Note: Images used do not depict the folk who contributed to this blog.

When we talk about access, we often start and stop with ramps.

Ramps matter, elevators matter, flat ground matters; but for many physically disabled queer people, access is far bigger than whether a wheelchair fits through the door.

“It’s about whether we can be there at all, and whether we feel welcome once we arrive.”

We’ve collaborated with five community contributors who’ve shared their perspectives on everything from meaningful accessibility to the intersection of queerness and disabilities. Throughout conversations, common themes came forward; viewing accessibility personally, communally and systematically. It lives in the body, in the room, and in the systems that shape who is expected to show up.

Personal: Existing against the norm

Navigating queerness and disability

Across our contributors' reflections, a shared idea emerged; existing as queer and disabled often means existing against norms. Existing against rigid ideas of what queerness should look like, against narrow medical definitions of disability, and against cultural expectations of legibility and ease.

“For a long time, I understood my identity as something fixed, a set of labels attached to my body, my brain, and my desires. I treated both disability and queerness as stagnant, factual truths, rather than lived, evolved experiences. Disability was about impairment, queerness was about who I was attracted to, and my task felt like naming myself as precisely as possible within those categories. Labels felt stabilising, like proof I understood myself correctly, even if they never felt totally right.

Over time, though, that impulse began to feel constricting. Now, I simply call myself a lesbian. That word holds enough room for complexity, history, and change without needing constant qualification. It feels less like a box and more like a place of belonging.

My understanding of disability also shifted in a similar way. I used to see it as something concrete and hierarchical, shaped by visible physical impairment. Even though I am neurodivergent myself, I found myself feeling frustrated when neurodivergent people described themselves as disabled. I think this came from a narrow, medicalised understanding of disability, one that treated it as a fixed bodily deficit, rather than a political and social identity… As I’ve learned more, I’ve had to confront that discomfort and recognise it as part of my own internalised ideas about legitimacy and suffering.

Dyke history isn’t neat or categorical, it’s about surviving and belonging. It helped me stop seeing contradiction as failure, and start seeing it as truth… Looking at identity like this has felt like a kind of exhale.”

Pluto/Obrital.Green (he/they/she)

“While my perception of queerness has simplified over the years from being stuck on labelling exactly I was feeling to simplifying it as 'queer' whereas my understanding of disability has grown more complex, where I once was denying the fact that I was disabled due to being most able to function without mobility aids and came to terms with my disabilities not being defined by what help is needed or not.”

Kirby (they/them)

“The queer community is just so uplifting. There are so many creative, kind, supportive people… I don’t think I’ve ever met a more welcoming and accepting space than that cultivated by pole dancers, drag artists, burlesque artists and cabaret performers…[they are] just people that encourage you. I love the queer community and am so proud to be a part of it.

In terms of disability pride, I think that’s been a much more recent thing. In learning more about how my body can move, and what it can do, rather than what it can’t, I’m finally appreciating it. Having a disability presents a lot of challenges. Yet, I’m now finding the joy… getting to meet others with disabilities, getting to view the world differently, finding different ways to do things, while not always easy, has shaped me. For better or worse.”

Anonymous

Community: The room itself

What’s missed

True accessibility isn’t just about accommodation. It’s about not being made to feel like you’re asking for too much. It’s about being included in initial planning, not added as an afterthought. For some, this means seating that encourages connection, for others it means having the option to participate online, not as a lesser alternative, but as real access.

And access doesn’t stop at logistics; it is shaped by how people respond to disabled people once they enter the room.

“Some places really have no idea how to handle someone with an assistance dog or in a wheelchair, I’ve had people in medical settings pet my dog or when I’m only using crutches ask me to move out of accessible seating for a wheelchair… The sunflower lanyard scheme has made a lot more places educated on how to support disabled people though which has been great.”

Kit (she/they)

... Ramps and physical access are kind of important… aside from having accessibility, how would you make things accessible? I guess, people aren't educated on disabled people. So there needs to be more visibility of various types of disabilities on screen.

As disabled people, we should make more of an effort to get out there. This is somewhat hypocritical coming from me, because I pulled back from stand up comedy. But, I believe the best way to educate people is to get out there. On the other hand some people… remain ignorant, by putting you in a nice little box, where you don't want to be, and specifically taught against. Hopefully, this is not most people.”

Thane Pullan (he/him)

“Judith Butler wrote about gender as a performance, not as something fake, but as something socially legible, something we do to be seen and understood. But what happens when your performance doesn’t land? When your gender doesn’t fit the script? Visibility becomes slippery. You’re visible, but not legible. Seen, but not known.

Visibility shapes what kinds of touch you’re allowed to receive, what kind of attention you get, and whether or not your desires are reflected back to you. That’s why I don’t believe visibility is inherently good, not on its own. It has to be accompanied by curiosity, by unlearning, by a willingness to sit with what you don’t immediately understand. It has to make room for the invisible, the ambiguous, the nonlinear.

My goal isn’t just to be looked at, it’s to be understood. And when that happens, when someone sees me without needing to decode me, that kind of visibility feels like freedom.”

Pluto/Obrital.Green (him/she/they)

In Dating: Access also shows up in our intimate lives

Contributors spoke about navigating the layered emotions that can come with dating while disabled. Times where creativity, humor and sensuality are paired with patience, vulnerability and pain.

“There’s always that poking around when starting to see someone, to get a feeling for how they would react with me telling them that I will need accommodating more than most. I’ve definitely had people check out on me when I’ve told them or hinted at things which sucks but it gets the dicks out of the way fast.

My first date with one of my partners was really validating in both facets of my identity. …When he asked if I wanted anything from the bar, I felt like I could mention my epilepsy and therefore say I couldn’t have alcohol. There wasn’t even a pause, he just asked if I wanted something non-alcoholic and went to grab our drinks. Absolutely nothing about our interactions or how he treated me changed when I needed to take a handful of meds, he just rolled with it.”

Kit (she/they)

“People also don't know how to communicate with a non-verbal person, or they assume I'm thick… but I guess it's quite difficult if they don’t know but they should just ask, ‘are you deaf and/or how you communicate’. I’ve found older people are usually better at trying to communicate, younger people, not so much. This was quite disappointing in my early twenties when I wanted to... party, should we say!”

Thane Pullan (he/him)

“Shockingly, dating has been an extremely affirming part of my journey. I don’t usually tell people I’m disabled before a first date (controversial, I know), and since I mostly meet people through dating apps (don’t judge me), they usually have no idea. At first, it was because I was just awkward. I didn’t know how to bring it up, or when, or if I was meant to. But weirdly, not saying anything forced me to show up fully as myself, right from the beginning. This is my life, and I've come to realise it’s not something I need to apologize for or warn people about. I’m not a disclaimer. I’m a whole person.

Showing up on a date as a disabled lesbian, not hidden, not pre-explained, but just present, has made me feel more grounded than any label ever has.”

Pluto/Obrital.Green (he/they/she)

“I love my partners all dearly for understanding and accommodating my complicated needs… though sometimes it gets stifling when they all want to wrap me in bubble wrap when I just want to be treated like normal, I love them all with all my heart but sometimes I don’t want to be babied.”

Kit (she/they)

As wisely said by contributor Thane:

When communication is limited by assumption, desire and connection are limited too. At its best, dating becomes a space where access is not negotiated under tension, but integrated naturally; where disability is neither spectacle nor secret.

Systematic: Shared responsibility

Access as solidarity, Not courtesy

Accessibility is a collective responsibility built by active and ongoing facilitation with inclusion at its forefront.

Accessibility is often discussed as a matter of compliance, something added once a space, event, or movement already exists. A ramp installed after complaints. Captions added after requests. Adjustments made quietly, reactively, and sometimes reluctantly. But for disabled queer people, access is not a finishing touch. It is foundational to whether accessibility is real or rhetorical.

“Pride used to feel like something I had to perform: rainbows, parades, the right posts with the right words. Now it feels quieter but more solid. Pride is resting without guilt. Pride is adapting instead of hiding. Pride is being angry, being soft, being complicated. Pride is knowing that even when systems tell me I shouldn’t exist as I am, I choose to anyway. That choice is joy. That choice is resistance. And that is where I find pride.”

Pluto/Orbital.Green (he/she/they)

“... Making spaces accessible isn’t just for wheelchair users! Accessibility helps everyone; parents with babies, those with mobility aids, the elderly, and many others. This goes for other forms of disability. Creating sensory-friendly spaces, providing braille or sign language where possible, educating people around service animals, while also ensuring that having a service animal is thought of when planning events, and just having options that help people to feel included and thought of.”

Anonymous

“As I said to my gender and sexuality lecturer, being disabled is one of the only minorities you could join at any minute, which most people don’t ever think will happen to them so they don’t consider how they treat disabled people as a way they might be treated by another person in the future. There’s still queer people who have biases against disabled people, and just because we have more access requirements and might appear differently doesn’t mean that queer spaces aren’t for us.”

Kit (she/they)

“I wish non-disabled queer folk understood that disability isn’t a separate issue from queerness. It’s not an add-on or a side quest, it’s deeply entangled in how many of us experience gender, intimacy, safety, and community. When non-disabled queer people talk about liberation they often forget that access to liberation. That ramps, captions, rest breaks, and flexible plans aren’t boring logistics, they are what make our joy possible.

I wish they understood that access is a shared responsibility. It’s not something we should have to fight for alone. It’s a way of saying: I want you here. I thought of you. You matter. That kind of inclusion isn’t charity, it’s solidarity. And solidarity makes the queer community stronger for all of us.”

Pluto/Orbital.Green (he/she/they)

When queer spaces embrace access as shared responsibility rather than courtesy, they move closer to the liberation they have always imagined, one where no one is left outside the room.

Across our community contributors' stories, experiences and reflections, we are reminded that navigating queerness and disability is not simply about managing barriers, but about continually reshaping what belonging looks like.

Access is revealed here as something far broader than physical entry. It lives in planning, communication, flexibility and care. It appears in how people respond to difference, how communities handle ambiguity, and whether participation is possible without exhaustion, explanation, or self-erasure.

When access is embedded from the beginning, community becomes something shared rather than negotiated.