Like many high school seniors, I spent the last year preparing for my future — which, for me, has meant wading through the college application process. “Process” is an understatement for this massive undertaking: For months I researched schools and filled out applications until bleary-eyed, only to be rewarded with waiting and wondering about what the verdict would be. Many of my friends were also navigating this process, but because I’m a wheelchair user, I learned how disability can complicate applying to college. 

As I went through my senior year, I felt a bit jealous of my peers who didn’t have to factor in the existence of ramps or door buttons or the strength of a college’s disability services office in making their decisions. In fact, when I recounted the stories of my college visits to my peers, very few even knew what a disability resource center was. Surprisingly, meeting with those offices was even more important to me than seeing a campus, since working with them would be one of the main ways I facilitated my inclusion at the school.  

Making four-year decisions based on pragmatic considerations instead of purely on possibilities was frustrating to say the least.

Making four-year decisions based on ramps rather than sororities, and on pragmatic considerations instead of purely on possibilities, was frustrating to say the least. I vividly recall a conversation with the DRC at one of my top schools, where it came out that part of the “admitted student program” — the very mechanism the school relies on to convince students to attend — was held at an inaccessible location. Pro tip to enrollment managers and other higher ed professionals: That’s not the way to convince someone with a disability to pay tuition. That school also had only one accessible dorm and a weak paratransit system, so it was clear I wouldn’t be enrolling, even though I had gotten in.  

Explaining to nondisabled people how inaccessibility robs us of opportunities is difficult. My attempts were usually met by blank stares or a well-intentioned but unhelpful “that sucks” from my schoolmates and other friends. Finding information on experiences of disabled students — or spaces to connect with a given college’s disability community — was also difficult. At many schools, the administration left the visibility of the disability experience in the laps of the students. This made finding information hit-or-miss and often left me feeling like I was missing something. Alternating between valid rage and pep talks, I turned to my community to remind me that, especially in 2024, inaccessibility is a choice, and that I deserved to choose a school that chose me and was able and willing to support me.  

Blessedly I live in the age of the internet, where a different kind of accessibility — the informational kind — is always at my fingertips. And, while I never thought I would do this, I’m endorsing Reddit. I did my best to keep boundaries with this website notorious for being a cesspool of negativity. But I was lucky to find something beautiful in this online space: students with disabilities who shared stories of how their institutions handled access and inclusion, so that I could learn from them. I never commented — because again, boundaries — but I loved the ability to stay connected and supported by past disabled students by reading their words of affirmation or abashment about their universities. 

Now, as I finish the process, I’m holding on to the hope I find in being able to choose my own future. I want to say thank you to the disability community that supported me, both metaphorically and literally. I want to thank the disabled trailblazers who fought for their own right to have an education, because likely I wouldn’t be here writing this piece without their groundbreaking advocacy. We’ve grown from being denied access to education in the decades before my birth, to me now writing every “How will you contribute to College X?” essay about how I’ll help create more of a disability community on campus. 

It is only because we have come this far that I even had the privilege of being annoyed about filling out another application. Reading up on the stories of the “Rolling Quads” — the disabled students who pioneered the first American student-led disability services office — reminded me that I was part of a legacy, and that my voice and perspectives matter. 

Ultimately, my last thank you to the disability community is for the lesson I learned in this process: Adapting is necessary and even beneficial when we all do it together. I know that college will likely bring new challenges, and not only do I feel ready for them, I also welcome them. As a disabled person, I always adapt to have space in the world. Now, with the support of my community, I can’t wait to see how I create the college world of my dreams. 

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New Mobility’s college guide, Wheels on Campus, offers an in-depth look at accessibility and inclusion in higher education. We surveyed hundreds of colleges and interviewed more than 80 wheelchair-using students and disability service leaders to identify 20 colleges that create wheelchair-friendly campuses and cultures.

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The author of this essay, Anja Herrman, is the winner of United Spinal Association’s 2023 SWTCon Award for Writing.

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