Today is International Wheelchair Day, a day meant to celebrate mobility and independence. But for me, as a fairly new wheelchair user, my feelings about it are complicated. Yes, my wheelchair gives me freedom— it allows me to leave my house, to participate in the world, to avoid pushing my body past its limits. But it’s not as simple as just being grateful.
I don’t want to need a wheelchair. I never did. And while I’ve accepted that it’s a necessary tool for me, that acceptance doesn’t erase the anger, the frustration, or the fear about what my future holds as my disability progresses.
One of the hardest parts of being a wheelchair user isn’t the chair itself, it’s how people react to me using it. There’s a deep misunderstanding about what disability looks like.
Many people assume that wheelchair users can’t walk at all, so when they see me stand up to reach something or take a few steps, I see the judgment in their eyes. I’ve had people accuse me of faking my condition, of being “lazy,” or of “giving up.” But the reality is, I don’t use my wheelchair because I want to, I use it because I need to. My pain is unpredictable and progressive. Some days, I can walk short distances with manageable pain. Other days, even standing feels unbearable. Without my wheelchair, my world shrinks. I become trapped inside, isolated from the world, because simply walking from one place to another drains me completely.
Yet, despite how much my wheelchair helps me, I find myself feeling guilty for needing it. Society tells us that mobility aids are a last resort, that if you just push through, you can “overcome” disability. But my condition isn’t something to overcome. It’s something I have to live with, and my wheelchair is what allows me to do that.
People often say, “You should get out more,” but what they don’t realize is how difficult and exhausting that actually is.
The world is not built for wheelchair users.
There are stairs where ramps should be. There are curbs without cuts. There are sidewalks that are cracked, uneven, or nonexistent. There are stores, restaurants, and public spaces that claim to be accessible but have heavy doors, narrow aisles, or inaccessible bathrooms. Public transport is a nightmare, with broken elevators, buses that fail to accommodate wheelchairs, and taxi services that refuse to take disabled passengers. Even places that should be accessible often aren’t, because accessibility is an afterthought, not a priority.
So, even when I want to go out, I have to weigh the exhaustion of navigating a world that wasn’t designed for me. I have to check ahead, research accessibility, make backup plans in case my wheelchair doesn’t fit, and prepare myself for the stares, the comments, and the general lack of understanding.
And sometimes, it just doesn’t feel worth it.
Beyond the physical barriers, there are also the emotional ones. My wheelchair is my lifeline, but sometimes, it’s also a reminder of everything that’s changing. There are days when I feel strong and empowered in my chair, like it’s a tool that gives me access to a world that would otherwise be out of reach. But there are also days when I resent it, when I grieve the mobility I’ve lost, when I wish I didn’t have to think about accessibility or ableism or whether people will believe that I actually need it.
And then there’s the fear.
Right now, I can still walk. But my condition is progressive. I don’t know what my future looks like. I don’t know if, in five or ten years, I’ll be able to walk at all. And that uncertainty terrifies me.
I worry about my independence. I worry about how much harder everything will become. I worry about how I’ll navigate a world that already feels impossible at times. And most of all, I worry about my relationships— especially with my partner.
Loving someone while being disabled comes with so many fears. My partner is supportive, patient, and kind, but I still find myself wondering: What happens when my disability gets worse?
Right now, they help me when I need it, but what about later, when I need more support? When my pain becomes even more unpredictable? When I need assistance with things I can currently do on my own? Will they still see me the same way? Will they still love me the same way?
I don’t want to be a burden. And I know people say, “You’re not a burden, you just have more needs,” but the reality is that having a disabled partner does require adaptation and effort. And as much as I wish I could, I can’t turn off the part of my brain that whispers, What if they get tired of it? What if they leave?
I don’t voice these fears often because I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I don’t want to make it sound like I doubt my partner’s love for me. But the truth is, the fear lingers. Because I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen people walk away when things got too hard. And I don’t think I could survive that heartbreak.
All of this—the stigma, the inaccessibility, the uncertainty, the fear, it takes a toll on my mental health.
Some days, I feel strong and capable, like I can take on anything. Other days, I feel trapped in my own body, exhausted by the constant battle of trying to justify my needs to a world that doesn’t want to listen.
And some days, I just feel sad. Not because I think my life is less valuable or because I don’t appreciate what I have, but because disability is hard. Because watching my mobility decline is heartbreaking. Because I don’t always know how to process the mix of gratitude and grief that comes with needing a wheelchair.
I try to remind myself that it’s okay to feel all of these things at once. It’s okay to love my wheelchair for the freedom it gives me while also resenting that I need it. It’s okay to be scared about the future while still holding onto hope. It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to not have a perfect, inspiring attitude about disability every single day.
So, on this International Wheelchair Day, I don’t just want to celebrate wheelchairs. I want to acknowledge the complicated, messy, emotional reality of being a wheelchair user. I want people to understand that mobility aids are not something to be pitied or questioned— they are vital tools that allow people like me to live our lives.
I want people to stop assuming that if someone can stand up, they don’t really need their chair. I want people to recognise how inaccessible the world still is and to actually work toward fixing it. I want people to understand that disability isn’t just a physical experience—it affects mental health, relationships, self-worth, and every other aspect of life.
And most of all, I want other wheelchair users to know that their experiences are real, their needs are valid, and they don’t have to justify their existence to anyone.
So if you’re struggling today, if you’re feeling angry or frustrated or scared about the future, you’re not alone. You don’t have to put on a brave face. You don’t have to pretend that you’re okay when you’re not. Your feelings are valid. Your fears are valid. And you deserve a world that supports you, not one that forces you to fight for every inch of accessibility.