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Illustration by Drew Shannon
I’ve spent about five years as a wheelchair user. I love my chair – it gives me a level of independence I couldn’t dream of without it.
Independence has been a lifelong pursuit – proof that I could do things “my by self” as I said at four years old while trying to tie my shoes.
Lately, I’ve been working to loosen my grip on that badge of honour. But old habits die hard. I still catch myself feeling like I need to prove something – to show I can handle things alone, that my worth is measured by how much I can endure. It’s a tough mindset to shake, but every so often, reality, more specifically the reality of being disabled, steps in to remind me of the truth.
This time, that reminder came in the form of trying to get home in 40 centimetres of snow.
I was making the usual trip from Hamilton to Ottawa: a bus to Toronto, then a train. Simple enough – except I woke at 5 a.m. to find the city buried under fresh snowfall. As I rolled down the ramp of my building, I hit a snowbank and stopped cold. I wasn’t going anywhere alone.
A security guard from the front desk rushed over. “What do you need?” he asked.
I told him I had to get to the bus station up the block and that I hoped the sidewalk on the other side of the street would be cleared. He helped me across – no small feat – while I apologized profusely, convinced I was a terrible inconvenience. He didn’t seem to think so, smiling so wide for such a cold and early morning.
Further up the block, I discovered the sidewalk wasn’t cleared after all. Just as I began to panic, a neighbour with a snow blower jumped into action, carving a path as I followed behind. A barista at a local coffee shop ran out to help me board the bus when the ramp wouldn’t flatten over the snowbank. At least four or five people came outside – still in their pyjamas, winter coats thrown on – smiling as if helping me wasn’t a burden at all. My face was hot and red with embarrassment and apologies that nobody accepted stating they were happy to help and “the snow is so difficult for everyone.”
At the train station, I was met with a broken elevator, shorted out by the storm. A security guard named Joe brainstormed solutions with me. Eventually, we landed on an idea: I was about to learn, in real time, how to ride an escalator in my wheelchair.
I’d been afraid to try this for years, but there wasn’t another option. Joe stood behind me as I backed onto the escalator and together we rode it down. At the bottom, he cheered: “That was so cool! I’ve never done something like that before.”
I laughed, thanked him and rolled off to wait for my train.
Being disabled is a constant process of unlearning and relearning – how to move, how to see myself, how to be in community, how to accept support. It is not a single moment of adjustment but a continuing negotiation with a world that was not built for me. Some lessons come quickly, like learning new ways to navigate physical spaces, while others take years – like dismantling the internalized belief that needing help is synonymous with failure.
I’ve spent my life believing that success means self-sufficiency. That to need less is to be more. This belief was reinforced everywhere: in school, where independence was framed as maturity; in workplaces, where productivity determined worth; even in hospitals, where needing less care was celebrated as progress. But that’s a lie – one rooted in a system that measures people’s value by their ability to produce, to work, to exist without relying on others.
My body has not fit into that system for more than seven years, yet I still push myself. I still fall into the trap of measuring my worth by how much I can endure alone.
Disability scholar Mia Mingus talks about “access intimacy” – the sense of trust and connection that emerges when people anticipate and meet each other’s access needs. She describes how true accessibility is not just about ramps or elevators, but about relationships, about the ways we show up for one another. The interdependence of disability is not a weakness; it’s a foundation for community care.
In reality, no one is truly independent – we all rely on one another in ways big and small. The difference is that disabled people are forced to recognize this truth more explicitly.
I’m trying to see my community more clearly, even through the blizzard. I am still learning to see interdependence as not just necessary, but profoundly powerful.
Snow is frustrating but it’s also beautiful. Being supported does not mean being a burden. I don’t want to navigate the world “my by self,” this cold and snowy trip reminded me of this. Community is built on mutual care – not just in crises, but always.
My body is not a burden. My body builds connection. My body creates community.
That is a gift.
Dahlia Belfer lives in Hamilton.