The Department for Work and Pensions and the politics of welfare reform

The welfare state was never meant to be like this.

When Britain was rebuilding after the Second World War, the government made a promise: no one would be left behind. The Beveridge Report of 1942 identified five great evils — Want, Disease, Ignorance, Squalor, and Idleness and designed a safety net “from cradle to grave.” This was not charity. It was a right of citizenship. Workers would pay in when they could, and society would stand by them when illness, disability, or unemployment struck.

It was about solidarity, not suspicion. Cleaners, carers, teachers, factory workers, bus drivers, the people who kept Britain running were not on high wages, but they worked their whole lives. Welfare was their guarantee of dignity when times turned hard.

Fast forward to today, and that promise has been twisted into something rotten. The Department for Work and Pensions (DWP), the very institution meant to uphold the welfare state, has become a machine of suspicion and punishment. Instead of support, it delivers stress. Instead of protection, it delivers humiliation.

And I know this because I live it too.

My Experience: Missed Calls, Hostile Letters, and No Accountability

On 25 September, I was due to have a phone appointment with the DWP. The call never came. There was no missed call, no voicemail, nothing in my records. But a few days later, a letter arrived. Its opening line: “You need to tell us why you did not attend.” The closing threat: “If you do not attend your appointments… your payment could be stopped.”

That letter was not written to help me. It was written to blame me.

I rebooked for another appointment at 10:30. Again, no call came. Again, no missed call. Again, I was left chasing. Meanwhile, the letters keep coming cold, passive-aggressive, treating me not as a human needing support but as a suspect who needs to prove themselves.

When I once complained about a member of staff who was openly rude, a manager brushed it off: “he wasn’t.” No accountability. No change. Where do you go from there?

And when I tried to do something positive, to move forward and build a business, I discovered another barrier: DWP’s own “Access to Work” scheme. On paper, it helps disabled people start or stay in employment. In reality, for business, it can take up to 30 weeks for support to arrive. But the first 30 weeks of a new business are the most critical. A delay that long isn’t support; it’s sabotage.

That is my reality. And I am not alone.

The cruelty of the system is not just inefficiency. It is baked into its culture. And sometimes, it kills.

• J. Whiting, a 42-year-old disabled mother, had her benefits wrongly stopped in 2017. Just days later, she died by suicide. In 2025, a second inquest confirmed that the DWP’s decision had triggered her death (The Guardian, 2 June 2025).
• M. O’Sullivan, aged 60, was declared “fit for work” despite serious mental health issues. He took his own life. The coroner directly blamed the Work Capability Assessment for causing “intense anxiety” that led to his death (The Guardian, 7 Feb 2020).
• K. Featherstone, a young disabled man, had his PIP cut. His health deteriorated into malnutrition, depression, and isolation. He took his own life. His mother later described the assessment process as “torture,” saying the DWP had ignored repeated warnings (Disability Rights UK, July 2021).
• A disabled woman learned that her PIP appeal had failed. Just 48 hours later, she was dead by suicide. Her life ended with a letter (Disability News Service, 2019).
• 1,860 people who applied for PIP between 2018 and 2022 died within six months of being denied support nearly 100 people a month. Many were terminally ill, but the system still decided they didn’t qualify (Marie Curie, 2022).

Behind every statistic is a human being. And behind every death is the same culture: a department more focused on policing than protecting.

A Culture of Suspicion and Punishment

What ties my story to J. Whiting’s, to M. O’Sullivan’s, to Ker Featherstone’s?

It is culture.

The DWP does not see claimants as citizens with rights. It sees us as cheats waiting to be exposed. That suspicion is written into every letter, every assessment, every interaction.

• Phone appointments missed by DWP become accusations against the claimant.
• Appeals drag on for years, leaving people in poverty and despair.
• Customer service is often rude, dismissive, or outright cruel.
• Assessors ask questions like, “Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?” and yes, that happened to claimants (The Independent, 2017).

Even in the rare cases when coroners or watchdogs find fault, the system protects itself. The National Audit Office confirmed at least 69 suicides had been linked to DWP benefit handling through its own internal reviews, but it warned the real figure was likely far higher, because many cases were under-recorded or destroyed (The Guardian, 7 Feb 2020).

This is not welfare. This is not safe. This is institutional abuse.

The Betrayal of the Post-War Promise

What makes it worse is remembering where all this began.

The welfare state was created to protect ordinary workers, the cleaners, the factory workers, the teachers, the nurses, the builders, people who gave their whole lives to their jobs but never earned enough to be secure when illness or redundancy came. It was designed as a collective promise: “We will look after you, because you looked after society.”

Now? That promise has been broken.

Instead of being a right of citizenship, welfare is treated as a favour. Instead of solidarity, it is suspicion. Instead of support, it is punishment. The DWP, the institution meant to protect, has become the institution that harms.

This is not just inefficiency. It is cruelty, normalised. And it must end.

What Needs to Change

Anger is not enough. We already know the system is broken — the question is: what must be done to fix it? The answer is not cutting disability benefits, not harsher sanctions, not more hoops to jump through. The answer is cultural and structural change.

Here are six urgent demands.

1. A Statutory Duty of Care

Right now, the DWP has no legal duty to protect the people it deals with. That means when vulnerable claimants are harmed, even when they die, the department is not held responsible.

This has to change. A recent report from Parliament’s Work and Pensions Committee recommended a statutory duty of care: a legal requirement that the DWP safeguard claimants, especially those who are disabled, ill, or at risk of harm (UK Parliament Report, 2025).

Why it matters: If doctors, teachers, and social workers can be held accountable for safeguarding failures, why not the DWP? It handles the lives of millions, often at their lowest point. Without a duty of care, claimants will continue to fall through the cracks, sometimes fatally.

2. End Hostile Communications

The language of DWP letters is one of suspicion and blame. “Tell us why you failed to attend.” “If you do not respond, your payments may be stopped.”

But many people never “failed” at all. Calls are missed by the DWP, letters arrive late, and vulnerable people are punished for administrative errors.

Why it matters: Tone is not cosmetic. Tone can save lives. A letter that blames can tip someone already struggling into despair. A letter that supports can give them enough hope to carry on.

The DWP must rewrite its communications in plain, compassionate language. For example:

• Instead of “You did not attend your appointment,” write “We tried to contact you. Did something go wrong? Please let us know.”

It costs nothing to treat people with dignity.

3. Independent Oversight and Transparency

When claimants die, the DWP carries out internal process reviews (IPRs). But most of these reports never see the light of day. In fact, Disability Rights UK revealed that older reports have even been destroyed (DRUK, 2020).

This secrecy is deliberate. It shields the DWP from accountability.

Why it matters: Without transparency, lessons are never learned. Families are left without answers. And the public cannot see how many lives have been lost.

All IPRs, past and future, must be published in full. And oversight must be taken out of DWP’s hands and given to an independent watchdog with the power to investigate, sanction, and enforce change.

4. Appeals That Don’t Take Years

Many people who are denied benefits eventually win on appeal. But the appeal system is so slow that claimants often endure months or years of stress, debt, and poverty before justice arrives. Some do not live to see it.

Why it matters: A system that regularly overturns its own decisions is a system that knows it is making mistakes. Delayed justice is not justice; it is cruelty.

Appeals must be fast-tracked, with priority given to cases where health is deteriorating or livelihoods are at stake. Independent panels should be empowered to overturn unfair decisions swiftly.

5. Training in Human Dignity

Customer service is often rude, dismissive, or outright cruel. Claimants have been asked appalling questions like “Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?” (The Independent, 2017). Complaints are brushed aside.

Why it matters: DWP staff are not dealing with numbers. They are dealing with people at their most vulnerable people in crisis, with disabilities, and people facing poverty.

Every staff member must receive mandatory training in trauma-informed practice, disability rights, and respect. Staff who abuse claimants must face consequences. And claimants must have real avenues for complaints that are taken seriously, not dismissed out of hand.

6. Fix Access to Work

For disabled people who want to start or stay in work, the DWP offers “Access to Work”, a scheme meant to provide grants and adjustments. On paper, it sounds like support. In reality, for disabled entrepreneurs, it often takes 30 weeks for help to arrive.

Why it matters: The first 30 weeks of a business are the most critical. That is when support is needed most. Waiting half a year is not support, it is sabotage.

If the government is serious about disabled people working, Access to Work must be streamlined. Support should be delivered quickly, flexibly, and with recognition that disabled entrepreneurs and workers cannot wait half a year for basic assistance.

The Bottom Line

The welfare state was created after the Second World War as a promise: that no one would be abandoned in times of hardship. That promise has been broken.

Instead of care, the DWP delivers cruelty. Instead of dignity, it delivers suspicion. Instead of support, it delivers stress. And in too many cases, it delivers death.

Cutting disability benefits will not fix this. The system itself is rotten. It does not need tinkering  it needs transformation.

We cannot accept passive-aggressive letters that shame people into despair. We cannot accept years-long appeals that leave people destitute. We cannot accept Access to Work delays that crush disabled entrepreneurs before they begin. We cannot accept a department that operates without a duty of care while people die under its watch.

This is not just about money. It is about humanity. And right now, Britain’s safety net has become a trap.

To MPs, to ministers, to the Ombudsman, to anyone in power: you cannot say you did not know. The evidence is here. The lives lost are here. My story is here.

The DWP does not need more excuses. It needs reform. It needs accountability. And above all, it needs to remember why the welfare state was created in the first place: to protect people when life is hardest.

Until then, every missed call, every hostile letter, every delayed appeal, every unnecessary death is on your hands.

 

For more stories visit my substack- https://chronicledtruths.substack.com

Bad by Design: Universities, Disability, and the Myth of Equality The Irony of an Equality Job

A department at the University of Oxford recently advertised for a Senior HR and Equality Officer. On paper, this was a role about fairness, inclusion, and creating a workplace where everyone could thrive. In practice, the recruitment process revealed just how little those words mean when access is treated as an afterthought.

On the application form, candidates were asked the standard questions: Do you consider yourself disabled? Do you require adjustments? I disclosed that I am a wheelchair user. HR saw it. The line manager saw it. Yet the interview was scheduled in an inaccessible venue  only moved after I raised the issue.

This is not a small oversight. It is a failure at two levels: HR, the department tasked with equality, and the line manager responsible for shortlisting. They had the information and ignored it. They looked at the form but did not see the person.

And here is the question I cannot shake: if they failed to notice disability disclosure, what were they looking for?

Borrowed Access Isn’t Access

This was not my first time at Oxford. I have been to four interviews there. Each time, access was close to zero. Sometimes an office was “borrowed” for the day, as though accessibility could be loaned and returned when the disabled candidate left. But if access has to be borrowed for an interview, what happens if you get the job? Where will you work? How will you belong?

Accessibility cannot be occasional. It cannot depend on borrowed rooms, temporary fixes, or hurried rearrangements. For disabled candidates, these arrangements send a clear message: you are not part of the design. You are an afterthought.

Toilets That Fail

The same problem plays out with toilets across universities and colleges. Many are built with the sign of disability on the door but not the reality of access inside. At Abingdon & Witney College, I often had to force myself to stand up twisting painfully  just to reach the toilet seat.

A so-called “disabled toilet” may have a wide door, a pull cord, and a handle on the wall, but if the room is too small to turn a standard wheelchair, then it is not accessible. If you cannot get from your chair to the seat safely, it is not accessible.

And when you point this out? Too often, you’re treated as a complainer, a whinger. The institution gets to tick the box “we have a disabled toilet”  while disabled people bear the cost of the design failure.

When you are already working, already tired, being told to “just use your walking stick” or “make do” is not a solution. It is an erasure of the exhaustion and pain that extra effort brings. It is not equality. It is survival dressed up as inclusion.

When Equality Is Selective

I worked in HR. I know how inclusion gets discussed in departments. Race and gender dominate  because there are charters and marks like Athena Swan or the Race Equality Charter that bring recognition and, in some cases, funding. Gender equality has weight because it is measurable and rewarded. Race is increasingly visible because institutions want to be seen to do the right thing.

But disability? Rarely on the agenda. It is spoken about the least, often ignored, and almost never prioritised.

The worst thing about being disabled is that you have no choice. If the lift doesn’t work, if the toilet is too small, if the interview room is upstairs, then you are excluded. Race and gender equality are urgent and vital struggles but they cannot be pursued while disability is sidelined, treated as optional, or too expensive to address. That is not equality. That is selective equality.

More Than Oxford

Oxford is bad. Westminster is bad. Oxford Brookes is not better either. At Westminster, I once went to a conference where the lifts weren’t working. I was escorted through service corridors by a group of facilities men  frightening and humiliating. At Oxford Brookes, my own supervisor once told me I couldn’t pursue an academic career because of my disability.

These are not isolated experiences. They are the norm. Universities across the UK remain unready for disabled people. They build environments around the able-bodied norm, then scramble to improvise when disabled people appear. It is not that the structures are “too old” or “too historic.” They build new ones too and still fail to design them for access. That is not heritage. That is choice.

Exclusion by Design

Here is the truth: universities were never meant for disabled people. Their buildings, policies, and cultures were created for able-bodied men of privilege. And while institutions have learned to speak the language of equality about race, gender, sexuality disability remains the category they least want to deal with.

That silence matters. Because for wheelchair users, what is “optional” to the institution is life-defining for us. A working lift is not a convenience. A genuinely accessible toilet is not a luxury. An accessible interview room is not a favour. They are the basics of participation. Without them, we are excluded before the conversation even begins.

The Lesson for the Future

Oxford is bad. Westminster is bad. Higher education is bad when it comes to accessibility. This is not about one building, one office, or one conference. It is about a system that was never designed with disabled people in mind and has still not been rebuilt to include us.

For future generations, the lesson is clear: inclusion is meaningless if it depends on who demands it. Disability cannot be left as the last, the least, the optional part of equality agendas. It must be built in  to the bricks, the rooms, the jobs, the everyday.

Until that happens, we do not have equality. We have selective equality and selective equality is no equality at all.

Yours truly,
The Chronicled Truth

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.

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.

Do 'Disability Confident' Companies Really Care About Hiring Disabled People, or Is It Just a Tick-Box Exercise?

The UK’s ‘Disability Confident’ scheme was introduced to encourage employers to recruit and retain disabled people. On paper, it sounds like a positive step towards inclusivity. But in practice, does it truly lead to better employment opportunities for disabled individuals, or is it just another corporate box-ticking exercise with little real impact?

The Promise vs. The Reality

The Disability Confident scheme is designed to help employers become more inclusive by offering guidance and best practices for hiring and supporting disabled employees. Companies that sign up can achieve different levels of accreditation, with the highest level (‘Disability Confident Leader’) supposedly demonstrating an organisation’s full commitment to disability inclusion.

However, for many disabled job seekers, the reality is far from promising. Despite a company displaying the ‘Disability Confident’ badge on its website or job postings, many disabled applicants still struggle to secure employment. The question is: are companies truly changing their hiring practices, or are they merely meeting the minimum requirements to appear inclusive?

Many companies may make strong public commitments to disability inclusion but fail to follow through with tangible action. It’s common to see businesses proudly display their Disability Confident accreditation on recruitment pages while offering inaccessible application processes, conducting non-inclusive interviews, or failing to make reasonable adjustments once a disabled employee is hired.

Barriers Still Exist

Many disabled job seekers continue to face systemic challenges, including:

·  Bias in recruitment – Some companies may claim to be ‘disability confident’ but still reject qualified disabled candidates due to unconscious (or conscious) bias.

·  Lack of reasonable adjustments – Even when disabled employees are hired, they often struggle to get the adjustments they need to work effectively, such as flexible hours, assistive technology, or accessible office spaces.

·  Retention issues – Some companies hire disabled employees to meet diversity targets but fail to provide a supportive work environment, leading to high turnover rates.

·  Discriminatory hiring practices – Many disabled applicants report going through interview processes only to be rejected without clear feedback, making it difficult to determine whether their disability played a role in the decision.

·  Lack of alternative hiring assessments – Standard interviews often disadvantage disabled candidates, particularly those with neurodiverse conditions or communication difficulties. Employers rarely offer alternative methods of assessing a candidate’s true ability to do the job.

·  Assumptions about capability – Employers may assume that disabled candidates will require extensive accommodations or will not be able to perform as well as non-disabled colleagues, leading to automatic rejection before real skills are assessed.

·  Inaccessible job application processes – Many online application systems are not designed with accessibility in mind, making it difficult for disabled candidates to apply in the first place.

·  Failure to provide disability-inclusive career progression – Even when disabled people are employed, they are often overlooked for promotions, leadership roles, and training opportunities, limiting their career growth.

What Can You Do as a Disabled Job Seeker?

If you are struggling to secure a job despite attending interviews, it’s important to consider several strategies:

·  Request feedback – Politely ask interviewers for constructive feedback to understand whether there are areas to improve or whether bias may be a factor.

·  Seek support – Disability employment services, mentoring schemes, and advocacy groups can help navigate the job market and provide tailored guidance.

·  Challenge discrimination – If you suspect discrimination, you have the right to file a complaint or seek legal advice through organisations such as ACAS or the Equality and Human Rights Commission.

·  Explore alternative pathways – Self-employment, freelancing, or social enterprises may provide more accessible work environments where you have greater control over your career.

·  Network and find allies – Connecting with disabled professionals and inclusive employers through LinkedIn or disability-focused career events can open doors to opportunities that might not be publicly advertised.

·  Look for genuinely inclusive employers – Some companies go beyond the Disability Confident scheme and have a proven track record of hiring and supporting disabled employees. Research company policies, employee testimonials, and reviews on workplace inclusion.

Tick-Box Culture and PR Spin

One of the biggest concerns is that for some employers, being ‘Disability Confident’ is little more than a branding exercise. Achieving a Disability Confident accreditation does not require companies to prove that they have successfully hired or retained disabled employees—only that they have pledged to follow certain guidelines. This means that a company can achieve accreditation without making any real, measurable impact.

Some businesses use disability inclusion as a public relations tool rather than a true commitment to change. They may sign pledges, attend diversity panels, or release statements during Disability History Month while simultaneously failing to support their disabled employees or job applicants.

Advice for Employers: Moving Beyond a Tick-Box Exercise

If employers genuinely want to make their workplaces more inclusive, they must take action beyond simply signing up for the Disability Confident scheme. Here’s what they can do:

·  Ensure recruitment processes are accessible – Use accessible online application platforms, offer alternative interview formats, and be clear about adjustments available for disabled candidates.

·  Provide clear career progression opportunities – Disabled employees should have equal opportunities for promotions, leadership roles, and professional development.

·  Be transparent about disability inclusion – Companies should publish statistics on how many disabled people they hire and retain to demonstrate real commitment.

·  Conduct independent audits – External reviews should assess whether a company’s disability policies are genuinely effective, rather than just performative.

·  Invest in training – Disability inclusion training should be mandatory for recruiters, hiring managers, and senior leadership to challenge unconscious biases and improve understanding of reasonable adjustments.

·  Create a culture of support – Employers should actively consult disabled employees and listen to their needs rather than assuming what adjustments are required.

·  Hire disabled people into leadership roles – Representation matters. Having disabled people in decision-making positions ensures workplace policies are shaped by lived experiences.

·  Go beyond compliance – Rather than meeting the bare minimum legal requirements, businesses should strive to create an environment where disabled employees thrive, not just survive.

While the Disability Confident scheme has the potential to drive meaningful change, too many companies use it as a badge of honour rather than a catalyst for action. Until businesses prove that they are genuinely committed to inclusive hiring and workplace support, many disabled job seekers will continue to view it as just another corporate tick-box exercise.

Real change requires more than just words—it requires action, accountability, and a genuine desire to remove barriers for disabled people in the workforce. Employers must stop treating disability inclusion as a PR exercise and start ensuring that disabled people have the same opportunities, respect, and career prospects as everyone else.

 

Coercion in Intimate Relationships: The Silent Abuse of Disabled People

 

Gender-based violence is a pervasive issue that affects millions of people across the world, but for those with disabilities, the forms it takes can be more complex, isolating, and difficult to recognise. One of the most insidious and often overlooked forms of abuse is sexual coercion. This type of abuse occurs when one partner pressures, manipulates, or forces the other into sexual activities against their will. For disabled individuals, coercion can be particularly hard to identify and even harder to escape, especially when it occurs within intimate relationships where trust and dependence are central.

While sexual coercion can manifest in many ways, disabled individuals face unique and severe challenges that make this form of abuse even more pervasive. In relationships where one partner is a caregiver, these challenges are often compounded, making it harder for the victim to speak out, resist, or even recognise the abuse as it unfolds.

Understanding Coercion in the Context of Disability

Coercion involves manipulation, threats, or force to obtain sexual activity without the other person’s consent. However, sexual coercion is not always overt. It can be subtle and gradual, often involving emotional manipulation, pressure, or the exploitation of power dynamics in a relationship.

For disabled individuals, coercion may not just occur in the form of forceful or physical pressure. It can also happen when the abuser plays on the vulnerability of their partner—exploiting their dependency for care, emotional support, or financial assistance. This form of abuse can go unnoticed because it is often masked by the guise of "care" or "love."

Coercion and Dependency

In many cases, disabled people rely on their partner or caregiver for daily support, such as assistance with mobility, personal care, or medical needs. This creates a power imbalance where the disabled individual may feel they have little choice but to comply with their partner’s demands, even when those demands involve sex.

For example, a caregiver might say something like, “If you love me, you’ll do this,” or “You owe me for everything I’ve done for you.” These comments blur the lines between genuine affection and control. The disabled person, already in a vulnerable position, may feel trapped, uncertain of how to refuse or whether their refusal will lead to negative consequences, such as a loss of care, increased isolation, or further violence.

Physical Abuse and Sexual Coercion

While emotional manipulation and pressure are common forms of coercion, there are situations where physical violence becomes part of the coercion. Disabled individuals, particularly those with limited mobility or who require assistance with personal care, may be at greater risk of being physically forced into sexual activities by their partner, who also serves as their caregiver.

This abuse can take the form of being physically restrained or manipulated into engaging in sex when the person is physically or emotionally exhausted, in pain, or unwell. The caregiver may use threats or acts of violence, such as hitting, pinching, or rough handling, to coerce sexual activity. The disabled individual may not have the strength to defend themselves, may feel they have no other option but to comply, or might be too afraid to speak out because of the potential consequences.

Many people with disabilities experience chronic pain, fatigue, or medication side effects, which can make it even harder to resist sexual coercion. In these cases, abuse is not just a matter of power; it’s about taking advantage of someone who is physically vulnerable.

Why Coercion is Hard to Recognise and Report

Coercion is often difficult to identify because it doesn’t always leave visible scars. The signs of coercion and sexual violence are not as obvious as physical assault, and when abuse occurs in the context of caregiving, it is often masked by the care and support being provided.

Moreover, many disabled individuals may feel isolated, dependent, or even guilty for speaking out. The fear of losing care or support, or the shame of having their abuse dismissed, can make it hard to take action. Many disabled people are also vulnerable to social isolation, and without a support network, they may feel trapped in abusive relationships with no way out.

In the UK, there is also a lack of tailored support for disabled survivors of abuse. The current support services may not be fully accessible or equipped to address the specific needs of disabled people, whether it’s in terms of physical accessibility to shelters, the provision of assistance with communication needs, or the understanding of how abuse manifests in these relationships.

The Role of Societal Perceptions

In addition to physical and emotional abuse, another key factor that exacerbates sexual coercion among disabled people is the prevailing societal perception of disability. In the UK, disabled people are often perceived as asexual or incapable of experiencing sexual desire, which makes it easier for abusers to dismiss their needs and desires.

This stereotype can create a toxic environment where disabled individuals are not seen as worthy of consent, or worse, where their sexual autonomy is ignored. Many disabled people may internalize these societal views, believing that they don’t have the right to express their desires or say no. The pervasive belief that disabled people are “lucky” to have someone in their life who is willing to care for them can lead to a situation where they are sexually exploited, yet they feel unable to assert their right to refuse.

Reporting and Support Challenges

In the UK, victims of sexual coercion face significant challenges when it comes to reporting abuse. Disabled individuals may experience physical, communication, or psychological barriers when trying to disclose their experiences. For example, a person with a learning disability or cognitive impairment might struggle to communicate their experience of coercion or might be misunderstood by professionals, such as law enforcement, social workers, or healthcare providers.

There is also the issue of mistrust. Disabled people often feel that their experiences are dismissed or minimized, especially when their abuser is someone in a position of power, such as a caregiver or intimate partner. The fear of not being believed or being further isolated can prevent many from seeking help.

The Psychological and Emotional Toll

The emotional consequences of sexual coercion are far-reaching. Survivors often experience feelings of guilt, shame, and fear. They may struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, and anxiety. These emotional tolls are often compounded by the isolation many disabled individuals face, leaving them without the support systems they need to recover.

The abuse can also erode a person’s sense of self-worth, leading them to question their autonomy or feel undeserving of better treatment. For many, this creates a cycle of emotional manipulation and dependency that can be extremely difficult to break, making it harder to leave the abuser or seek help.

What Needs to Change?

In order to protect disabled individuals from sexual coercion, a multifaceted approach is needed. First, we need to dismantle harmful stereotypes about disability and sexuality, recognising that disabled people have the same right to sexual autonomy and consent as anyone else.

Second, there needs to be better access to support services. Shelters, social services, and legal professionals need to be better trained to recognise the signs of coercion and abuse within relationships that involve disabled individuals. Services must be made more accessible—physically, emotionally, and mentally—to ensure that disabled survivors can reach out for help without fear of stigma or being misunderstood.

Finally, we must encourage open dialogue about the sexual rights of disabled individuals. Only through education, awareness, and better societal understanding can we begin to create an environment where disabled people are empowered to say "no" and are supported in asserting their rights and dignity.

If you or someone you know is experiencing sexual coercion or gender-based violence, it’s essential to seek support. There are organisations in the UK, such as Women’s Aid and Scope, that provide resources for disabled survivors of abuse and can help guide individuals through the process of reporting abuse and accessing legal and emotional support.