A golden retriever service dog sits in the back seat of a white Uber car with its tongue out, looking out the open window.
Yesterday, I watched a third Uber driver pull up, see my Canine Companions® service dog, and drive off.
And I’ll be honest—I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t. Because I was standing in public. And because Lovey was watching me. She's trained to take her emotional cues from me. So I did what disabled people are expected to do: I swallowed it. I stayed calm. I performed grace under pressure—because anything else might cost me more than just a ride.
That’s the emotional labor we never talk about. The choreography of suppression. Not just because we’re trying to get somewhere, but because we have to protect our dogs, our reputations, and the egos of strangers who break the law.
This wasn’t some random errand. I was going to lunch with one of my oldest friends—a mentor who helped shape the career I now use to fight for equity. We’d planned it for weeks. It might be the last time I see him before I relocate.
But instead of getting to say “It’s so good to see you,” I walked in 15 minutes late, out of breath, emotionally wrung out, and apologizing for being disabled.
That’s the cost. The real one.
The financial one? That too. I finally gave up and selected Uber Pet—just to get downtown without being denied again. That upcharge runs me about $10 each way. Multiply that by the 3–4 round-trips I take per week, and we’re talking about $80 a week. Over $4,000 a year in fees I shouldn’t have to pay.
All because I use a service dog, and Uber won’t enforce the law.
And before someone says “Just report it”—I have. For over a decade. I’ve got videos. Data. Screenshots. Press. One or two drivers have faced real consequences. The rest? Nothing. Uber sends the same canned replies and moves on. Meanwhile, I’ve been gaslit, dismissed, and even had drivers mock me for trying to file a complaint.
Here's the part that nobody expects: I’ve gotten used to it.
I’ve internalized rejection so deeply that I now build in time to be discriminated against. I pad my schedule knowing I’ll likely be denied at least once—maybe twice—before I get a ride. I do math in my head to figure out when the emotional cost becomes too high and I need to just pay the upcharge.
And that? That is messed up.
So tomorrow, when someone says “It’s just a dog,” or “It’s just one ride,” or “Calm down, it’s not that serious,” I want you to remember this: It’s never just one thing. It’s the cumulative weight of being invisible, delayed, overcharged, and expected to smile through it.
If you’re reading this and you’ve never had to explain your rights in order to get where you need to go, I’m genuinely glad. But for the rest of us? We’re tired. We’re exhausted. And we’re still waiting for justice to show up.
So let me ask:
👉 Why are disabled people expected to pay more for access that’s legally guaranteed?
👉 Why does emotional restraint become our currency for survival?
👉 And what would it take—for real, lasting change—to happen?