The Shock of Exclusion: My Experience at the GP (General Practitioner) and the Invisibility of Black Skin Care

I walked into the GP’s (General Practitioner) office today with a sense of frustration that I didn’t fully anticipate. Over the years, I’ve learned to expect certain things as a Black woman seeking healthcare dismissal, ignorance, or just a lack of understanding about the unique needs of Black bodies. But today was a reminder of just how deeply ingrained these issues are in a system that wasn’t designed for us. And it was a wake-up call for me, yet again, about the daily exclusion we experience, not just in terms of race but in how that exclusion plays out in something as fundamental as our health.

I had been dealing with soreness on my hyperpigmented skin for a while, the kind of irritation that happens when the skin is inflamed or thinning. Hyperpigmentation is something many Black people deal with whether it’s from acne, injury, or just natural changes in the skin. But it’s rarely fully understood in medical spaces, and even less so when it comes to the specific needs of Black skin.

I tried to explain to my GP what was going on: how the skin around my cheekbones and eyes felt sore, how the pigment had darkened, and how this wasn’t just cosmetic it was affecting my confidence, my comfort, and my health. But her response wasn’t what I expected. She suggested giving me muscle relaxers, completely missing the point of my concern. When I tried to steer the conversation back to skin barriers and the thinning of my skin, she brushed it aside. Instead, she said that I should see a dentist for the soreness around my pigmented areas. No advice, no real understanding, and certainly no acknowledgment of how Black skin responds differently to certain treatments or products. I left the office feeling unheard and more invisible than I had when I walked in.

This was a stark reminder of how Black health concerns are often dismissed or misunderstood. My experience is not unique. In fact, it’s an example of something much bigger: the healthcare system’s failure to address the very real needs of Black people when it comes to our skin, bodies, and overall health. This wasn’t just a poor consultation it was a microcosm of a larger problem: systems built without us in mind, systems that operate with such a lack of understanding that they perpetuate a cycle of invisibility and marginalization.

It was a shock to me today, not because I wasn’t expecting to be dismissed, but because of how normalized this exclusion has become. As someone who has written about colourism, I’m used to addressing the ways that lighter skin is often privileged and how darker skin is treated as something less than, something that requires correction. But today’s experience wasn’t just about colourism it was about healthcare, a space where we should feel supported, but instead, too often feel invisible or misunderstood.

For many Black people, hyperpigmentation is a daily reality. We are more prone to dark spots and uneven skin tones because of the way our skin reacts to inflammation and injury. But when we go to the doctor to talk about it, we’re often met with blank stares or misdiagnoses because our concerns don’t fit the standard narrative of "healthy skin." Doctors, particularly those who have never been trained to understand the unique properties of Black skin, often fail to grasp the complexity of conditions like hyperpigmentation. And when they do attempt to address them, the solutions provided are often ineffective or irrelevant.

What frustrates me most is the complete lack of understanding around the way Black skin works. It’s not just about pigmentation; it’s about texture, response to treatments, and how different ingredients and products interact with our skin. For example, many products that are marketed as “universal” or “for all skin types” often fail to address the specific needs of Black skin, especially when it comes to skin barriers and moisture retention. Yet, when we voice these concerns, we’re often met with indifference or suggestions that miss the mark completely.

This experience at the GP today wasn’t just an isolated incident. It’s part of a larger systemic issue in healthcare that goes beyond just race it’s about how Black bodies, Black experiences, and Black concerns are often neglected or dismissed. It’s about a healthcare system that continues to be built without the input of those who need it most.

The healthcare industry is notoriously white-dominated, and while that’s beginning to change, it’s still a space where Black voices are underrepresented. The lack of diversity within the field leads to gaps in understanding about how our bodies work, and it shows in the way our health is treated. From misdiagnoses to misprescriptions, our health issues are often seen as secondary, as though our bodies don’t require the same level of care, attention, and respect as others.

This is a larger conversation about access, representation, and education. We need more Black healthcare providers, more representation in medical research, and more comprehensive training on the unique health concerns of Black people. We need healthcare that recognizes us as whole, complex beings and addresses our needs as such not as afterthoughts or as something to be figured out along the way.

But we also need to stop normalizing this kind of neglect. As Black people, we should never have to educate our doctors about our skin or our health. Our needs should already be understood, respected, and addressed with the same urgency as anyone else’s. This is the true impact of exclusion: it forces us to constantly advocate for our own health, often at the expense of our time, energy, and well-being.

Today, I was reminded of the deeper implications of the systems we live within how they were never designed for us, how they continue to fail us, and how much work we still have to do to change that. I’m not complaining. I’m demanding better. Because we deserve to be seen, heard, and treated with the respect and care that every human being is entitled to.

In one of the chapters of my forthcoming book, The Lived Experiences of Non-Academic Women in Higher Education, set to be released in October 2025, I explore colourism as a form of systemic exclusion. Today’s experience with the GP reminded me that this issue is not confined to the university setting it extends into healthcare and affects every system. The lack of understanding around Black skin and its specific needs is a clear reflection of how colourism influences how Black people, especially women, are treated, understood, and valued in society.. In one of the chapters, I look at Colourism as a form of systemic exclusion. Today’s experience with the GP reminded me that this issue extends beyond the university. It’s in healthcare, it’s in every system, and it impacts how Black people especially women are treated and valued.

When systems aren’t designed with us in mind, it’s not just inconvenient; it’s a matter of life and well-being. And it’s time we start holding those systems accountable. Our health, our bodies, and our lived experiences matter. And it’s time for the world to start treating them as such.

 

The Systemic Disadvantage of AI for Black Communities

Artificial intelligence (AI) is often hailed as a tool that can bring efficiency, fairness, and progress. Yet, when we dig deeper into its design, application, and impact, it’s clear that AI is not neutral. Far from it. It reflects the biases and systemic inequities of the society that created it. And, for Black communities, this means that AI is perpetuating the same cycles of disadvantage that have existed for centuries, exacerbating racial disparities rather than eliminating them.

A glaring example of this is AI in recruitment, which has been increasingly used by companies to streamline the hiring process. AI-powered tools are now deployed to assess resumes, screen candidates, and even conduct initial interviews. On the surface, this technology seems like a solution to bias in hiring a way to remove human prejudice and ensure that everyone is evaluated based on their qualifications rather than their race or background. But in practice, these systems are built on data that is inherently biased, and as a result, they often perpetuate the same racial inequalities that they were designed to fix.

Hiring algorithms are trained on historical data data that reflects the biases of past hiring practices. For decades, Black individuals have been excluded from many opportunities or relegated to lower-paying, less prestigious roles due to systemic racism and discrimination. When these AI systems are trained on that data, they are learning to value the qualifications, experiences, and backgrounds that have traditionally been associated with white candidates. As a result, AI recruitment tools often favour applicants who fit a narrow and predominantly white standard. They favour candidates from predominantly white universities, those with work experience at certain companies that are historically less diverse, and those with backgrounds that reflect traditional norms in the workforce.

The impact on Black job seekers is profound. Studies have shown that AI recruitment tools are more likely to filter out applications from Black candidates because they don’t fit the narrow criteria these algorithms are trained on. For instance, if a job requires a certain set of “preferred” experiences or qualifications that reflect historical biases such as leadership roles that are overwhelmingly white or networks built within predominantly white institutions Black candidates may find themselves excluded, even if they are equally or more qualified.

In 2018, a study by ProPublica found that predictive hiring tools used by companies in the United States were more likely to penalize Black candidates compared to white candidates, even when their resumes were identical. These systems were less likely to advance Black applicants, reinforcing the racial disparities in hiring. This doesn’t even touch on the subtler ways in which AI impacts recruitment. In some cases, AI tools assess personality traits or “fit” with company culture, often based on data from past hiring patterns. These systems tend to favour candidates who fit the existing culture of the workplace, which, in most cases, is overwhelmingly white and male. As a result, Black candidates are often deemed a “poor fit,” simply because they don’t match the traits of those who were hired before them.

This issue doesn’t just affect the initial stages of recruitment. AI is also being used to determine promotion opportunities, assess performance, and predict career trajectories. But again, these tools are trained on biased data. For example, when an AI system is used to evaluate employee performance, it may use historical data that reflects the lower starting salaries and slower career progression of Black employees. As a result, Black employees may be unfairly penalized by these systems, even though they are performing at the same level as their white counterparts.

In healthcare, AI systems have been shown to perpetuate racial bias, resulting in poorer treatment outcomes for Black patients. These systems often use data from predominantly white populations, leading to less accurate predictions and diagnoses for Black individuals. Similarly, AI tools in finance used for credit scoring or loan approvals are often trained on data that disproportionately disadvantages Black people, leading to higher rejection rates for loans, mortgages, or credit applications for Black applicants.

But perhaps the most disturbing aspect of AI's role in recruitment is that it further entrenches existing power dynamics. Because AI is often seen as an objective, impartial technology, its biases are not always recognized. When a person uses an algorithm to make a hiring decision, they may feel that the decision is being made by a “neutral” machine, rather than by a biased individual. This illusion of impartiality can make it more difficult to hold companies accountable for their practices.

The danger here is that as AI continues to become more embedded in recruitment and hiring processes, Black job seekers will be even more at risk of being shut out of opportunities. The lack of diversity in the tech industry means that these biases will continue to go unchecked. According to a 2020 report, less than 5% of the tech workforce is Black, and that lack of representation translates into products and systems that fail to consider the needs and realities of Black people.

The role of AI in recruitment is just one example of how systemic racism is being encoded into technology. The problem is not the technology itself, but how it is being used to reinforce existing inequalities. Until we confront the biases embedded in the data that powers AI and work toward ensuring diverse representation in the development of these technologies, AI will continue to disadvantage Black communities. And as long as we allow AI to operate unchecked in areas like hiring, healthcare, and finance, we are building a future where systemic racism is not just perpetuated but amplified by the very tools that are meant to drive progress.

To address this, we need stronger accountability in AI development and deployment. Companies and governments must work to ensure that AI systems are audited for bias, that they are tested against diverse datasets, and that the people developing these systems reflect the communities they are meant to serve. There needs to be a concerted effort to build technologies that actively dismantle the barriers they perpetuate, not reinforce them.

It’s also crucial that we, as a society, stop viewing AI as the solution to our problems without recognizing the potential harm it can cause when built and applied without equity in mind. If we allow AI to continue reinforcing racial disparities, we risk creating a future where these biases are even more deeply ingrained, where entire generations of Black people are systematically excluded from opportunity by a machine that is supposed to be neutral.

AI is not just a tool; it is a reflection of our values. Until we ensure that it works for everyone, it will continue to work against those who need it the most.

The Emotional Weight of Invisible Barriers

There’s something about disability that people often don’t talk about an emotional weight that doesn’t always get noticed. It’s the invisible barriers that get me more than the physical ones. It’s the unspoken things, the tiny moments in which I can feel the discomfort of others, the hesitance when they see me in spaces that aren’t built for me. These are the moments that make me realize that, despite the fact that the world is full of people, I’m still alone in many of these spaces.

It’s not just the high curbs, or the doors that don’t open wide enough, or the accessible toilets that are anything but. Those things are easy to point out and address, at least in theory. People can see them, and they’re tangible. It’s the emotional toll that gets to me, the exhaustion of constantly feeling like my body is an inconvenience or an exception. I can predict the physical barriers. But it’s the mental weight the emotional labour that I never fully expect.

I don’t just navigate physical space differently; I navigate social space differently too. I enter rooms not just thinking about whether I’ll be able to physically get in, but whether people will see me as I am or see me as a burden. Will they make the effort to engage with me, or will I be ignored, as if my presence doesn’t matter? How often do I find myself scanning a room, wondering if I’ll be treated like a person or a puzzle for others to solve?

It’s tiring. It’s exhausting, really, to constantly have to prepare myself for being either seen as invisible or as something that needs to be fixed. That mental energy drains me more than any physical barrier ever could.

There’s a subtle, ongoing assumption that I need help with everything. People grab my chair without asking, they speak to whoever is with me instead of to me, assuming I can’t speak for myself. I’m often treated like I’m incapable of making decisions or doing simple things, just because I use a wheelchair. And while I appreciate genuine help when I need it, the reality is that I’m treated as though I’m not capable of handling things on my own.

It’s the little things. Like when I’m speaking and someone looks past me, as if they’ve already decided what I need. Or when I’m asked questions about my disability that I don’t owe an answer to, simply because my body doesn’t fit into the usual category of “normal.” These moments are so common that I’ve almost learned to expect them. But they still take a toll.

I’ve had people say things like, “You’re so brave,” or “I didn’t even notice you were in a wheelchair,” and while they may mean well, it’s another reminder that I’m still being seen through a lens of pity or surprise. “Brave” implies that what I’m doing existing is something exceptional or heroic. I don’t need to be seen as brave for living my life, for navigating the world. I’m not looking for approval. I’m just trying to exist in the same spaces that anyone else occupies. I just want to be seen as a person, not as someone who’s doing something extraordinary simply by being here.

What’s even harder to stomach is that the emotional labour of explaining myself, of trying to make my presence understood, becomes so ingrained that it becomes a part of my identity. Every time I enter a space, I feel like I have to decide: Do I engage? Do I explain why I need a seat or a ramp? Do I remind people that I can speak for myself? It’s exhausting. It’s tiring to constantly navigate the space between being “othered” and trying to fit in.

What gets to me is the way that I’m constantly expected to apologize for taking up space. There’s a constant sense that I should be asking for permission to exist. I don’t know how many times I’ve walked into a room and felt the need to explain myself, to make myself more palatable to others. It’s not that I want to be invisible; it’s that I don’t want to be seen as a problem.

The emotional weight is the hardest part of all of this the way it wears you down over time. The constant negotiation of my worth, the ongoing battle of proving I belong in spaces that weren’t made for me. It’s exhausting to constantly have to justify my presence and my needs, even when they should be assumed. We’ve come so far in many respects, but in some ways, it feels like things are still moving too slowly, like the fight for recognition is still being fought in rooms where no one is listening.

It’s not just the big barriers, but the small ones that chip away at my sense of belonging. The comments, the looks, the ways in which people assume that I need something or that I can’t do something simply because of the wheelchair. The emotional labour of navigating these interactions, of finding myself constantly in a position where I have to make others feel comfortable with my presence it’s a burden that few people understand.

The thing is, I don’t want to be seen as someone who needs to be fixed. I don’t want my presence to be something that’s constantly questioned or doubted. I just want to take up space, like anyone else. I want to be seen as a person who can contribute, who can engage, who can be part of the world, without having to fight for my right to do so every single time.

The invisible barriers those are the hardest ones. The ones you can’t see, but that you feel every day. They’re the ones that aren’t accounted for, the ones that linger in the background, making me question my worth in spaces that I’m entitled to occupy. And maybe that’s the most exhausting part of all constantly navigating these spaces, constantly trying to prove that my presence, my body, my life, is worth the same space as anyone else’s.

I don’t expect everyone to get it. But I do expect them to try. Because until the world starts recognizing the emotional labour that disabled people carry every day, these invisible barriers will continue to weigh us down, unnoticed by most, but felt by all who live with them.

Britain’s Rage and the Politics of Misdirection

Britain is angry. And with good reason.

For more than a decade, wages have stagnated, rents have spiralled, and public services have been stripped back to the bone. The promises of prosperity and security that once underpinned the social contract feel increasingly hollow. The NHS strains under record waiting lists; housing has slipped beyond the reach of ordinary earners; and energy bills, food prices, and transport costs have become constant sources of anxiety. For many, the sense is not simply of decline, but of abandonment.

This anger is neither irrational nor fringe. It is the predictable consequence of political and economic choices that have favoured austerity over investment, deregulation over stability, and private profit over public welfare. Yet the energy of this collective frustration is not being channelled toward the structures that have failed so comprehensively. Instead, it is being diverted toward migrants.

I was compelled to write this after scrolling through Facebook and seeing a headline from The Independent (UK) appear between unrelated posts. I wasn’t seeking it out, I don’t read the hate stuff they write or go looking for such coverage but in just a few words, it captured how effortlessly public anger is redirected toward migrants and away from the policymakers, institutions, and systems truly responsible for the crises we face.

This redirection is not accidental. It is a deliberate political strategy one with a long history in Britain and far beyond. By encouraging the public to associate complex social crises with immigration, leaders and media outlets absolve themselves, and their policies, of blame. The slogans are familiar: “deport them,” “take back our streets,” “protect our children.” They present as moral imperatives. But beneath the urgency lies a politics of scapegoating that collapses under scrutiny.

Perhaps the most potent narrative is the claim that immigrants are responsible for rising violent crime. High-profile cases, especially those involving violent acts by non-British nationals, are seized upon, amplified, and repeated until they appear to form a pattern.

The evidence tells a different story. Official data from the Office for National Statistics and repeated independent fact-checks show that such cases are statistical outliers. When examined in context, offending rates vary by group, by social and economic conditions, and by the specifics of local contexts. The blanket assertion that “foreigners are driving crime” is not supported by the data. It is an emotional trigger designed to conflate the actions of individuals with the character of entire communities.

Another enduring claim is that migrants are a drain on the public purse that they take more from the system than they contribute. These narrative gains traction in moments of economic difficulty, when competition for resources feels acute.

Yet comprehensive fiscal analyses contradict this assumption. Studies by the Migration Observatory and the Office for Budget Responsibility show that, overall, migrants make a net positive contribution to public finances. They pay taxes, start businesses, and fill labour shortages in critical sectors. To argue that public services are failing because of migrants is to ignore the far more significant pressures of underfunding, privatisation, and regressive taxation policies.

A third claim often made in the same breath as the previous one is that migrants undermine public services. Here, the contradiction is almost self-parody: the same voices that label migrants as a drain simultaneously overlook the fact that many of those services would collapse without migrant labour.

The NHS is a case in point. Nearly one in five NHS staff is a non-British national. In adult social care, agriculture, and logistics, overseas workers are equally indispensable. Removing these workers would not improve the services on which Britons rely; it would deepen the crises already straining them to breaking point. The House of Commons Library and The King’s Fund have both documented the structural nature of these shortages: they are the product of workforce planning failures, poor pay, and chronic underinvestment not immigration.

Underlying all of these claims is a more subtle one: that public perception is itself evidence. If people feel that crime is rising, or that the economy is collapsing under the weight of immigration, then it must be true.

But perceptions are shaped by what is most visible, most repeated, and most emotionally charged not necessarily by what is most common or most significant. Social media and rolling news cycles privilege stories that provoke outrage, and algorithmic amplification ensures that such stories dominate the public imagination. This does not mean that problems do not exist, but it does mean that the causes we assign to them are often filtered through distortion.

What is happening in Britain is not unique. Across the Atlantic, the United States has deployed the same playbook.

When Ronald Reagan came to power in the 1980s, he inherited an economy struggling with inflation, deindustrialisation, and wage stagnation. Rather than confronting corporate deregulation or tax cuts for the wealthy, his administration amplified fears of “illegal aliens” taking jobs and draining welfare programmes. This rhetoric persisted through the Clinton years, intensified under Trump, and remains a central plank of American right-wing politics. Yet the data has been consistent: immigrants, documented or not, commit crimes at lower rates than native-born Americans, and their labour underpins vast swathes of the U.S. economy from farm work to tech innovation.

Europe has its own versions. Margaret Thatcher’s infamous 1978 warning that Britain was being “swamped” by immigrants preceded her government’s austerity measures and industrial restructuring, which hit working-class communities hardest. In France, politicians from the far right and centre alike have linked North African immigration to social disorder, even as many of these communities supply vital labour to construction, public transport, and healthcare. In Italy, successive governments have blamed migrants arriving by boat for economic woes, despite their small proportion of the population and measurable contributions to GDP. In Hungary, Viktor Orbán’s government has used anti-immigration campaigns to deflect from corruption and democratic backsliding, painting asylum seekers as an existential threat to national identity.

The pattern is strikingly consistent: in moments of economic or political crisis, migrants become the chosen scapegoat. The formula works because it offers a simple, visible “enemy,” and because migrants, lacking political power, cannot mount a proportionate defence. The public energy that might have been mobilised toward structural reform is instead channelled into border crackdowns, deportations, and cultural hostility none of which address the underlying issues.

Learning from History: Refusing to Be Divided

The use of scapegoats in times of hardship is as old as politics itself. But history also offers a counternarrative: moments when people recognised the manipulation and turned their anger toward the real sources of their suffering.

In 1930s America, during the Great Depression, corporate and political leaders attempted to pit white and Black workers against each other in the competition for scarce jobs. But the most successful labour movements of that era from the integrated picket lines of the Congress of Industrial Organizations to local tenant unions refused that trap. They understood that division only served the bosses, and that solidarity was the only route to better wages, shorter hours, and safer conditions.

In 1970s Britain, amid economic turmoil and rising unemployment, far-right groups sought to channel public frustration into anti-immigrant violence. They met resistance from multi-racial anti-fascist coalitions like the Rock Against Racism movement and the Anti-Nazi League, which combined cultural power with street-level organising to turn the tide against scapegoating politics.

In post-war Europe, too, reconstruction succeeded where societies rejected ethnic blame games and instead focused on rebuilding infrastructure, investing in public goods, and strengthening democratic institutions.

The lesson is clear: when we are invited to believe that our neighbour is the cause of our hardship, we should ask who benefits from that belief. Division is not a side-effect of scapegoating   it is the point. The more we fight each other, the less we fight the policies and interests that created the crisis in the first place.

We have been here before. And we know how to resist. It requires refusing the easy, false comfort of blaming migrants, and instead demanding accountability from those in power. It requires cross-class, cross-community alliances strong enough to challenge corporate influence, demand fair housing, secure living wages, and restore public services to the standard we all deserve.

Britain is at a crossroads. We can repeat the cycle allowing fear to be weaponised against the wrong targets or we can learn from history, fight together, and refuse to be brainwashed into turning on each other.

 

The Right to Be Seen Without Explanation

It’s a quiet but heavy burden that comes with being disabled in public spaces: the constant need to justify your existence. It’s not always direct confrontation, but it’s always there, lurking in the background. It's the moments when people look at me but don’t really see me, when they speak around me or over me, assuming I don’t have the ability to speak for myself. It’s the way my body becomes an object of curiosity, a puzzle they feel entitled to solve.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked, “What happened to you?” or “Can you walk?” The question is often framed like an innocent inquiry, but it’s not innocent it’s a demand for an explanation. My body, my very existence, requires a justification, as though I need to tell you my life story just to prove that I belong here. It’s an uncomfortable position to be in, and it’s one I find myself in more often than I care to admit.

But the truth is, I don’t owe anyone an explanation about my body. I don’t need to explain why I use a wheelchair, why my body moves differently, why I don’t fit into their narrow assumptions of what’s “normal.” My body isn’t a riddle for you to solve. And yet, society constantly expects me to explain myself, to prove that my presence is valid, that my body is worthy of space.

This constant demand for justification starts to chip away at my sense of self. It feels as though my mere existence is in question, as if my right to occupy the same spaces as everyone else needs to be earned. When I’m asked questions like “What happened to you?” it’s not curiosity. It’s a suggestion that my body is an anomaly, something that needs to be explained before it’s allowed to exist freely. My body, just like anyone else’s, should be allowed to take up space without having to justify why it’s there. But in reality, that’s not how the world works.

I often wonder why this is. Why is it that disabled people, and especially those who don’t fit into narrow standards of “normal,” are so frequently expected to explain ourselves? Think about it: no one asks an able-bodied person, “Can you walk?” No one demands that they explain why they’re in a room, why they belong. No one questions their right to take up space or have a seat at the table. But for me, every time I roll into a room, every time I enter a new space, I have to ask myself will they see me as entitled to be here, or will I have to fight for my right to exist in this space?

This isn’t about the occasional rude comment or the glances from people who are unfamiliar with disability. This is about a broader, systemic issue. It’s about the fact that, as a disabled person, I’m constantly negotiating my presence. I’m made to feel like I need to justify my existence in ways others never do. I’m asked to explain myself, to prove that I deserve the same access to space, the same consideration, the same respect as anyone else.

But I’m tired of explaining. I’m tired of feeling like I have to tell people the backstory of my disability just to be seen, just to be acknowledged. Why should I have to explain myself to make someone else comfortable with my presence? My body doesn’t need a story to exist, just as your body doesn’t. I am not an exception. I am not a curiosity. I am a person, just like anyone else, and I have the right to occupy space without feeling like I have to justify why I’m here.

The emotional toll of constantly justifying my presence is exhausting. It’s draining to have to explain to strangers, to acquaintances, and sometimes even to friends, why I am where I am and why I deserve to be there. This isn’t just about access it’s about dignity. It’s about feeling like my body is enough, that I am enough, without having to provide a justification for my existence.

We live in a world that wasn’t built for disabled people, and the constant demand for explanations only reinforces that. If society truly embraced the concept of accessibility, it would mean creating a world where disabled people don’t have to justify their presence. It would mean designing spaces, conversations, and systems that assume our right to be there without question.

We need to stop treating disability as something that needs to be explained, as something that needs to be fixed, as something that doesn’t quite fit into the “normal” order of things. Disability isn’t an anomaly, and it certainly doesn’t require an explanation before it can exist in the same space as everyone else.

I want to live in a world where my body is simply allowed to exist in the spaces I occupy, without the need for justification. I want to live in a world where disabled people don’t have to explain why they deserve to be seen, heard, and respected. Until that happens, I will keep showing up, unapologetically, without offering an explanation.

Because my presence doesn’t need to be justified. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

I am here. That is enough

The Unspoken Labour of Accessibility

There’s a part of disability that no one talks about: the constant, uncelebrated labour of making sure the world accommodates you. It’s not just about accessible ramps or wide doorways. It’s the invisible work of constantly navigating, advocating, and making people understand that your needs your right to live freely are not special requests, but basic human rights.

When I roll up to a new place, I don’t just think about where the elevators are. I wonder if the doors are wide enough. I check for signs that let me know that someone in this space has thought about me. And more often than not, I find that I have to make the effort again and again to ensure that the spaces I enter will work for me. The effort is always invisible. It’s not the big gestures but the daily micro-actions. The quick moments when someone might hold the door open, or when I’m forced to ask for help to get over a small curb.

But that’s not the whole story, is it? It’s not just the logistical work of finding accessible routes and figuring out where I can go without running into barriers. It’s the mental labour, too. The worry, the stress, the frustration that builds every time I enter a new space. The constant wondering will this work for me? Will it be a struggle? Will I have to advocate for myself yet again?

It’s exhausting.

I don’t know how many times I’ve had to ask for a door to be held open. How many times I’ve had to navigate the crowded corners of cafes, hotels, shops, or public transport, hoping that someone will see me and take initiative without me having to say a word. The expectation is clear: I should be the one making sure I’m included, and if I’m not, well, that’s my problem to fix.

But the reality is, for me, accessibility is often an emotional and logistical burden that never ends. It’s not just about asking for something as simple as a door that opens; it’s about the exhausting process of managing what should be the bare minimum for inclusion. The emotional toll of constantly questioning whether I’ll be allowed in, whether I’ll be visible enough to be seen, whether I’ll have to fight for my right to just exist in a space. Sometimes, the mental exhaustion alone makes it feel like I’ve already run a marathon before I’ve even left my front door.

There’s a specific type of frustration I experience in public spaces, one that’s so common it feels almost trivial to mention except it’s not trivial at all. It’s the disabled toilet. The one that’s meant to be an accessible haven but turns into a test of patience, ingenuity, and sometimes sheer physical endurance.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve entered a disabled toilet, only to realize I can’t even turn my wheelchair inside. The space is supposed to be there to give me the freedom to move, to change, to feel dignified. Instead, it’s a claustrophobic box, with walls too close and fixtures placed just wrong enough to make it impossible to get the turning radius I need. I’ve had to edge myself around corners, pushing myself against walls, trying to manoeuvre a space that was supposedly built for me. But somehow, it’s not.

And then there’s the door. The infamous door that’s supposed to open with ease but is often too heavy, too narrow, or too stubborn to budge without me risking injury. Sometimes, in a tight squeeze, I find myself scratching my fingers as I self-propel through the door, my hands stinging and raw as I push against resistance. A door that’s designed for accessibility should allow for easy entry, but in reality, it demands more physical effort than the average able-bodied person would even think twice about.

It’s infuriating. It’s not just the lack of space it’s the assumption that the space provided should somehow be enough. It’s as if the bare minimum of “accessible” has become acceptable. But there’s nothing acceptable about a toilet where you can’t even move your wheelchair without fear of scraping your knuckles or getting stuck in a corner.

What frustrates me even more is the lack of thought that goes into these spaces. How is it that designers, architects, and planners can create spaces that assume everyone is able-bodied, but then check off a box by adding a single, cramped stall with a wheelchair symbol on it? That’s not accessibility. That’s tokenism.

The problem is, these aren’t just inconveniences they’re obstacles. They aren’t minor details that can be brushed aside. They’re barriers to my autonomy, my comfort, and my dignity. Every time I’m forced into a situation where I struggle to turn, where I scrape my hands or feel suffocated by poor design, it’s a reminder that I don’t matter enough for spaces to be truly built for me. These are not just poorly designed toilets they are a reflection of a world that hasn’t bothered to think beyond the bare minimum of compliance.

The most basic accessibility is not enough. We need spaces that respect the bodies that occupy them. We need toilets where I don’t have to fight to fit my wheelchair, where I don’t risk injury just by trying to get through the door, and where I don’t have to accept less than what every person deserves. Until then, every visit to a “disabled toilet” becomes just another reminder that even when a space is “for us,” it’s rarely designed with us in mind.

It’s a labour I never signed up for, but that I take on day in and day out. I often find myself ahead of the curve anticipating the needs of those around me, whether it's asking for help when something’s out of reach or identifying the nearest accessible restroom. It’s a skill I’ve developed over time, but one I shouldn’t have to cultivate.

What gets lost in all of this is the energy it takes. The mental load of constantly preparing for, thinking about, and worrying whether or not the world will meet you halfway. Every time I have to ask for something whether it's a ramp, a seat, or an elevator button within reach I carry the weight of expectation: the expectation that it’s my responsibility to ensure that my needs are taken care of. And when I do have to ask, I feel like I’m the one who’s inconveniencing others, even though it’s society’s oversight that’s put me in this position.

But this work isn’t mine alone. This responsibility shouldn’t fall solely on disabled individuals. Society must do its part, not just by ticking boxes but by truly considering the intersectionality of accessibility. It’s not just about physical access; it’s about the emotional and cognitive work of navigating spaces that weren’t designed with you in mind. And it’s about those spaces becoming inclusive not as a favour, but as a basic expectation.

No one asks able-bodied people to carry the mental weight of accessibility. No one expects them to navigate every situation as if their right to be in a space needs justification. I often feel like I’m the one playing catch-up, filling in the gaps for a world that wasn’t built for me and doing it all while trying to maintain my own sense of dignity and agency. The sheer weight of it all sometimes makes me want to retreat, to stop showing up for a world that can’t seem to be bothered to show up for me.

This is why we need a shift in how accessibility is framed: it’s not just about ensuring access, it’s about creating a culture that respects the inherent dignity of every person. A culture where the unspoken labour of accessibility is shared, where I don’t have to constantly point out where things fall short, and where my presence is assumed, not an exception to the rule.

Until that happens, the work continues, quietly, persistently, unacknowledged. And I will continue to do it because I don’t have a choice. But that doesn’t mean it’s not exhausting.

Because accessibility is a right, not a favour. And it's about time that everyone understands that.

Why Sydney Sweeney’s Ad Isn’t Just Tone-Deaf—It’s Harmful

When I first saw Sydney Sweeney’s now-infamous American Eagle ad, I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even roll my eyes. I felt angry. The video plays on the words “genes” and “jeans,” with Sweeney a blonde-haired, blue-eyed actress saying: “Genes are passed down… eye colour, hair colour… my jeans are blue.” To some, it was “cute.” To me, as a Black person, it felt like a slap in the face.

That ad doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It exists in a world where whiteness is constantly celebrated, while Blackness our resistance, our features, our history is policed, punished, or turned into a punchline. I’m writing this not from America, but from Britain. And still, I feel the sting. Because what happens in the US rarely stays there. American whiteness is global. It sets standards that travel through advertising, fashion, celebrity culture, and social media. We consume these messages daily in the UK. We live in their aftermath. The idea of “good genes” being synonymous with whiteness, with blue eyes and blonde hair, isn’t just American it echoes through school corridors here, in casting decisions, beauty trends, and assumptions about what is “normal,” desirable, or professional.

Let’s talk about that phrase “good genes.” It’s not innocent. It’s not clever. It has a history soaked in blood. In the US, it was used to justify slavery, to promote the forced sterilisation of Black, Indigenous, and disabled people, to build systems that categorised people as “fit” or “unfit” to reproduce. Eugenics wasn’t a fringe belief it was taught in schools, endorsed by governments, and applied in law. The very foundations of American progress were shaped by beliefs about who deserved to pass on their genes and who didn’t. And the belief in genetic superiority didn’t stop in the US. It found deadly expression in Nazi Germany, where “good genes” came to mean white skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. That ideology killed millions Jews, Roma, disabled people, and others who didn’t fit the violent, narrow idea of purity.

In 2025, we now have a white actress in a denim campaign laughing about “genes” as a marketing gimmick. It’s not clever wordplay. It’s erasure. It’s the rebranding of historical violence into a fashion campaign. What she says and what her whiteness represents does not exist outside of this context. Especially when we know it’s not her first brush with controversy. In 2022, Sweeney faced backlash when her family hosted a MAGA-themed party, complete with Blue Lives Matter gear and Trump merchandise. She didn’t engage the criticism. Her fans rushed to defend her, insisting she shouldn’t be punished for her family’s views. But silence is never neutral especially when you benefit from what that silence protects.

Now we’ve learned she’s a registered Republican voter in Florida a state that has become synonymous with voter suppression, anti-Black legislation, and attacks on LGBTQ+ and immigrant communities. These aren't distant political choices they’re active alignments. Whether conscious or not, they signal something. And when the backlash to this ad came, Sweeney said nothing. No reflection. No accountability. She didn’t have to. Because whiteness shields her from consequence. Black celebrities don’t get that grace. We speak out, we’re “angry.” We challenge something, we’re “too political.” We misstep, we’re cancelled. But Sweeney? She gets a stock bump. More brand deals.

After the ad went viral, American Eagle’s stock rose 20%. Not because the jeans were spectacular but because controversy sells. Donald Trump praised Sydney Sweeney. Senator Ted Cruz reposted the ad, calling it “brilliant.” These are people who’ve spent their careers dismissing racial justice, mocking Black pain, and actively working to dismantle equity. And they love this ad. That should tell us everything. They see themselves in it. They see a world where whiteness is unchallenged, where nostalgia for “better times” can be smuggled in through a pretty face and a pun. It’s comfort food for white fragility. It’s a nod to supremacy wrapped in denim.

This isn’t just about Sweeney. It’s about the systems that allow white celebrities to dance on the edges of racism, profit from it, and retreat. Meanwhile, the rest of us carry the fallout. We feel the weight. We know what “good genes” has meant for our communities. We know how our features our hair, our skin, our names have been held against us. And we’re not being sensitive. We’re being honest.

This ad hurt because it reminded us, once again, that our trauma is considered marketable. Our histories are punchlines. Our bodies are never the standard, only the target. It hurt because we know what it means to be told, again and again, that we’re not the ones with “good genes.” That our beauty, our bloodlines, our survival are always somehow less than. It hurt because it keeps happening, and they keep getting away with it.

I thought about my own ancestors. Stolen. Enslaved. Silenced. Sterilised. Erased. I thought about how they never got to celebrate their genes. How they were told they were a threat, not a legacy. And then I thought about how white features thin lips, blonde hair, blue eyes are praised, replicated, made profitable, while ours are shamed or appropriated. We’re told to be quiet, to move on. But I won’t.

This essay is my refusal to be silent. It’s my declaration that this kind of harm cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged, just because it was dressed up in denim. I will not support brands that exploit Black pain for profit. I will not idolise celebrities who align themselves—directly or indirectly—with systems that harm my people. I will not be gaslit into believing that racism is ever just a joke.

If you’ve felt the same way angry, tired, unseen you’re not alone. You’re not overreacting. You’re living in a world where harm is often aestheticised and history is conveniently forgotten. But we remember. We carry the weight. We keep speaking truth. And we refuse to let it be repackaged as entertainment.

This isn’t just about an ad.
It’s about power.
It’s about whose genes are celebrated.
Whose pain is ignored.
And who gets to profit off the bodies and histories of others.