My partner and I were looking forward to using our new pass at Big Box. At first, things seemed hopeful: accessible parking, level entry. But once inside, it was obstacle after obstacle.
Two sets of heavy double doors stood between me and the reception. On my own, in a wheelchair? Impossible. At the desk, the staffer spoke only to my husband, as if my disability cancelled out my right to be addressed.
The “accessible” changing room? Hard to even find, with no signage. Only one room existed despite more than ten disabled parking bays. Inside, it was cramped, badly designed, and unsafe—the shower literally fell off the wall. And while the standard changing rooms offered hairdryers and vanity counters, ours offered nothing but bare walls and compromise.
In the hydro pool, I fell several times because there was no orientation, no guidance, no thought given to safe entry. Yes, the water jets were good. But the effort to get there was exhausting. I was meant to return the next day with a friend. I couldn’t face it.
And remember: this was a brand-new refurbishment. Disabled people were simply left out of the design.
That’s why I’m saying it plainly: it’s our duty, as disabled people, to keep doing the access audits they refuse to do.
We’re the experts. We see the missing signs, the hostile layouts, the indignities built into shiny new buildings. If we don’t name them, businesses will carry on pretending everything’s fine. They’ll keep pocketing the funding, the grants, the “inclusivity” kudos, while we’re left stranded outside the heavy doors.
Yes, it’s unfair that the labour falls to us. But silence is worse. Every time we file an access audit, share our experiences publicly, or simply refuse to let poor design slide, we push the bar higher. We make it harder for venues, gyms, and shops to hide behind ignorance.
Access is not a luxury. Dignity is not optional.
If they won’t check their own buildings, we will. And we’ll keep calling them out until accessibility is treated as the foundation—not the afterthought.
