#accessibility matters

Guess what? Disabilities cause weight gains. There are medications with weight gain side effects. Being unable to exercise can cause weight gain. Having limited mobility can cause weight gain. Being bedbound and/or housebound can cause weight gain. Not being able to cook, lack of access to a well rounded diet, dietary needs, all can cause weight gain.

access to mobility aids

closed captioning, interpreters, and transcripts for those who need them OR those who prefer them

sensory safe enviroments

dim lighting

flexible seating, lights, and noise control

online forms and websites that screen readers are able to access properly

elevators that are free for everyone to use

wider doors

braille

clear signage

transit that is easy to navigate

Try getting into a wheelchair that’s been slow-roasting in direct sunlight and then pushing yourself like it’s not a literal endurance test. 🔥♿

You think heat is bad?

☀️ Summer tip: don’t touch the wheels unless you want your hands fried like bacon.

I was coming back from checking the mail in my wheelchair, and my arms were too tired to push myself, so my husband was helping me. We’re rolling down the sidewalk — not the road, not someone’s lawn — the public apartment sidewalk.

And this ableist fat bitch with her kid starts walking straight at us. Like full-on acting like we’re the ones who need to move. The kid had more awareness than she did and was trying to pull her to the side so we could pass. But no — she decided to keep hogging the sidewalk, forcing my husband to veer my chair into the grass.

Now — I get where some people might wonder why I mentioned her size, so let me clarify:

We were already staying to the left side of the sidewalk, close to the grass, giving her and her kid the entire right side to pass that was closer to the parking lot. Her child clearly recognized this and tried to guide her that way, but she actively resisted and walked straight into my path.

My wheelchair has a 20-inch seat with 4-inch-wide tires — that makes it 28 inches total. I’m already wider than a walking person. And she still managed to force me off the sidewalk — not because there wasn’t room, but because she refused to shift her body even slightly.

So yes, her size matters in the context — because it directly affected how much physical space she took up and flat-out refused to adjust for, even when her own child was trying to help her do the right thing. This isn’t “fat-shaming” — it’s about spatial awareness, entitlement, and the way ableism shows up in everyday interactions.

Ableism isn’t just about slurs or overt hate — it’s about refusing to acknowledge our presence, our space, or our needs. And that’s exactly what she did.

I wanted to run over her ankles with my chair. I wanted to scream. I’m so fucking tired of able-bodied people treating us like we’re the inconvenience.

If you see someone in a wheelchair or with a mobility aid, move. Don’t act like we’re the ones who need to shrink ourselves to make space for you.

We deserve to exist in public without being pushed aside — literally or figuratively.

I also just learned something else that makes me not want to watch it even more:

They hired John Leguizamo, a sighted actor, to play Odysseus' blind servant. And there's already Oscar buzz for his role.

[Link] Molly Burke does an amazing job addressing this as someone who is actually blind. (It's a YouTube short)

I feel some nondisabled folks might not understand that able-bodied and nondisabled folks are being cast as and praised for playing disabled characters *to this day*. It's not just something of the past.

Christopher Nolan is a popular, well-respected director. "The Odyssey" generated $652 million worldwide ($289 million domestically) after just 10 days of release.

Nondisabled folks need to realize it's still viewed as acceptable to cast able-bodied and nondisabled folks as disabled characters.

One of the strangest things about starting to exercise again as a disabled fat person is realising how many narratives exist about bodies like mine - and how few of them actually fit reality.

According to the internet, disabled people are either tragic and immobile or inspirational Paralympians. Fat people are either before photos or cautionary tales. Exercise is either punishment or redemption.

Meanwhile I’m over here going:

"well, my joints hurt, I use crutches, public changing rooms are sensory hell, I have to negotiate with my brain to leave the house, and I accidentally enjoyed playing tennis."

Which feels significantly less marketable.

The thing I think able-bodied people often don’t realise is that movement, for disabled people, isn’t just movement.

It’s logistics.

It’s pain calculations.

It’s energy budgeting.

And sometimes it’s fighting your own brain before you’ve even put shoes on.

Because alongside the physical side of all this, there’s also the anxiety and agoraphobia. The part where leaving the house can feel overwhelming before the activity has even started. The part where unfamiliar places, public spaces, changing rooms, noise, visibility, and unpredictability all stack on top of each other until 'going swimming' stops meaning just swimming.

It becomes:

planning routes

checking accessibility

trying to predict sensory overwhelm

managing panic

figuring out escape plans

convincing yourself people aren’t staring at you

and using up emotional energy before you’ve even moved your body

Sometimes the hardest part of tennis is not the tennis.

Sometimes the hardest part is walking through the doors of the sports centre in the first place.

It’s wondering whether people are looking at you as 'the fat person trying to exercise.' It’s the fear of being visible in a swimsuit. It’s the voice in your head insisting everyone is judging you before you’ve even picked up a racket.

And then, most of the time, the strange anticlimax is: nobody cares.

Nobody laughs.

The world doesn’t end.

You just… do the thing.

The thing I think able-bodied people often don’t realise is that movement, for disabled people, isn’t just movement.

It’s wondering whether the walk from the car park is going to take more out of you than the actual activity.

It’s knowing that 'I went swimming today' might also mean:

I needed mobility aids afterwards

I had to manage sensory overwhelm in the changing rooms

I spent hours recovering

and I’m going to ache tomorrow in ways other people might not notice or understand

And none of those things cancel out the fact that it was still joyful.

That’s the part I think I’m still learning.

For a really long time, I think I unconsciously believed movement only 'counted' if it looked effortless, disciplined, or healthy in the socially approved way. If I needed crutches afterwards, or medication, or recovery time, then somehow I was failing at it.

But that’s nonsense.

My body is not suddenly nondisabled because I played tennis.

I am still disabled in the swimming pool. I am still disabled on the tennis court. I am still disabled wobbling home afterwards with aching legs and my crutches digging into my hands.

And I think part of what has made these last few months possible is the fact I’ve been working from home.

Because working from home isn’t me 'taking it easy.' It’s not laziness or avoidance or failing to cope with adulthood correctly. It’s an accommodation that lets me manage my pain and energy in ways that leave me with something left over afterwards.

Three months ago, most of my energy was going towards surviving work and recovery from work.

Now, because I’m not exhausting myself commuting and forcing my body through constant physical strain every day, I actually have capacity again. Capacity to go swimming. Capacity to try tennis. Capacity to exist as a person outside of simply getting through the week.

And that’s another thing people don’t always understand about disability: sometimes accessibility doesn’t just help you survive.

Sometimes it lets you live.

I think that’s also why the 'faking disability' narrative gets under my skin so badly.

Because disability is treated as though it has to look constant and absolute to be real. People understand wheelchairs more easily than crutches. They understand total inability more easily than fluctuation, adaptation, or trade-offs.

But I can limp around a tennis court for an hour and still not be able to walk home afterwards.

Both things are true.

I can have fun playing sport and still need painkillers and recovery time afterwards.

Both things are true.

I can improve physically while still being disabled.

Both things are true.

And maybe that’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto right now: movement does not have to be pure, painless, aesthetic, or inspirational to be worthwhile.

Sometimes it can just be:

difficult

joyful

messy

exhausting

painful

funny

and deeply, stubbornly human