Hard work. That's how I feel when I think about flying. Calculating what might go wrong, and how much I need to suck up to get through it.

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I write this not as an abstract policy exercise but as a woman with a spinal cord injury who uses a wheelchair.

The very nature of my career in international law has meant the need to travel frequently for work. For decades I've navigated systems never built with disability in mind. Nowhere is that more obvious than in aviation.

Every step of a journey - from check-in to disembarking - contains barriers, microaggressions. Moments when my dignity becomes negotiable.

I'm used to people not speaking to me, not looking at me - the constant, quiet reminders that I'm irrelevant, an inconvenience. Before I even reach the gate, I'm preparing for contingencies.

Will my wheelchair come up from the hold intact and, if not, will it be repairable?

Will I have to argue for staff to let me keep my collapsible manual chair onboard, which makes disembarking faster for everyone, or will cabin space for coats win?

Will I get the seat I requested, or will I have to ask another passenger to swap because staff have made unilateral decisions about where they think I should sit?

Then there's the battery inquisition. I carry evidence: photos, specs, (too many) letters. I explain - again and again - that my chair uses non-lithium batteries.

Yet, I can't escape the same grilling. The safe carriage requirements are clear.

Inconsistency at the counter is a choice, not a technical inevitability.

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