Short Walk for Whom?

There are certain phrases in events that make my left eye twitch now.

“Just a short walk.”

“It’s right over there.”

“It’s only a few minutes.”

“You can probably just…”

Baby.

Short walk for whom?

I ask that question differently now because I am both an event professional and a disabled participant. I know what planners mean when we say something is close. I also know what it feels like when somebody else’s definition of “close” becomes a demand my body has to absorb.

And those are not the same thing.

A couple of years into using a mobility scooter, I started noticing just how much event language assumes a particular kind of body.

A body that can stand for a while.

A body that can walk a little farther if necessary.

A body that can handle the cobblestone, the incline, the grass, the extra hallway, the “quick” site tour, the five-minute break that includes a bathroom trip three corridors away.

A body that can simply push through.

Mine does not always work that way.

And accessibility is not about making my body behave more like the imaginary body the plan was designed around.

It is about designing the plan so my body can participate too.

“It’s just a short walk.”

I was on a destination familiarization trip in Daytona Beach when we arrived at a stop connected to the Jackie Robinson Ballpark.

Some version of “it’s just a short walk” was offered.

And all I could think was:

Short walk for whom?

Because “short” is not a distance.

It is a judgment.

Ten minutes might be nothing to one person. Ten minutes might be the difference between somebody participating in the next activity and spending the rest of the afternoon managing pain.

Two blocks might sound close.

A hallway might look short.

A venue might technically be “right next door.”

But none of those phrases tell me what I actually need to know.

• Is it 200 feet or half a mile?
• Is the route flat?
• Is there seating?
• Is it outdoors?
• Is there cobblestone?
• Is there gravel?
• Is there a curb cut?
• Are we going uphill?
• Will I be able to use my scooter the entire way?
• Is the accessible entrance the same entrance everyone else is using, or am I about to take a tour of the loading dock and somebody’s kitchen?

Those are operational questions.

And yet event information is still routinely written as though “close,” “easy,” “short,” and “accessible” are universal measurements.

They are not.

Riding is not resting.

I also need us to kill another assumption while we are here.

Using a scooter does not mean I am sitting around relaxing all day.

I have actually had someone question why I was tired because I had been “riding” all day.

Girl.

A mobility device reduces one kind of physical demand.

It does not erase pain.

It does not erase fatigue.

It does not erase the energy required to travel, navigate a large property, transfer, get dressed, manage medication, maneuver through crowds, sit upright for hours, hold my body steady over rough terrain, advocate for access, problem-solve when the access plan falls apart, and then do it all again tomorrow.

I have ridden my scooter across cobblestone and felt my entire body vibrate.

Scooters do not have some magical luxury suspension system. On rough surfaces, I am gripping harder. My back is absorbing movement. My knees are reacting. My body is working.

Riding is not resting.

And that matters when we build agendas.

The run of show might start at 8:00 a.m.

My day may have started hours earlier just so I could be ready for it.

The participant journey did not begin when the general session doors opened.

Accessibility information should describe the environment, not judge my body.

This is where I think planners can make a very practical shift.

Stop telling disabled participants what you think they can handle.

Tell us what exists.

Instead of:

“It’s a short walk.”

Give me:

“The reception is approximately 900 feet from the meeting room. The route is indoors, level, and has seating halfway.”

Instead of:

“The tour is accessible.”

Tell me:

“The tour includes approximately 20 minutes outdoors, one moderate incline, paved pathways, two seated stops, and an accessible restroom near the midpoint.”

Now I can make a decision.

That is the difference between paternalism and access.

Paternalism tells me what I can handle.

Accessibility gives me enough information to decide what I can handle.

And please do not confuse:

“This may take a disabled person longer”

with

“This disabled person cannot do it.”

Sometimes I do not need somebody to decide I cannot participate.

I need time.

I need space.

I need the route information.

I need people not rushing my body because the schedule was written around theirs.

The route can be technically accessible and still be physically punishing.

This is another place where compliance language can make us lazy.

Can my scooter technically get across the surface?

Maybe.

Should that be the end of the conversation?

Absolutely not.

I have crossed routes that were technically passable and still left me exhausted and hurting.

I have looked at steep inclines and thought, Nope. I am not fixing to fall off this scooter today.

I have dealt with door thresholds that require momentum.

I avoid sand because I have gotten stuck before.

I have been on properties where something looks close on a map but getting there in an actual body is an entirely different experience.

That is why an accessible route cannot simply mean:

A route exists.

We have to start asking:

What does this route require of the person using it?

That question changes things.

The disability tax shows up in little places.

When the event does not account for distance, terrain, pacing, transportation, or rest, the cost does not disappear.

Somebody pays it.

Sometimes I pay it in pain.

Sometimes I pay it by missing an activity.

Sometimes I pay it by leaving early.

Sometimes I pay it the next morning when my body is stiffer, slower, and moving like I am 900 years old.

Sometimes I pay it by using energy to solve an access problem that I should have been able to spend actually participating.

That bill always comes due.

The event may still look successful in the post-event report.

The attendance number may still be strong.

The photos may still be cute.

The bus may still leave on time.

But none of that tells you what the experience cost the disabled person who had to keep adapting to make the plan work.

I was an event planner before I became disabled.

And this is important.

I did not start out knowing all of this.

I have planned huge events.

I have managed transportation.

I have walked acres of event space.

I have done site visits and looked at ballrooms, load-in, flow, F&B, registration, signage, staffing, timelines, budgets, and a hundred other things.

And there were things I did not see.

Not because I did not care.

Because I had not learned to look for them yet.

Disability did not teach me how to be an event planner.

It changed what I noticed as one.

Now when somebody says “short walk,” I hear an assumption.

When somebody says “accessible,” I want to know what they verified.

When somebody says “it’s right over there,” I want a distance.

When somebody says “everybody can participate,” I want to know which bodies were actually considered when that sentence was written.

That is not me trying to make planning harder.

That is me trying to make the experience hold.

Because everybody means every body.

And sometimes better accessibility starts with one very simple question:

Short walk for whom?