragile when pavements are cracked, slanted, and patched like afterthoughts. Each bump sends a jolt through my spine, each uneven slab forces me to brace, and every missing “proper” dropped kerb turns a simple errand into a detour simply because access is denied.

Doors That Decide Who Gets Care

Inside some doctors’ premises, the barriers shift from concrete to wood. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve rolled up to a doorway only to find it too narrow for my chair, as if people like me were never expected to need care.

So I sit in the hallway, exposed, discussing private symptoms while others pass by. It’s undignified, and it’s avoidable. Doctors apologise, saying “… the building wasn’t designed with wheelchair users in mind”, but there lies the problem…. the world rarely does! Access becomes an afterthought, and I’m left adapting again and again.

Still Moving Forward

Yet I keep going, because stopping isn’t an option. My chair carries me where my legs can’t, and my resolve carries me where access fails. I navigate broken pavements, narrow doorways, and systems that weren’t built for me, not because it’s easy, but because life continues — and so do I.