Have you ever heard of a “miracle flight”?
It’s the term people use—usually with judgment—when someone needs a wheelchair to board a plane but not to exit it.
And honestly? The judgment around this drives me up the wall.
Because here’s the truth people miss:
Disability isn’t linear.
It isn’t predictable.
It isn’t the same from morning to afternoon, let alone from airport to airplane.
A person can walk short distances but not long ones.
Stand for five minutes but not fifteen.
Manage a terminal but not a jet bridge.
Or need the chair because the flare-up hit today instead of yesterday.
And none of those realities are up for public debate.
Recently, someone shared that they get judged every time they use a wheelchair to board a plane.
Here’s what I wrote in response:
“I lived with an invisible disability for 15 years. I was on tons of ‘miracle flights.’
At first, the looks bothered me. Then I decided I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to make my body suffer for other people’s opinions.
Some days, the judgmental attitudes in disability groups nearly send me over the edge.
When will we learn that my level of disability doesn’t diminish anyone else’s?
Every level, every type, every expression of disability has barriers to overcome.”
And in my own family, that spectrum is very real.
Both my daughter and I have heart conditions that can cause us to faint if we’re still too long.
During my tilt table test, it took just 16 minutes before I passed out.
For my daughter, the first time it happened, she fainted in the same time it takes to wash her hands in a public restroom.
No one looking at us would see that.
They would just see whether we’re walking in that moment and assume it tells the whole story.
But our internal realities mean some days walking is fine — and some days it isn’t safe at all.
A wheelchair on those days isn’t a miracle. It’s protection.
Now that I’m a full-time wheelchair user, one thing is easier:
I don’t have to justify my disability anymore.
People don’t question what they can see.
But those years of invisible disability?
The stares.
The assumptions.
The quiet accusations.
The belief that if I could do some things, I must be faking the rest…
They follow you.
And they’re a big reason this conversation matters.
Judging someone for needing a wheelchair “sometimes” doesn’t protect the disability community.
It harms it.
It reinforces the lie that disability has to look one specific way.
It makes people afraid to ask for help.
It keeps people in pain longer than they need to be.
And it trains the world to see us through suspicion instead of humanity.
Here’s the standard we should be fighting for instead:
If someone says they need a wheelchair—believe them.
If someone says they don’t today—believe that too.
Function fluctuates.
Bodies fluctuate.
Access fluctuates.
And nobody owes the world an explanation for taking care of themselves.
