A few months ago, I sat down with my assemblyman to discuss the daily struggles I face as a person with a disability. My goal was simple: to open a conversation about the systemic issues that hinder people with disabilities from fully participating in society. I wanted to talk about accessible transportation, infrastructure in housing, and ways to make it easier for individuals like me to advocate for themselves in places like Madison, our state capital. I went into the meeting hopeful—hopeful that someone in power would listen to my needs, acknowledge the challenges, and work with me to find solutions. I’ve had conversations before where I’ve explained the barriers I face, and while not all of them have led to immediate change, there’s usually been some understanding.
Instead of feeling heard, I left that meeting feeling like I had been punched in the gut. I had gone there to share my struggles and to offer solutions, but instead, I was met with dismissal and misunderstanding. The meeting began like any other—a polite exchange of introductions, an attempt to find common ground, and then I dove into the heart of the matter. I told the assemblyman about the frustration of relying on my family for basic needs. I mentioned the importance of accessible public transportation and infrastructure that accommodates everyone, not just the able-bodied. It was then that he made a comparison that still stings in my memory. He said, “Well, asking your family for help is like asking my dad to help me fix the roof.”
In that moment, I felt my heart drop. I had shared my struggles with him, not in search of sympathy but in search of solutions. To be compared to something as trivial as a home improvement project was not only dismissive; it felt like a complete disregard for the realities of my daily existence. He went on to talk about “interdependence”—a concept that sounds nice in theory but doesn’t address the deeper issues of accessibility and equality that people with disabilities face. He made it sound as though relying on others was a choice—something that could be fixed with a little personal growth or a change in mindset. The truth is, my reliance on others isn’t a choice. It’s a consequence of systemic barriers. When I shared my frustration about the lack of accessible entrances in my apartment building, or the difficulty I face trying to access laundry and garbage areas, his response was equally disheartening: “We can’t always get what we want.”
There it was. A flat dismissal of my basic human needs. A statement that felt as though he was telling me that my requests for accessibility were luxuries I didn’t deserve, rather than basic rights. At that moment, I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat there, stunned, as the meeting wrapped up with no meaningful conversation, no solutions, and no sense that he was even trying to understand.
I’m not sharing this story to garner pity or sympathy. I’m sharing it because conversations like this matter. They matter because people with disabilities are often dismissed, ignored, or forgotten. They matter because too many people in positions of power are content with the status quo, rather than working to create a world that is accessible and inclusive for all. Imagine what your life would be like if these simple tasks weren’t so simple. Imagine having to rely on others to get you through the day—not because you wanted to, but because the world around you wasn’t built to accommodate your needs.
Next time you use the restroom, prepare a meal, or hop in your car to run errands, I ask you to stop and reflect on the privilege of independence. For many of us, it’s not that simple. For people like me, even the most basic tasks can become overwhelming challenges. The truth is, the frustration I felt in that meeting wasn’t just because of the assemblyman’s dismissive attitude. It was also compounded by something I’ve struggled with internally for my entire life—something that’s far more difficult to talk about. It’s the subtle yet pervasive feeling of internalized ableism.
Internalized ableism is when a person with a disability absorbs society’s negative stereotypes and prejudices about disability, leading them to believe they are less worthy, less capable, or less deserving of the same opportunities as others. This feeling is particularly painful when people in power, like my assemblyman, don’t seem to understand the reality of living with a disability. It’s easy for someone with privilege—someone who doesn’t have to think about basic access issues—to overlook the small yet essential changes that can make a world of difference to people like me. This is what happens when that mindset becomes internalized. When I start questioning whether my needs are valid or if I’m just being “difficult.”
It’s the quiet voice that tells me to keep quiet, to be content with what I have, and to accept that change is slow, even if it means enduring daily inconveniences or barriers. You may be thinking, “There are laws to protect people with disabilities, right?” Yes, there are. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) enacted in 1990 (the year I was born!) mandates accessibility in public spaces and offers protection against discrimination. While those laws exist, the reality is that they’re not always enforced, and many buildings, schools, and businesses remain inaccessible. The infrastructure simply isn’t there, and the changes that need to happen often get pushed to the back burner. It’s not just about ramps and elevators. It’s about considering the needs of everyone when creating policies, not just those who can navigate the world without physical barriers. It’s the right to live with dignity and independence, to have equal opportunities in work, education, and daily life. It’s the right to access the spaces and services that everyone else takes for granted. Accessibility isn’t a privilege—it’s a fundamental human right.
Chelsea Gerow (she/her) is a nonfiction blogger and full-time wheelchair user based in Wisconsin. She was born with quadriplegic spastic cerebral palsy and lives with her Canine Companions service dog, Prize III. Her work often explores themes of identity, disability, and mental wellness.
Facebook blog: Harkin’s Heroes
Instagram: @sitting42long
Bluesky: @sitting42long