Inequality and Climate Change: Government Cannot Deliver Sustainability Without Disability Justice

As a disability specialist, activist and recovering academic, my interest in sustainability began with a simple but disturbing observation: disabled people had largely been excluded from conversations about the future of our planet. Representing more than 600 million people when the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) were first agreed—and well over a billion today—we were almost invisible. Although disability was later incorporated into the Goals, I remain deeply concerned by the hierarchy and grouping the goals create. Disability is too often treated as an afterthought, disabled individuals a separate population, rather than recognised as equals in sustainable development.

I vividly remember a conversation with my PhD supervisor in which we realised that every single Sustainable Development Goal has disproportionate consequences for disabled people. Whether the issue is poverty, education, housing, employment, transport, health, gender equality or climate action, failure to achieve these goals falls hardest on those already living with structural disadvantage. Climate change does not only create inequality; it magnifies it. Governments cannot claim success on sustainability while leaving disabled people furthest behind.

When I began researching the relationship between ableism  and climate change in 2018, I found remarkably little literature - I remember 1 lone paper. The few papers that referenced the issue obliquely concluded that disabled people and their representative organisations [DPOs] were largely absent from strategic discussions. This exclusion has practical consequences. Recycling centres are often inaccessible. Waste collection policies frequently assume everyone can carry heavy bins to the kerbside. Sustainable transport initiatives regularly overlook those with mobility impairments. The result is that disabled people are expected to make a greater effort, incur higher costs and overcome additional barriers simply to participate in environmental action.

These are not isolated inconveniences. They expose a profound failure of public policy.

The government must not separate environmental policy from social justice. A green transition that ignores accessibility is not a just transition. Every climate strategy should be assessed against its impact on the disabled population before implementation, not as an afterthought once inequality has already been created.

Poverty lies at the heart of this injustice. Disabled people face substantial barriers to employment, education and career progression, resulting in lower incomes and greater financial insecurity. At the same time, disability often brings unavoidable additional costs. Accessible housing is more expensive. Transport options are limited. Energy bills are higher. Specialist equipment must be purchased and maintained. The cost of participating in society is already significantly greater before environmental policies impose further demands.

Without recognising these realities, governments cannot accurately measure the true social cost of climate change or the fairness of their responses. Sustainability cannot simply be about reducing carbon emissions; it must also reduce inequality.

The structure of the Sustainable Development Goals unintentionally reinforces this problem by positioning disabled people as a subgroup requiring occasional consideration, rather than recognising disability as a cross-cutting issue that shapes every goal. Yet those facing ableism is one of the largest global minorities and, arguably, the only group that anyone can join at any stage of life. Disability is not a niche concern. It is a mainstream human experience.

Disabled academics, campaigners and professionals have contributed sophisticated thinking on climate justice, resilience and sustainable communities for many years. Yet their expertise remains marginalised. This is part of a wider failure to trust disabled professionals as experts in our own lives. Too often governments consult about disabled people rather than with disabled people, and policies are weakened as a result.

My own experiences illustrate how everyday prejudice feeds this wider culture. I am frequently criticised for using plastic drinking straws because they enable me to drink safely. The irony is obvious. I use perhaps twenty reusable plastic straws each year, washing and reusing them repeatedly, while the average household throws away vastly more plastic packaging every week. The problem is not the straw. The problem is a society that is quicker to judge disabled people's survival than its own consumption.

The same assumptions appear within organisations. Throughout my career, I have experienced exclusion from meetings, discriminatory pricing at conferences and networks, and persistent suggestions that disabled employees represent a burden rather than an asset. These attitudes are justified using the language of cost and efficiency while ignoring the value, expertise and contribution disabled people make.

Perhaps nowhere was this clearer than during the COVID-19 pandemic. Disabled people experienced widespread failures in protection, support and recognition. The use of Do Not Resuscitate notices without proper consultation, the devastating death toll in institutional settings, delayed vaccine prioritisation and inadequate financial support for those shielding exposed how quickly disabled lives could become politically expendable. Those failures were not accidents. They reflected longstanding inequalities that the government had failed to address long before the pandemic arrived.

The government must recognise that disability equality is not a specialist issue to be delegated to equality teams. It is fundamental to effective environmental, economic and social policy. Every climate strategy, every infrastructure project and every sustainability programme should be judged by one simple question: does this reduce inequality, or does it deepen it?

Most people will experience disability themselves or love someone who does. As populations age, disability becomes an increasingly universal part of the human condition. Sustainable development that excludes disabled people is therefore neither sustainable nor equitable.

The former Disability Commissioner at the Equality and Human Rights Commission warned over a decade ago that disabled people risked living in what he described as a form of "social apartheid". Despite greater visibility, many were becoming increasingly isolated as economic and social systems changed around them. That warning remains painfully relevant today.

My own research explored the absence of language that enables organisations and governments to recognise these inequalities. When disability is omitted from strategic conversations, exclusion becomes normalised. Policies appear neutral while producing profoundly unequal outcomes. This cultural toxicity often goes unnoticed, allowing institutions to avoid accountability for the human rights of disabled people.

Climate policy cannot succeed if it leaves millions behind. Governments must stop treating disability as an afterthought and start recognising disabled people as essential partners in creating a sustainable future. Environmental justice and disability justice are inseparable. We will never achieve one without the other.

Everyday Hostility

Why everyday dismissals hurt as much as open hostility

I’m still trying to process what happened this week.

I was in my favourite shop when an older woman came up behind me, asked me to move, and before I could get out of the way, she pushed past — knocking me to the floor.

What happened next is harder to swallow. Instead of apologising, as I would have, she turned to my husband and said, “I asked her to move,” in the tone of someone scolding a toddler who’d run amok — not a sixty-year-old reaching for a pie from the freezer. As she carried on, I stood behind her, proud at least that I managed to say, “How rude!”

On one hand, we can’t legislate for nastiness. But I think there’s more going on here, so bear with me.

Contrary to common assumptions, I don’t think of myself as disabled until the world reminds me. (Thank you, Audrey — well remembered.) When I wake up, my priorities are simple: a pee, a coffee, a handful of pills. I don’t sit on the edge of the bed thinking, Hey world, I’m disabled. It doesn’t cross my mind, because I feel totally normal — or at least typical-for-Mole.

Then I turn on the radio, TV, or social feeds, and it’s only a matter of time before the world tells me otherwise. Many people don’t notice how hostile stories about disabled people have become. But minds take it in. I’ve slammed the off-switch rather than hear another tirade about “lazy scroungers” supposedly driving up the tax bill. Even our current Shadow Chancellor, Rachel Reeves, has made it a public mission to brand disabled people as “work-shy.” Rights to personal care are questioned. Support bills are shuffled onto those least likely to be fully paid — if they’re employed at all. A double whammy.

And it’s not just about money. While the press obsesses over the “cost of care,” disabled people are offered instead the “right to die.” I can’t describe how painful it is to read that my own government considers my life expendable. And yes, I think about that more often than I’d like.

I’ve learned to live with passing rejection, disgust, and sometimes outright hate. People make it plain I’m not welcome in their space. People who make a huge performance of looking anywhere but at me. On the street, strangers have hurled insults, told me what to do, or spoken to whoever I’m with instead of to me.

And that’s just the obvious stuff. At work, colleagues have dismissed what I say as untrustworthy or assumed they get to grant me permission to have help, act or speak. The cumulative weight of these “small” moments is heavy: every “If I were you…”, every “I’ll tell you what you need…”, every “You can try harder…”adds up. The message is clear: I’m a problem to manage, not a person to respect.

Then there’s the blurry line between friendliness and intrusion. Strangers demand the intimacy of friendship where it hasn’t been earned, treat me like a child, invade my privacy, or ask questions they’d never dream of asking someone who looked more “typical.” Most bystanders are too stunned to name it for what it is: prejudice. But that’s exactly what it is.

The truth is, we’ve all grown up on stereotypes about disabled people. We’ve all seen teachers dismiss students, groups close their doors to the “less able,” differences mocked as entertainment. None of this is new. But in the UK lately, the gloves are off. The bile allowed on our screens has soared. There’s no shame in shaming.

So no, I shouldn’t be surprised when people push me out of the way. But it still hurts. Because each moment like that isn’t isolated. It’s part of a pattern — the not-so-close face of ableism.

The Invisible Ripple

Exploring Systemic Discrimination and Disability Hate Crime through Literature

 

A few years ago, I was tasked with updating out understanding of hate crime in a national report on disability hate crime—a responsibility that weighed heavily, not just in its content but in its broader implications. It was a monumental challenge to condense such an urgent, layered issue into a form that would engage readers without sacrificing its critical findings. The underlying driver of this crime, as I came to understand, is a societal narrative so ingrained it’s often invisible: ableism.  

 

The process of working on that report planted the seeds for something greater. Returning to my PhD allowed me to refine and reframe those academic ideas—inequality, disadvantage, prejudice—into something more accessible. The result is a growing series of books designed to shine a light on systemic discrimination and its deeply personal and institutional impacts. 

 

Pools and Prejudice: The Personal Toll of Ableism  

The first book, Pools and Prejudice, dives into the individual experience of prejudice, exposing its life-altering effects. Through powerful storytelling, it seeks to bridge the gap between abstract concepts and the visceral realities they create. It’s a narrative that challenges readers to confront the hidden privileges and biases shaping our lives.

 

COVER OF POOLS

Jamaica Hollow: When Organizations Fail  

The second book, Jamaica Hollow, turns its focus to the organizational level. It examines the failure of accountability and the legitimacy gap that can spiral into human rights violations. By unravelling these systemic breakdowns, the story reveals the dangerous consequences of ignoring structural discrimination.  

 

COVER OF JAMAICA HOLLOW

What’s Next: Plim Players

The third instalment, Plim Players, is in the works. This book will address cultural factors behind the silencing of certain groups, further peeling back the layers of systemic inequality and offering new ways to think about social justice.  

 

COVER OF PLIM PLAYERS

Why These Stories Matter  

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that issues like ableism and systemic discrimination thrive in silence and invisibility. My goal with these books is to break that silence. By weaving narratives that inform and provoke, I hope to empower readers to recognise what many choose to ignore—or learn about - and inspire change at both personal, organisational and societal levels.  

 

Leadership challenge 

Systemic discrimination, particularly when it leads to hate crime, is not just a “specialist” issue. It’s a human rights issue that speaks to who we are as a society. Pools and Prejudice, Jamaica Hollow, and the upcoming Plim Players will contribute to a growing understanding and, ultimately, a more mindful way of working for many. 

 

Let these stories open the door to conversations that are long overdue. If you’re ready to look past the surface and into the systems that shape our lives, these books are your next read.