A Letter to Family and Friends: Accessibility Is More Than a Chair
Dear Family and Friends,
I want to start with love. I know you care about me. I know you want me included. I know you don’t mean to make life harder when I show up for graduations, birthdays, family reunions, or even funerals.
But I need to tell you something that might be hard to hear: sometimes, despite your good intentions, your choices leave me excluded.
Not because you don’t care. But because you don’t understand what accessibility really means.
What accessibility really means
Accessibility is not just bringing me a chair. It’s about making sure I can actually get to the space, participate in the gathering, and feel safe and included.
Here’s what that looks like in real life:
The buffet across the lawn. If I’m recovering from an injury, walking across uneven grass feels like a tightrope walk. If I have bone cancer, every step is exhausting. If I have POTS or chronic fatigue, that short walk can leave me dizzy or faint. A chair nearby doesn’t solve that—I need the food accessible where I am.
The yard party. When the gathering is set up entirely outside on grass or concrete, those of us with balance issues, stroke recovery, or EDS can’t safely join. Even if the ground looks “flat,” it’s not stable for those with mobility challenges. “It’s just in the yard” feels like exclusion when the house is right there.
The food downstairs. Stairs may be invisible to those who bound up and down them, but for me—or for my parent at 89 with a cane—they are a brick wall. If I can’t safely reach the food, then I’m not included.
Heat and shade. For those with heat intolerance, autoimmune conditions, or medication side effects, sitting outside in direct sun isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s unsafe. Telling me, “just bring a hat,” or “we’ll put you under a tree,” or “there’s an umbrella nearby", doesn’t account for how dangerous heat exposure really is.
“Here’s a chair.” A chair in the wrong place isn’t accessibility. If the ground to get there is unsafe, if there’s no shade, if I can’t reach the food or restroom from it—it’s just a chair.
What inclusion looks like instead
Inclusion isn’t complicated. It’s about asking: What would make this work for you?
Keep at least part of the gathering accessible indoors, with seating, shade, bathrooms, and food that’s easy to reach.
Bring the gathering to the person who can’t move easily—don’t leave them isolated upstairs, watching the party from afar. Carry the food, the conversation, the laughter to them.
If someone says they can’t come because the space isn’t accessible, don’t ignore them or dismiss them. Ask: “What can I do to make this work for you? To make this comfortable and safe? What am I not hearing?”
Accept the answer. Don’t argue. Don’t say, “But I brought you a chair.” Listen. Believe me when I say it isn’t safe.
Why this matters
When I tell you that the setup isn’t accessible, I’m not being dramatic. I’m not being stubborn. I’m not “acting like an island.” I’m telling you what my body needs to be safe and included.
And when you dismiss it—or argue with me—it’s not just frustrating. It’s heartbreaking. At a recent family reunion, I explained that the park wasn’t accessible for me. A family member said, “But I brought a chair!” This was after explaining a recent injury that impacted my mobility. This was after advocating for accessibility for several other family members, explaining the challenges, their on-going health needs, their infirmity, their required accommodations. This was after repeatedly explaining these needs—explaining for years. And yet all of the repeated explaining was brushed away.
Accessibility is not a new issue. These needs are not new. What’s new is my insistence that you hear me.
A request, from love
If you want me at your gatherings, if you want me to feel like I belong, here’s what I ask:
Believe me when I tell you what I need.
Don’t argue with me about what’s “good enough.”
Bring the party to me if I can’t get to the party.
Ask me what would help, instead of assuming.
Because family is supposed to mean belonging. And belonging isn’t possible when I’m left sitting on the sidelines, isolated and unseen, while everyone else celebrates.
I want to be with you. I want to share the food, the laughter, the memories. I just need you to understand that accessibility is love in action.
With honesty and hope,
Someone who wants to be included