Every time I fly, I have to ask myself:
Will my wheelchair still work when we land?
Because airlines damage thousands of them every year.
As a wheelchair user, I’m handing over the piece of equipment that functions as my legs and hoping it comes back in one piece.
So I prepare in ways most people never have to think about. I travel with a laminated one-sheet explaining exactly how to handle my chair. I bring backups of everything. I carry a full binder for Canine Companions® Lovey, even though all of that has already been submitted ahead of time.
And even then, none of it guarantees anything.
This shows up clearly in what happened to Emily Ladau, whose $75,000 custom wheelchair was severely damaged after a Delta Air Lines flight, as reported by USA TODAY and Zach Wichter.
Stories like this feel shocking if you’re new to it. If you live in this reality, they don’t. They feel familiar.
People often point to the numbers and say about one percent of wheelchairs are mishandled, which sounds small until you actually translate what that means. Because if there were a one percent chance your legs would be broken when you got off a plane, you wouldn’t call that acceptable risk. You would question whether the system is safe at all.
Wheelchairs aren’t luggage. They aren’t interchangeable.
They are how we move through the world.
When they’re damaged, the question shifts from “how was your trip?” to “how are you going to function now?”
If you break someone’s wheelchair, you didn’t damage their property. You took away their ability to move.
The uncomfortable reality is that stories like Emily’s get traction because she has a platform. Most people don’t, which means this is happening every day to people who don’t have the visibility to force a response, and who are left dealing with the fallout on their own.
We’ve been talking about this for years. There has been real advocacy, real momentum, even policy movement. Yet the system still treats essential mobility equipment like cargo and fixes problems only after they happen.
If you knew there was a real chance your ability to move could be taken from you at the end of a flight, would you still see this as acceptable risk?
Why Lying About Disability Hurts Everyone
Silhouetted wheelchair user navigating through a bustling airport terminal during sunrise or sunset, with warm golden light streaming in from large windows ahead. The reflection of the light creates a glowing effect on the polished floor. Other travelers with luggage are blurred in the background, adding a sense of motion and activity to the scene.
Thanksgiving this year marked a bittersweet milestone for me: my first flight since the passing of my service dog, Canine Companions® Pico. Navigating air travel without his steadying presence was an emotional adjustment, but it also brought a new set of challenges to the forefront—ones I hadn’t anticipated as a wheelchair user.
Picture this: It’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m at DCA, waiting to board my flight to Seattle. Between navigating Transportation Security Administration (TSA) Pre-check, managing my luggage, and coordinating the safe onboarding of my wheelchair, I was already juggling more than most travelers might consider. And then came the questions.
The heightened interest in the mechanics of my Alber GmbH power-assist wheels meant fielding inquiries from airline staff who were understandably curious about the technology I rely on for mobility. Half-asleep and longing for coffee, I found myself explaining the specs of my chair like I was pitching a new gadget on Shark Tank ABC.
The lesson I learned? Preparation is survival. Much like I once traveled with paperwork to verify Pico’s working status, I now carry a one-page cheat sheet detailing everything about my wheelchair frame and wheels. It’s a necessity for safety reasons, and because of the pervasive scrutiny many disabled travelers face—scrutiny amplified by dishonest actions like those described in a recent viral story.
A passenger on a United Airlines flight tried to exploit early boarding by claiming he had a disability due to recent knee surgery. However, his actions unraveled when he requested a seat in the exit row, where passengers must confirm their ability to assist in emergencies—something Federal Aviation Administration regulations prohibit for people with certain disabilities. Faced with the choice of admitting he lied or forfeiting the coveted exit row seat, he indignantly claimed he was suddenly "fine" to sit there after all.
When individuals fake disabilities, it undermines the trust needed for systems like pre-boarding to work. Those of us with legitimate needs find ourselves subjected to greater scrutiny. Additionally, exploiting accommodations reinforces the false idea that they’re perks instead of rights—conveniences to be gamed rather than tools for equity. This attitude chips away at the dignity of those who rely on these systems. Disability is not a monolith, but one thing unites us: the barriers we face are real. Every "clever hack" or deception makes the rest of us pay a higher price, emotionally, physically, and logistically.
We, as a society, must do better. We must normalize empathy over suspicion and remember that accessibility isn’t just a checkbox on a corporate DEIA plan—it’s a commitment to dignity, inclusion, and equity for all.
Planning to lie about a disability to get early boarding? Read this