Access is a right, not a favour. When I first tried to access accommodations as a student, I quickly realized how complicated the process could be.
I found myself moving from one office to another, each one asking me to re-tell my story, re-explain my disability, and justify my needs.
What should have been a supportive process became exhausting and retraumatizing.
This experience isn’t unique. Many disabled students face the same cycle, bouncing between departments that don’t communicate and being asked to “prove” their disability over and over again.
It’s not just frustrating, it’s harmful. It sends the message that our needs are burdens rather than rights.
These barriers don’t stop at classrooms or paperwork. They show up in everyday infrastructure decisions, like snow clearing.
When clearing accessible routes, ramps, or entrances are not prioritized or not cleared at all, disabled students are effectively locked out of campus.
Access is treated as an afterthought, something to be addressed only after complaints are made rather than a core responsibility. This puts the burden once again on disabled people to advocate for basic inclusion, often in unsafe or undignified ways.
Disabled students are disproportionately affected because the system isn’t built with accessibility at its core. When support depends on persistence rather than equity, those already facing barriers are left behind.
Student disability groups often try to fill these gaps. These groups play an essential role in building community, offering peer support, and advocating for change.
But they are typically run by students who are already navigating disability, academics, financial stress, and burnout. As the number of disabled students increases and as needs become more complex, these groups are becoming overextended and under resourced.
They are asked to educate institutions, support peers in crisis, and push for systemic change, all without formal authority, staffing, or compensation.
A standalone accessibility advocate or office within Memorial could change that.
Unlike student groups, a standalone advocate would have dedicated time, training, and institutional independence.
This advocate could help students navigate processes without retraumatization, coordinate between departments, and ensure accountability when access fails, whether that’s in accommodation approvals, campus policies, or physical access like elevators or snow clearing.
Importantly, this role would support student disability groups, not replace them, by connecting them to resources, amplifying their concerns, and reducing the pressure on students to carry the full weight of advocacy alone.
But this need extends beyond education. There should also be a standalone disability advocate within government, a dedicated office focused solely on disability rights, accessibility, and inclusion across all sectors.
This advocate could bridge gaps between departments, ensure policies are informed by lived experience, and hold systems accountable for accessibility and equity in housing, transportation, education, and public spaces.
This is more than an administrative fix. It’s a matter of disability justice. True justice means recognizing that access, representation, and inclusion must be built into every level of society, not negotiated case by case.