When Helping a Disabled Person Doesn't Feel Like Help

There’s something I wish more people understood about helping disabled people: Help can stop feeling like help the moment someone takes control of your body—or an extension of it—without asking.

I use a wheelchair. Not a wheelchair I’m “bound” to. My wheelchair gives me mobility, access, independence and freedom. It’s equipment, yes. But it’s also an extension of my body. Which means one of the earliest lessons many of us learned still applies: Keep your hands to yourself. Apparently kindergarten was preparing us for disability etiquette all along.

When Help Is Assumed

People sometimes assume I need help when I legitimately don’t. I’ll acknowledge something: I have an ego. I’m also stubborn sometimes. There are probably moments when accepting help would make my life easier and I still think, Nope. I’ve got this. But my discomfort with unsolicited help goes far beyond stubbornness.

Years ago, I was wheeling down a street. It was flat. It was paved. I was enjoying my stroll with music blasting in my ears. Then suddenly, I felt myself being pushed. No eye contact. No conversation. No “Would you like some help?”

Someone had simply grabbed my wheelchair from behind and started moving me. Imagine walking down the street listening to music when, without warning, someone grabs you from behind and starts moving your body. Would your first thought necessarily be: What a lovely person. Mine wasn’t.

My body registered threat before my brain had enough information to determine intent. I grabbed my wheels to stop my chair, turned my head around and yelled: “STOP!” The person became defensive. They were only trying to help. Suddenly, we were two people “standing” off, our threat-detection systems activated for completely different reasons. I felt threatened because someone had taken control of my mobility without warning. They felt attacked because an act they understood as kindness was met with anger.

After that encounter, I actually had my wheelchair customized without push handles. If someone wanted to help me, I wanted them to have to engage with me first.

Then It Happened Again

Recently, I was wheeling up a steep hill. My music was blaring. I was slowing down, but I was still keeping my pace. Suddenly, someone started pushing me. And I’ll tell you where my brain went before critical thinking had time to join the meeting: I thought I might be pushed into traffic. Was that man’s intention? No. But I didn’t know that yet.

My hands immediately grabbed my wheels to brake. I turned around and yelled—probably considerably louder than I realized because of the music: “Please, don’t touch me!” I remember the shock on his face as he let go.

Later, when my nervous system settled and my critical thinking came back online, I could appreciate that he had probably been trying to do something kind. And I felt bad about my reaction. For days. Then I started wondering: Would I feel this guilty if someone unexpectedly grabbed a non-disabled woman by the arm and started moving her? What if someone decided her feet weren’t moving quickly enough and physically moved them for her? I doubt it.

We would understand why she was startled. So why does the presence of a wheelchair change our understanding of the boundary?

My Wheelchair Is Equipment. And It's Part of My Body.

From the outside, a wheelchair can look like equipment. Technically, it is. But when I’m using it, the distinction between equipment and body isn’t so neat. If you push my wheelchair, you move me. If you stop my wheelchair, you stop me. If you redirect my wheelchair, you decide where my body goes.

The same can be true of other assistive devices. A cane, walker, communication device, prosthesis or mobility aid isn’t automatically available for someone else to touch or move because they believe they're helping. That doesn't mean you shouldn't offer assistance. It means help shouldn't begin by taking control.

Good Intentions Can Still Cause Harm

In the first class of my Bachelor of Social Work degree, my professor told us something I’ve never forgotten: “Just because you have good intentions doesn’t mean you can’t—or won’t—cause harm.” Most people who have unexpectedly pushed my wheelchair weren't trying to frighten me. They were trying to help. But the person helping has information the disabled person doesn't. They know their intention. I don't.

When someone suddenly grabs my wheelchair from behind, I don't get a little notification saying: Don't worry, Jenna. Friendly stranger. Good intentions. My nervous system has to respond to what is actually happening: Someone I can't see has taken control of my mobility. Intent matters. But so does impact.

So What Does Helping Look Like?

Please don't take this to mean you should never offer a disabled person help. There are plenty of times when I need it. Sometimes I would enthusiastically accept assistance because something is difficult, inaccessible or simply easier with another person's help. The problem isn't offering. It's assuming.

There’s a remarkably sophisticated accessibility tool available to almost everyone: Ask. “Would you like some help?” And if I say yes: “How can I help?”

That second question matters too. Your idea of helping might be pushing my wheelchair. What I actually need might be for you to hold the door. Maybe I need something moved. Maybe I need directions to the accessible entrance. Maybe I really would like a push. Or maybe I don't need anything.

Let the disabled person tell you what help looks like.

Is Accepting Help Dependence?

I think there’s another assumption hiding underneath some of these interactions: doing something alone equals independence, while accepting help equals dependence. But independence doesn't have to mean doing everything without another human being. Sometimes independence is having control over how something gets done. I can ask for physical assistance and still have autonomy. I can depend on another person for something and still direct what happens to my body.

Autonomy isn't the absence of assistance. It's having a say in the assistance you receive. And that's very different from someone deciding for me that I need help and physically acting on that decision.

When a Reaction Makes Sense in Context

There’s also a mental-health piece here. If someone has repeatedly experienced people touching their body, mobility equipment or assistive devices without permission, their nervous system may learn to respond quickly when it happens again.

From the outside, that response might look anxious, defensive or disproportionate. Disability-Affirmative Therapy asks: What has happened that makes this response understandable? That doesn't mean there's nothing to work on. I would certainly prefer that my nervous system not go from nice hill, good music to I might be pushed into traffic quite so quickly.

We can work with anxiety, threat responses and emotional regulation. But there's a difference between helping someone regulate after repeated boundary violations and teaching them that their reaction to having a boundary violated is the problem. Context before correction.

Ask First

There’s something I wish more people understood about helping disabled people: Help can stop feeling like help the moment someone takes control of your body—or an extension of it—without asking.

I use a wheelchair. Not a wheelchair I’m “bound” to. My wheelchair gives me mobility, access, independence and freedom. It’s equipment, yes. But it’s also an extension of my body. Which means one of the earliest lessons many of us learned still applies: Keep your hands to yourself.

Apparently kindergarten was preparing us for disability etiquette all along.

When Help Is Assumed

People sometimes assume I need help when I legitimately don’t. I’ll acknowledge something: I have an ego. I’m also stubborn sometimes. There are probably moments when accepting help would make my life easier and I still think, Nope. I’ve got this. But my discomfort with unsolicited help goes far beyond stubbornness.

Years ago, I was wheeling down a flat, paved street with music blasting in my ears when suddenly, I felt myself being pushed. No eye contact. No conversation. No “Would you like some help?” Someone had simply grabbed my wheelchair from behind and started moving me.

Imagine walking down the street when, without warning, someone grabs you from behind and starts moving your body. Would your first thought necessarily be What a lovely person? Mine wasn’t.

My body registered threat before my brain had enough information to determine intent. I grabbed my wheels, stopped my chair and yelled: “STOP!” The person became defensive. They were only trying to help. Suddenly, we were two people “standing” off, our threat-detection systems activated for completely different reasons. I felt threatened because someone had taken control of my mobility. They felt attacked because an act they understood as kindness was met with anger. Afterward, I actually had my wheelchair customized without push handles. If someone wanted to help me, I wanted them to have to engage with me first.

Then It Happened Again

Recently, I was wheeling up a steep hill with my music blaring. I was slowing down, but I was still keeping my pace. Suddenly, someone started pushing me. And I’ll tell you where my brain went before critical thinking had time to join the meeting: I thought I might be pushed into traffic. Was that man’s intention? No. But I didn’t know that yet. I grabbed my wheels to brake, turned around and yelled—probably considerably louder than I realized: “Please, don’t touch me!”

Later, when my nervous system settled, I could appreciate that he had probably been trying to do something kind. And I felt bad about my reaction. For days. Then I wondered: Would I feel this guilty if someone unexpectedly grabbed a non-disabled woman by the arm and started moving her? Probably not. We would understand why she was startled. So why does the presence of a wheelchair change our understanding of the boundary?

My Wheelchair Is Equipment. And It's Part of My Body.

When I’m using my wheelchair, the distinction between equipment and body isn’t so neat. If you push my wheelchair, you move me. If you redirect it, you decide where my body goes. The same can be true of canes, walkers, communication devices, prostheses and other assistive equipment.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t offer assistance. It means: Help shouldn’t begin by taking control.

Good Intentions Can Still Cause Harm

In the first class of my Bachelor of Social Work degree, my professor told us something I’ve never forgotten: “Just because you have good intentions doesn’t mean you can’t—or won’t—cause harm.”

The people who have unexpectedly pushed my wheelchair weren’t trying to frighten me. But they had information I didn’t. They knew their intention. I didn’t. I don't get a little notification saying: Don't worry, Jenna. Friendly stranger. Good intentions. Sit back and enjoy the ride.

My nervous system responds to what is actually happening: someone I can't see has taken control of my mobility. Intent matters. But so does impact.

So What Does Helping Look Like?

Please don’t take this to mean you should never offer a disabled person help. There are plenty of times when I need it—and plenty when I’d enthusiastically accept it. The problem isn’t offering. It’s assuming.

There’s a remarkably sophisticated accessibility tool available to almost everyone: Ask. “Would you like some help?” And if the answer is yes: “How can I help?” Maybe I need you to hold a door. Maybe I need something moved. Maybe I need directions to the accessible entrance. Maybe I really would like a push. Or maybe I don’t need anything. Let the disabled person tell you what help looks like.

Independence Doesn't Have to Mean Doing It Alone

There’s an assumption underneath some of these interactions that doing something alone equals independence while accepting help equals dependence. But sometimes independence is having control over how something gets done.

I can ask for physical assistance and still have autonomy. I can depend on another person and still direct what happens to my body. Autonomy isn’t the absence of assistance. It’s having a say in the assistance you receive.

That distinction matters in Disability-Affirmative Therapy too. Rather than assuming independence should always be the goal, disability-affirmative approaches centre the disabled person's lived experience, access and autonomy.

When a Reaction Makes Sense in Context

There’s a mental-health piece here too. If someone repeatedly experiences people touching their body or assistive equipment without permission, their nervous system may learn to respond quickly when it happens again. From the outside, that response might look anxious, defensive or disproportionate.

Disability-Affirmative Therapy asks: What has happened that makes this response understandable? My brain didn’t invent the possibility that someone might unexpectedly take control of my wheelchair. Someone had done it before. 

So therapy could focus immediately on: Why did you assume you were in danger? How could you respond more calmly next time? Those aren't necessarily bad questions. I would certainly prefer my nervous system not go from nice hill, good music to I might be pushed into traffic quite so quickly. But if we start there, we risk making the reaction the problem while overlooking what taught the nervous system to react.

Disability-Affirmative Therapy doesn't mean we stop at “Your reaction makes sense.” We can still work with anxiety, threat responses, boundaries and emotional regulation. But understanding comes first. What has your experience taught you to anticipate? And then: What would help you feel safer without asking you to give up a boundary that matters to you?

Feeling understood isn't where the work ends. It's what gives us a better place to begin. Context before correction.

Ask First

Helping disabled people doesn’t have to be complicated. If you think someone might need assistance, ask. If they say yes, ask how. If they say no, believe them.

I can need assistance and still have autonomy. I can depend on another person and still have boundaries. I can accept help without giving someone else control over my body. So perhaps kindergarten really did give us the best place to start:

Keep your hands to yourself—and ask first.

If you're looking for disability-affirmative therapy in BC, I provide virtual counselling for teens and adults with physical disabilities, chronic illness, medical trauma, and advocacy fatigue. Learn more about Disability-Affirmative Therapy