We’ve all had those weekend errands that we just want to cross off the to-do list. Today, my husband and I headed into the Menards in St. Cloud, MN for a few things. I was riding my pink mobility scooter, and he was driving one of the store’s electric carts. Because he had a few smaller boards balancing on his scooter, we were moving with extra caution down the aisle. He was focused on making sure he didn’t bump into any displays or get in anyone’s way.
Then, the mood completely shifted.
Out of nowhere, a store employee came pushing a large stocking cart rapidly down the cross aisle. She had to stop abruptly to avoid slamming right into us. Instead of slowing down or giving us a passing “shortcut” smile, she stopped dead in her tracks and let out a massive, dramatic sigh; the kind meant to ensure everyone within a twenty-foot radius knows exactly how annoyed you are.
A shopper walking just behind her tried to break the awkward tension with a laugh, saying, “Sounds like you need a beeper!”
The employee didn’t skip a beat. She sarcastically replied: “No, THEY need a beeper.”
Instantly, I felt the familiar sting of embarrassment and discomfort. The issue wasn’t the tight squeeze in the aisle; retail spaces get crowded. The issue was the casual hostility. It made me feel like our choice to navigate the world with wheels was a personal offense to her workday.
When a random stranger makes a comment like that, it hurts, but you can roll your eyes and move on. But when it comes from an employee, someone who is the face of a business meant to welcome the public, it carries a different kind of weight. It made it so much more disheartening. What really stayed with me as we left the store was just how effortlessly the comment rolled off her tongue. There was no filter, no second thought, and zero hesitation. It was immediate, casual, and completely dismissive.
There is an invisible mental load that people with disabilities carry every single day. Whether a disability is visible or invisible, we spend a massive amount of time trying to minimize our footprint so we don’t “bother” the able-bodied world. We map out our routes. Apologize for existing in crowded spaces. We constantly overthink: Am I moving too slow? Am I blocking this shelf? Should I just wait until this aisle clears out entirely so I don’t get looked at?
When an experience like this happens, it validates all of those internal fears. It sends a loud, clear message: You are an inconvenience.
When I launched Wander Wheels Living, it wasn’t to create a space for pity or to stir up cheap internet outrage. It was to shine a light on these exact moments; the quiet, everyday interactions where disabled individuals are subtly pushed to the margins or made to feel like they don’t belong in ordinary public spaces.
True accessibility is a multi-layered concept. Yes, we need physical infrastructure like ramps, wide aisles, and functional scooters. But those physical tools mean very little if they are paired with a culture of impatience. Real accessibility requires a shift in attitude. It demands patience, empathy, and an understanding that everyone has a right to move through a store safely and with their dignity intact.
The words we choose matter. The casual jokes we make at the expense of others matter. Sometimes, the smallest, split-second comments leave the longest-lasting bruises. Let’s start paying attention to how we treat the people sharing the aisle with us.
If you’re interested in learning more about my personal story and journey, I share it in My Invisible Disability Story | Choosing Life Beyond Limits
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