Posted on July 1, 2025

There are moments in life that mark a significant turning point—not because of what you gain, but because of what you finally accept.

For me, designing my own wheelchair with Paul from the Mobility Centre was one of those profound moments.

Let me explain.

After a sudden brain aneurysm, months of grueling rehab, and grappling with memory loss and a diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder, one question haunted me: “Who am I now?” It wasn’t just about what I could or couldn’t do, but about my very essence. Looking in the mirror, I saw a stranger. I’d lost my past—and with it, the continuity of my identity. Becoming disabled didn’t just take away my movement; it stripped away everything I thought defined me.

So, when I found myself designing a new wheelchair, it wasn’t merely a practical appointment. It was a declaration.

When I was first discharged into a Centre for Neurological Rehabilitation, I faced a daunting 30-week wait for NHS wheelchair services. I simply couldn’t afford to wait that long—I needed movement. I needed independence. So, I bought a chair privately. It did the job, but it wasn’t truly built for me. Over time, it began to cause significant injuries: my shoulders, elbows, wrists. I was wearing my body out just trying to live.

Eventually, I turned to NHS wheelchair services—but what they offered simply wasn’t up to the standard I needed. Just an off-the-shelf model. Nothing tailored to my injuries or long-term condition.

That’s when the Royal British Legion stepped in.

They arranged for Paul from the Mobility Centre, along with an occupational therapist, to come out and assess me. The assessment was thorough, professional, and deeply compassionate. Their goal was simple: to make sure I received the right chair—one that would protect my body, support my independence, and adapt with me as I move forward. Not just survive it.

And yes, I chose bright orange.

It’s anything but subtle. It might not be everyone’s first choice. But for me, it speaks volumes. It says I’m not hiding. It says I’ve come to terms with who I am, how I live, and what this chair truly represents. It boldly declares: this is me. I’m not blending into the background or apologising for needing wheels. I’m living my life fully—and unapologetically.

Why This Matters for All of Us

Mobility aids aren’t just equipment. They are extensions of our freedom, our dignity, and our identity. And yet, the systems meant to support us in the UK remain woefully behind.

Consider this: there are an estimated 1.2 million wheelchair users across the UK—roughly 2% of the population. Among disabled adults, around 11% rely on a wheelchair to live independently. Despite these significant numbers, NHS wheelchair services remain chronically underfunded and severely overstretched. Waiting lists often exceed half a year. Equipment is frequently generic. Poorly fitted chairs lead to entirely avoidable injuries.

This isn’t a niche problem. It’s a national failure.

We speak endlessly about independence and inclusion. But what kind of independence is it if essential access to mobility support is reduced to a postcode lottery?

Moving Forward

This chair doesn’t fix everything. But it gives me back something no funding formula or government policy ever could: freedom.

It empowers me to move through the world as I am—not apologetically, not invisibly, but with confidence and clarity.

So yes, it’s bright orange.
Because I’m done hiding.