As a person with a disability, I often get frustrated when people treat my need for accessibility as if it were a special privilege. I have heard people say, “Oh, you are so lucky you have a handicap parking placard.” I am not lucky that I need one. I would give anything to park at the far end of a lot and walk in without pain, fatigue, or risk. That is simply not an option for me.
Accessibility is not a favor. It is a basic right in our society. We have laws that are supposed to protect that right, yet those laws are not enforced the way they should be. Too many people, both in leadership and in the general community, still do not see accessibility as essential, so they ignore it, assuming nothing will happen if they cut corners. Most of the time, they are right and nothing does happen.
Even with laws in place, people with disabilities have to do extra work before going out. They search online for entrance photos, call ahead to ask about elevators, ramps, and accessible restrooms. and make backup plans in case those features are broken or blocked. Most people never have to think about any of this. For a person with a disability, it is part of daily life.
As a person with a disability, this is my reality because accessibility is often overlooked or an afterthought. Sometimes, the automatic door doesn’t work. The ramp might be hidden behind the building near the trash dumpster. The front door may be open, but the door leading from the ramp may be locked. There might be an accessible restroom, but it could be out of order for weeks or down a hallway made too narrow by chair storage. I’ve learned to expect these problems, but I shouldn’t have to.
So understand, I refuse express gratitude for the bare minimum. I’m not going to gush with thanks because a public space has a ramp or an elevator. They are basic requirements that allow disabled people to participate in everyday life. They are required. Expecting us to be thankful for access to the world around us is so unfair.
Real progress will only happen when businesses and public places stop treating accessibility as a charitable gesture and start treating it as a core responsibility. This will happen when enforcement is taken seriously and accessibility is seen as nonnegotiable. Equal access is not a special privilege. It is a fundamental right.
Accessibility Does Not Mean Everything for Everyone
Accessibility does not require that every space be usable by every person with every possible disability, nor has that ever been the standard. Absolute accessibility is neither realistic nor necessary. The relevant question for leaders is not whether perfection is possible, but whether reasonable and foreseeable barriers are being left in place without justification.
A rock-climbing wall, for example, cannot be made accessible to a person without upper or lower limb function without ceasing to be a climbing wall. These are legitimate limits and acknowledging them is not discrimination. It is clarity.
Most public spaces and civic functions, however, do not fall into this category. Meeting rooms, polling places, sidewalks, libraries, schools, parks, public hearings, and community events lose nothing by being designed or renovated to be accessible. In these settings, barriers such as stairs without ramps, hallways being used for storage that makes them inaccessible for mobility-impaired people, meetings without captions or interpreters, inaccessible seating, or restrooms that cannot be utilized by wheelchair users do not serve the function of the space at all. They simply exclude people.
The False Dilemma of “You Can’t Include Everyone”
When leaders argue that “you cannot include everyone,” they often confuse real limitations with design choices that could easily be changed. This framing creates a false dilemma that justifies inaction. The appropriate standard is inclusion wherever access does not interfere with the intended function of the space, and exclusion only where that function would be fundamentally altered.
Doing nothing about accessibility is still a decision about who gets to participate. It is a policy decision that prioritizes convenience, tradition, or cost over participation. Effective leadership treats accessibility as infrastructure rather than accommodation, assumes disabled people will be present, and removes barriers that exist only because no one in authority bothered to question them.
The Problem with “Accessibility Reactions”
But another way of not planning for accessibility is by doing “accessibility reactions.” Accessibility reactions are when new or modified accessibility is determined only by requests from a single family seeking a modification for one specific disabled child, family member, or small, yet vocal advocacy group. Leaders and front-end staff should of course respond with care and urgency when a need is raised, but the request should also trigger a broader question: is this an isolated situation, or is it a visible symptom of a larger access gap that affects many disabled people?
If accessibility is handled only through one-off requests, communities risk investing time and money in highly specialized solutions that serve one person while leaving larger, more basic barriers untouched. That approach can create the appearance of inclusion while continuing to exclude a far greater number of people from essential services, public participation, and civic life.
Baseline Access Must Come First
A better approach is to look for baseline access barriers first and then layering individualized accommodations on top of that foundation when needed. For example, a city might install a wheelchair-accessible swing at one park to meet the needs of a child who uses a heavy electric wheelchair. That may be a meaningful improvement for that family, but it does not address the larger question of whether wheelchair users can access the pavilions at any of the parks, whether there is usable seating throughout the space, or whether restrooms and pathways are truly accessible.
Similarly, holding a major public meeting in a venue where the only seating is bleachers sends a clear message about who is expected to attend. Even if staff are willing to “make adjustments” on request, the default setup already excludes wheelchair users and others who cannot use bleachers. If leaders want participation, access cannot be optional, improvised, or dependent on individuals having to ask for what should have been anticipated.
When Easy Fixes Replace Real Solutions
Too often, community leaders are willing to address accessibility issues that are easy, visible, and politically safe, while avoiding harder, more systemic barriers that require coordination, enforcement, or internal conflict. Installing a ramp in a location where there is ample space and minimal pushback may be straightforward.
Addressing the fact that on-street parallel parking is the only parking available, making access impossible for wheelchair users, is not. Enforcing laws against residents who block sidewalks with parked cars is not. When people park across sidewalks so they can fit more vehicles into their driveways, they block access not only for wheelchair users, but also for people using rollators, parents with strollers, and others with mobility needs.
Yet these violations are often ignored because enforcing them would require police departments, public works, and local leadership to prioritize accessibility over convenience. When a police chief dismisses parking enforcement by claiming there are more important things to do, the result is predictable. Disabled people are the ones who lose access to essential meetings, services, and civic life.
Internal power struggles and departmental avoidance may be invisible to the public, but their impact is not. When leaders fail to resolve these conflicts, accessibility becomes optional, and people with disabilities pay the price.
When Accessibility Exists Only on Paper
Another critical and often overlooked area is code enforcement. Many communities are diligent about regulating visible, easily measured requirements such as the number of designated accessible parking spaces in shopping centers, which are typically calculated by square footage and routinely inspected. These requirements are clear, familiar, and relatively easy to enforce.
Accessibility inside buildings, however, is far less consistently monitored. Small stores and boutiques often fill their spaces with merchandise to the point that aisles are too narrow for a wheelchair user, a person using a rollator, or someone with mobility limitations to even enter the store, let alone shop independently. Beauty shops and nail salons, particularly those that are independently owned rather than national chains, frequently create similar barriers. In an effort to maximize revenue, they install too many service stations or crowd their floors with product displays, leaving insufficient space for disabled customers to navigate safely or reach services. These barriers are rarely checked proactively. At best, they are addressed only after a complaint is filed, and even then, follow-up is inconsistent or incomplete.
The same pattern appears in restaurants and public buildings where accessible restrooms technically exist, but hallways leading to them are blocked by boxes, stacked chairs, or stored equipment. When access routes are obstructed, the presence of an accessible restroom becomes meaningless. In many retail stores, accessible changing rooms are routinely used for storage, filled with boxes of hangers, incoming stock waiting to be put out, or outgoing trash, rendering them unavailable to the people who need them.
In larger buildings, elevators that serve both the public and janitorial staff are frequently treated as storage or transport space. Trash bins, laundry carts, bundled linens, or bags of refuse are left inside, sometimes for extended periods. When this happens, a disabled person may be completely blocked from reaching another floor, with no way to alert staff or meeting participants that access has been cut off.
Outdoor access is undermined in similar ways. The striped access areas next to designated parking spaces are often blocked by motorcycles or street-legal golf carts. This can make it impossible for a wheelchair user to deploy a ramp or safely exit their vehicle. In some cases, people return to their cars only to find they must wait until the motorcycle or golf cart owner reappears, which is especially dangerous in extreme heat, high winds, or heavy rain. Sidewalks are also frequently obstructed by bicycles or scooters chained to poles and traffic signs, blocking passage for hours at a time. When this happens, disabled people who are stopped by the obstruction often have no practical way to resolve the situation.
In each of these cases, accessibility exists on paper but not in reality. Without consistent enforcement and clear accountability, basic access can be undone by everyday operational decisions. The result is predictable. People with disabilities are excluded from spaces and services they are legally entitled to use, not because access was impossible, but because maintaining it was not treated as a priority.
Rethinking “The Greatest Good for the Greatest Number”
For community leaders, the answer to accessibility cannot be reduced to the old adage of “doing the greatest good for the greatest number,” because that logic breaks down the moment disability is involved. If left unchallenged, it simply becomes a way to justify serving the largest non-disabled majority while treating disabled people as a secondary concern or an added expense. That is not sound leadership.
Accessibility is not about maximizing convenience for most people. It is about removing barriers that prevent entire groups from participating in shared civic life. The right question is not “who represents the largest group,” but “who is being prevented from entering, participating, or being heard at all.”
When leaders focus on removing the barriers that fully block participation, access decisions become clearer and more defensible. Designing for people who are most likely to be excluded almost always improves the experience for everyone else as well. Ramps also help parents with strollers and workers with carts. Clear signage benefits visitors and first-time attendees. Wider aisles reduce congestion and improve safety.
Accessibility works best when it is treated as a requirement for full participation, not as a favor or an exception. A community should be judged by whether people with the least power can take part without having to ask for special permission or extraordinary help.
Making Hard Choices with Limited Resources
Communities also have to acknowledge that accessibility decisions are made within real budget limits. City and county resources are not infinite, and leaders are often faced with difficult choices, such as whether to allocate funds to make one public building accessible or to direct those same funds toward improving access in a park, library, or transportation corridor.
These decisions are especially complex in historic communities, where many civic buildings were constructed long before accessibility standards existed. Stair-only entrances, inadequate or poorly placed ramps, buildings without elevators, and narrow interior layouts are common. Mixed-use neighborhoods further complicate the issue, with government offices, private homes, apartments, and businesses sharing limited on-street parking and constrained public space.
Acknowledging these constraints is necessary, but it cannot become a reason for inaction. Prioritization must be guided by impact.
Leaders should focus first on changes that open access to essential services, public decision-making, and daily civic participation for the greatest number of people. When budgets are limited, the question is not whether accessibility can be afforded everywhere at once, but whether investments are being directed where exclusion is most severe and consequences are highest.
In historic communities especially, thoughtful planning, phased improvements, and coordinated use of funds are essential to avoid preserving tradition at the expense of participation.
Accessibility as a Measure of Leadership
At its core, accessibility is a leadership decision. It reflects whose time, presence, and participation are valued enough to plan for in advance. Communities already make choices every day about where to invest, what to enforce, and which problems are considered urgent. Accessibility belongs in those decisions.
Accessibility is not achieved through good intentions or symbolic gestures. It is built through planning, enforcement, and follow-through. Communities that treat access as optional, reactive, or secondary inevitably create systems that work only for those already able to navigate them.
Communities that plan for access make a different choice. They recognize that participation in civic life is not a privilege reserved for those who can climb stairs, fit into narrow aisles, or advocate loudly for themselves. It is a shared responsibility. Leadership is not defined by how well a community preserves convenience or tradition, but by whether it makes room for people who have too often been pushed aside or left unheard.
If you think ableism is just about rude comments or outdated language, you couldn’t be further from the truth. It runs far deeper than that. Ableism is structural. It is embedded in how our communities are designed and who is allowed to shape them.
You can see this most clearly when disabled people are shut out of leadership and decision-making roles—by the very glass ceilings and systemic inaccessibility that prevent us from rising into those positions in the first place. Yes, disabled people are sometimes “included,” but too often only as symbolic representation, limited to one narrow or convenient form of disability access.
These are not accidents. They are the predictable outcomes of excluding disabled people from authority and leadership.
This is what happens when disabled people are pushed to the margins instead of trusted as experts in our own lives. And it shows up everywhere.
No accessible entrances.
Accessible bathrooms used as storage for boxes and supplies.
Baby-changing tables mounted so high a wheelchair user couldn’t possibly reach them.
Inaccessible public meetings.
Housing policies built around a mythical “one size fits all.”
Services optimized for cost savings instead of human impact.
“Alzheimer’s” jokes tossed around casually.
Public meetings held without sign-language interpreters.
Schools without adapted facilities.
The R-word still being used as a punchline.
And the list goes on.
Ableism is so ingrained in our society that many people don’t even see it anymore. It’s normalized, excused, and minimized. Most people aren’t even aware they’re being ableist until someone points it out, often after harm has already occurred.
Representation cannot be merely symbolic. It is too important for that. Current statistics estimate that one in ten people has a disability. So why aren’t one in ten politicians disabled? Why aren’t one in ten CEOs disabled? If one in ten people has a disability, why are so few leaders disabled?
And while there is no single, universally agreed-upon statistic for daily wheelchair use in the U.S., multiple sources estimate that approximately one in forty people use a wheelchair as their primary mobility device. When was the last time you saw a top politician or community leader who was a daily wheelchair user? What about community planners, landscape designers, or architectural designers?
If one in approximately 40 people are wheelchair users, why isn’t a single member of the House of Representatives a daily wheelchair user? Why is only one member of the Senate an occasional wheelchair user? There are 535 voting members of Congress, and yet, only one is a wheelchair user.
If Congress reflected the general U.S. population, you would expect about 13–14 daily wheelchair users among its members. In reality, there is only one wheelchair user.
Obviously, some professions have essential physical requirements that naturally exclude wheelchair users. You would not expect to find NFL players who are daily wheelchair users, nor active-duty firefighters, combat soldiers, roofers, or commercial airline pilots.
These are roles in which the core physical functions of the job genuinely cannot be performed from a wheelchair. This is not discrimination; it is reality. It would be no more reasonable than expecting a deaf and non-speaking person to be an opera singer, or a person missing both upper and lower limbs to be a rock climber.
There are, in fact, a small number of professions where essential physical requirements naturally exclude wheelchair users or people with other disabilities, but they are the exception, not the rule. Yet these few examples are routinely used to justify exclusion everywhere else.
When we talk about the absence of people with disabilities, community and political leadership do not fall into that category. Our leaders come from a wide range of backgrounds, professions, communities, and educational paths. These roles are not defined by physical endurance, speed, or mobility, but by judgment, experience, and the ability to serve
The absence of disabled leaders isn’t accidental. Leadership in the U.S. has long been built around an able-bodied ideal, and when disability appears, it’s either hidden, reframed, or erased.
When disabled people are in leadership, systems shift. Barriers are anticipated instead of apologized for later. Access is built in, not patched on afterward. Exclusion is prevented, not explained away.
Nothing changes unless we, disabled people and those who support full accessibility, use our voices. Real change does not come from isolated stories spoken into the social-media void. It comes from collective pressure, shared advocacy, and disabled people showing up together where decisions are actually made — if we can get through the door, up the steps, or find accessible seating.
Disabled people are facing increasing harassment for using disabled parking placards (handicap hang tags & license plates). Let’s get the facts straight.
Myth 1: “You don’t look disabled.”
Fact: There is no single “disabled look.” Many disabilities are invisible, fluctuating, or not obvious to strangers. Some conditions, such as lung or heart disease, may not be visible at all but can severely limit how far a person can safely walk.
Myth 2: “You are too young to need a disabled parking placard.”
Fact: Disability has no age requirement. Children, teens, and adults of all ages can have serious medical conditions that limit mobility, endurance, or safety.
Myth 3: “Disabled parking is only for wheelchair users.”
Fact: Disabled parking is for people whose disabilities affect mobility, pain, fatigue, breathing, balance, safety, or the ability to walk distances, not just wheelchair users.
Myth 4: “If you can walk, you shouldn’t have a disabled parking placard.”
Fact: Being able to walk is not the same as being able to walk safely, repeatedly, or without severe pain or exhaustion.
Myth 5: “People get disabled parking placards easily.”
Fact: The application process is medical, evidence-based, and often difficult. Many people are wrongly denied and must appeal.
Myth 6: “Disabled parking misuse is widespread.”
Fact: Fraud exists, but it is rare. Media outrage exaggerates the issue while ignoring the real harm caused by the harassment of legitimate placard holders.
Myth 7: “Challenging people protects disabled parking.”
Fact: Public policing harms disabled people, not fraudsters. Enforcement is the responsibility of local authorities, not strangers in parking lots. Disabled people do not owe anyone an explanation of their disability or why they use a disabled parking placard. If a placard is displayed, a medical professional and the state have already determined eligibility.
Disabled parking is an accessibility tool, not a privilege. Trust the system, respect the placard, and let disabled people move through the world without fear of confrontation. Disabled parking exists to reduce harm and increase access, not to invite judgment or interrogation. Most disabled people are already navigating pain, fatigue, and medical uncertainty. The last thing they need is to defend their legitimacy in a parking lot. A little restraint and respect go a long way.
Have you ever noticed that when you live with a visible disability, total strangers sometimes feel entitled to ask, “So, what happened to you?” Not trying to be rude here, but believe it or not, I don’t owe my medical history and life story to anyone, least of all strangers.
It’s as if people see a disabled person and immediately think, “How terrible! I wonder what happened?” Then, instead of keeping that thought private, they actually ask. You would never ask such a personal question to a non-disabled person you’ve just met, so why is it considered acceptable when the person is disabled?
Too often, people see us as broken or as the subjects of some tragic story they’re curious to hear. Or they want an inspiring tale of triumph over tragedy, when in reality, these experiences are deeply personal and sometimes too personal to share even with close friends, much less with strangers or casual acquaintances.
Let’s normalize respecting boundaries and not treating disabled people like public stories waiting to be told.
Author’s Note: In writing this article, I made an important realization about myself. I have been so conditioned to just accept this intrusion that I not only answer them, but tend to blab my entire life journey. I overshare with strangers, I think, because I still feel the need I’ve felt all my life — to ‘prove’ that I am worthy. I am now making a conscious effort to stop doing this!
So, I’ve been trying to think of some things I could say to a person who asks this intrusive type of question, that aren’t rude, but that make the point that their question is inappropriate and that I have no intention of answering it.
Here are a few I thought of:
“That’s actually pretty personal. I’d rather not get into it.”
“I appreciate your concern, but that’s not something I talk about with strangers.”
“It’s a long story, and not one I usually share.”
“That’s actually a really personal question for disabled people. Most of us prefer not to be asked.”
“I know you probably meant well, but that’s not something strangers should ask.”
“I’m happy to chat, but not about my medical history.”
“Just so you know, asking a disabled person what happened can feel invasive.”
If you have any other suggestions, please leave me a comment. I’d love to know what you think!
Take a moment to explore other articles about living with disabilities or chronic illnesses by Jan Mariet.
Have you ever had a stranger ask you an intrusive question like “What happened to you?” Leave a comment and let’s create a space where our stories remind others they’re not alone.
A woman recently shared that she was accused of “scamming the system” because, in her wheelchair, she wore designer shoes. What her critics didn’t know, and didn’t care to ask, was that the shoes were a gift from her daughter.
This kind of judgment isn’t rare. Disabled people are often scrutinized for daring to own or enjoy anything that seems “too nice.” A phone, a manicure, a night out, or yes, even a pair of designer shoes, becomes “evidence” that they must be cheating the system — as if disability benefits are supposed to buy only misery.
Let’s be clear: disabled people don’t have to live in visible desperation to be considered “worthy” of help. They deserve a life, one with comfort, dignity, and moments of joy. And those benefits people resent so much? They rarely cover even basic living costs, much less luxuries.
What’s truly obscene is the assumption that strangers can judge who is or isn’t “really” disabled based on a snapshot in time. Many disabilities are invisible. Many people are dealing with mental health conditions they don’t disclose because of stigma. So, when someone says, “I know she’s not disabled because she looks fine” or “he can walk, so he must be faking,” they’re not exposing fraud; they’re exposing their own ignorance.
No one owes the public an explanation of their medical history. The Social Security Administration already requires extensive documentation and verification before granting benefits. If they’ve been approved, that’s the end of the conversation.
Instead of policing how disabled people live, dress, or smile, maybe we should ask why society is so uncomfortable with the idea of disabled people having anything good in their lives.
Because the truth is simple: Joy is not evidence of fraud.
Busting Disabled Parking Myths 
Myth 1: “You don’t look disabled.”
Fact: There is no single “disabled look.” Many disabilities are invisible, fluctuating, or not obvious to strangers. Some conditions, such as lung or heart disease, may not be visible at all but can severely limit how far a person can safely walk.
Disabled parking is an accessibility tool, not a privilege. Trust the system, respect the placard, and let disabled people move through the world without fear of confrontation. Disabled parking exists to reduce harm and increase access, not to invite judgment or interrogation. Most disabled people are already navigating pain, fatigue, and medical uncertainty. The last thing they need is to defend their legitimacy in a parking lot. A little restraint and respect go a long way. 
