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.
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