Twelve

The world is not designed for people like me. Every day, it becomes clearer that society has built its walls, stairs, and doors for the able-bodied. It is a place where the expectation is that everyone can walk, see, hear, and move through space in the same seamless way. But for disabled and chronically ill people, like me and millions of others, the world is a labyrinth of obstacles, and navigating it demands superhuman effort. Yet, this burden falls squarely on us, the ones who are already fighting battles within our bodies. Society acts as if accessibility is a privilege, an extra accommodation, when in truth it should be a baseline.

The idea that disabled people must conform to a world not made for us is absurd. Instead, it is society’s responsibility to shape the world so that it is accessible to all. If we can build skyscrapers that defy the laws of nature, why can’t we create spaces that include everyone? Why is it that when I wheel into a building, I am often greeted by a flight of stairs rather than a ramp? Why is it that the public transportation system rarely considers those who cannot stand or walk with ease? Why do doors, counters, sidewalks, and bathrooms constantly remind me of my "otherness"? It is not my body that is the problem; it is the infrastructure that refuses to acknowledge my existence.

Every disabled person has their stories of exclusion, moments when the world told them, "You don’t belong here." For me, it was the narrow bathroom stalls at a concert venue, the subway platforms with no elevator, the sidewalks whose cracks jolt my wheelchair and leave my body in pain. These are not minor inconveniences; they are glaring reminders that my needs are an afterthought. And they extend beyond physical barriers. Consider healthcare, where I am too often dismissed, misdiagnosed, or simply not believed because I don’t fit the mold of a “standard” patient.

This isn’t just about inconvenience. It’s about survival. Inaccessible spaces force us into isolation. I spent months inside my apartment because there was no safe way for me to navigate the world without risking further harm to my body. How is that acceptable? Disabled people are told we should be grateful for the small accommodations we are given, but how can gratitude exist when the crumbs we receive are the bare minimum of what’s required for a dignified life?

The truth is that making the world more accessible benefits everyone. Ramps don’t just help people who use wheelchairs; they assist parents with strollers, travelers with heavy luggage, and delivery workers with carts. Closed captions don’t just help the deaf; they benefit people in noisy environments or those learning a new language. Accessible design isn’t just about disability—it’s about human diversity.

So why is there still resistance? Is it because the able-bodied majority doesn’t want to admit their bodies will one day age, deteriorate, or face injury? Is it easier to look away than to face the truth that disability is a natural part of life? The fear of disability should not lead to the exclusion of disabled people. We must build a world that recognizes human fragility, because at its core, accessibility is about recognizing our shared vulnerabilities.

Think about how different our cities, towns, and workplaces could be. Imagine seamless public transportation with elevators at every stop, buses that can lower themselves without drama, and trains that have adequate space for mobility devices. Imagine streets where every curb has a ramp, where crossing signals have audio cues, and where there are tactile surfaces to guide those with visual impairments. Imagine a world where digital accessibility is prioritized—websites that are screen-reader friendly, captions and transcripts for all media, virtual spaces designed with neurodivergent users in mind. These changes aren’t far-fetched; they are possible. They already exist in pockets of the world.

But it’s not enough to wait for change. We, as a society, must demand it. It’s not disabled people’s job to fix this broken system—we are already fighting for survival. It is the job of every architect, city planner, policymaker, and citizen to ensure that the spaces we create include all of us. Access should not be a privilege granted to the few; it should be a right extended to all.

To the able-bodied people reading this, I ask you: start looking at the world through our eyes. When you walk into a building, ask yourself if everyone would be able to enter. When you sit down to a meal at a restaurant, ask if a person in a wheelchair could reach the table. When you cross the street, imagine trying to do so if you were blind or deaf. Start thinking about access as an essential, not an afterthought.

To businesses, governments, and organizations: stop seeing accessibility as an expense or an inconvenience. The cost of inaccessibility is exclusion, isolation, and harm. Every person deserves the right to participate in society fully.

We live in a world designed to shut out so many of us, but it doesn’t have to be that way. It is time to build a world that is inclusive, a world where I can exist without feeling like I’m asking for too much, a world where disability is not a barrier but just another way of being human. We have the tools to make this change—now we need the will. I hope we will find it soon. Not just for me, but for all of us.