Note to our readers: This article isn’t aimed at you—it’s aimed at the people in your life who still don’t get it. You know the ones. The family member who thinks “accessible” means yelling from the porch, or the friend who swears they love you but never once asked how to make their space work for you. So share this with them. Forward it. Nudge them. Print it out and tape it to their forehead with glittery holiday washi tape. Because this year, we’re done being polite about exclusion.
You say you want us there—at the party, at the dinner table, in your life—but your actions say something else. You treat accessibility like it’s a luxury upgrade instead of the basic requirement for showing up. That’s not love. That’s convenience wearing a friendship costume. You like the idea of us—your disabled friend, your cousin in a wheelchair, your sibling with mobility needs—as long as we don’t make you do anything uncomfortable. You want the connection without the inconvenience.
Every holiday season, the inbox at AudacityMagazine.com turns into a confession booth of pain and patience. Readers sharing stories that sound less like holiday plans and more like military reconnaissance missions. Visiting family means mental gymnastics: which entrance has the fewest steps, which relative has the least cluttered bathroom, how long can you sit in a folding chair before your spine files a formal complaint? The bar for “accessible” is so low it might as well be underground.
And if you think it’s just about holidays, think again. Many of our readers haven’t even been inside their close friends’ homes ever. Not once. Not even after years of friendship. You know how weird that is? Imagine having a best friend who’s never seen your fridge.
The worst part? A lot of friends don’t even ask. Not a single, “Hey, what can I do to make this work?” Not even a passive, half-baked, “Is my place okay for you?” It’s like the friendship exists everywhere except their personal space. Anywhere but their home. Real friendships shouldn’t have invisible borders around someone’s front door.
And family? Oh, let’s talk about family. The people who are supposed to know you best—who made a whole show out of sending you baby pictures, graduation invites, and that one time they posted a throwback photo with #FamilyFirst. But when it comes to making the holiday gathering accessible, they turn into delicate flowers who can’t adapt who can’t possibly drive an extra five minutes to someone else’s house.
Why is it so hard to move the location? Are we planning the Met Gala? No. We’re trying to eat mashed potatoes without treating someone like a burden. If it’s not your house this year—oh no! The turkey might taste the same and someone else might get to use the nice gravy boat. Imagine surviving.
So what does real love actually look like in practice? If your love comes with conditions like “only if it’s convenient for me” or “only if we don’t have to move the party,” it’s not love. It’s performance. And if that’s your version of love, it needs a serious rewrite.
Accessibility isn’t a Pinterest project. It’s not a “someday” goal. It’s the difference between connection and isolation. And no, you don’t need a degree in architecture or $10,000 to make someone feel seen and valued. You just need to care enough to ask. But the silence? That’s louder than any doorbell we can’t reach.
Here’s what accessibility can actually look like:
- Asking us what accommodations we need
- Making space for a ramp or offering to use ours
- Clearing clutter so mobility aids aren’t trapped in a maze of ottomans
- Getting a simple riser or support bar for your bathroom
- Offering a chair that doesn’t feel like it came from a carnival ride
- Moving the party to a place that works for everyone, not just the able-bodied majority
These aren’t luxury add-ons. They’re the basics. And they communicate something big: you matter to me, and I want you in my space.
When someone says, “Well, I didn’t know what to do,” here’s the secret: You ask. You send a text. You pick up the phone. You say, “Hey, I want you here. What do I need to know to make that happen?” It costs zero dollars to say that. What it buys? Trust. Relief. Actual inclusion.
And if someone offers to bring their own ramp, don’t act like they just suggested converting your backyard into a helipad. Say thank you. Let them help make their own entry possible. This isn’t about ego. It’s about dignity.
If family and friends (the people who supposedly love us) won’t do the bare minimum, then what exactly are we expecting from society at large? If your own cousin, the one who knows your favorite dessert, your birthday, and your diagnosis won’t budge on the potluck location to make room for your wheelchair, why would we expect that new restaurant to install an accessible bathroom? Why would we expect the workplace to adjust a meeting space, or the city to prioritize accessible transit? The message starts at home: if you won’t include the people closest to you, you’re reinforcing the very exclusion you claim to oppose.
Inaccessibility doesn’t start at the policy level. It starts at home. And that means we all have to ask better questions, take action, and be uncomfortable on purpose for the sake of people we claim to care about. Because if accessibility is always “someone else’s problem,” then we are the problem.
So here’s a revolutionary holiday wish: If you love someone with a disability—family, friend, or frenemy—prove it by making space. Literally. Emotionally. Physically. Ask how. Show up. Clear a path.
Because the next time you wonder why we said no to your invite, just remember: it might not be that we don’t want to be there. It might just be that we can’t get in.
And no amount of holiday cheer can cover that up with a throw pillow.
If you can make space for a centerpiece, you can make space for a person.
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Still here? Great! Check out this article that I wrote because I had to write it. Just My Bellybutton