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.