International Wheelchair Day was founded in 2008 by Steve Wilkinson, a wheelchair user who wanted to celebrate the positive impact wheelchairs have on people’s lives while also recognising the global injustice faced by those who cannot access one. I remember meeting him at Naidex some years ago. At the time, I did not fully appreciate how much this day would come to mean to me personally.
As an occupational therapist, I understand the language of occupation, participation and enablement. As a wheelchair user, I live it.
In the UK, wheelchairs are usually provided through the National Health Service. Provision is based on clinical criteria, often focused on basic indoor mobility and risk management. If you can walk short distances, even if it is painful or exhausting, you may not qualify for the equipment that would genuinely enable your life. Participation beyond the home is not always prioritised. Energy conservation is not always weighted. Fluctuation is not always recognised.
I do not fit neatly into the criteria.
I was born with cerebral palsy. As a child, I used a wheelchair occasionally, mainly on holidays when walking and queueing became too painful. The chair meant I could remain part of the experience rather than withdrawing when my body reached its limit.
In 2015, after breaking my leg, I began using a self-propelling wheelchair outdoors for some events like conferences. I never knew how much energy I would need or how much pain I would be in. The chair became a way of managing unpredictability. Yet I avoided using it at work. I was afraid of being judged. I worried that colleagues would see it as unnecessary, or that I would be perceived as less capable. Self-propelling was physically demanding because of weakness in my right arm, which added another layer of complexity.
In 2021, following a long hospital admission, I began using a wheelchair more consistently at work and outside the house. That decision expanded my occupational world.
Before that point, I had been shrinking my life. I would only drive to shops where I could park directly outside. I avoided unfamiliar places. Travelling felt overwhelming. I limited meetings, social events and spontaneous activity because I was calculating cost all the time. How far is it from the car? How long will I need to stand? What if I cannot find somewhere to sit? What if I am in too much pain afterwards?
I was practising occupational restriction, even though I would never have named it that way for someone else.
The wheelchair changed that. It did not remove barriers. Access still requires planning. Routes must be checked. Toilets located. Energy managed. There are still physical and attitudinal obstacles. But the chair gives me endurance. It gives me predictability. It allows me to remain present in my professional and personal roles.
I self-funded the wheelchair that truly meets my needs because I do not meet the narrow NHS criteria. On paper, I can walk. In reality, walking comes at a cost. Pain accumulates. Fatigue compounds. Participation narrows.
As occupational therapists, we talk about enabling occupation. Yet we can sometimes become bound by systems that define need too narrowly. A wheelchair is not a last resort. It is not a failure. It is not a sign that someone has given up. It is an assistive technology that can widen occupational possibilities.
What I want every occupational therapist to understand is this: mobility is not only about whether someone can take steps. It is about whether they can sustain participation across a day, a week, a working life. It is about energy, pain, predictability and choice. It is about whether their world is expanding or shrinking.
For me, using a wheelchair has expanded my world. It has enabled my occupations as a clinician, leader, writer, traveller, friend and partner. It gives me far more than it takes away.
On International Wheelchair Day, I celebrate that. Not because the system makes it easy, but because the right equipment, at the right time, can be profoundly enabling.
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