Let (it) Go

Losing my job didn’t happen in a dramatic way.

There was no argument, no raised voices, no outright admission of discrimination. Instead, it came wrapped in softer language—performance concerns, operational needs, not the right fit. What those phrases really meant was simple: I could no longer function in the way an able-bodied retail worker was expected to.

I had recently been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

MS is unpredictable, and at the time, I was still learning how my body responded to fatigue, pain, and mobility issues. Retail work doesn’t allow much flexibility. Long hours on your feet, fast-paced shifts, limited breaks, and an unspoken expectation to push through discomfort are treated as standard. Adjustments weren’t discussed. Understanding wasn’t offered. Instead, I was let go.

The message was clear, even if it was never said aloud: I was no longer useful in the way the role required.

Unemployment after a disability diagnosis carries a particular kind of shame. Not because you’ve done something wrong, but because society ties work so tightly to worth. When you’re unable to perform at the same pace or in the same way as before, the narrative quickly turns inward. You question your value. You replay conversations. You wonder if you asked for too much—or not enough.

What hurt most wasn’t just losing the job. It was realising how conditional my employment had been.

There was no space for adaptation. No curiosity about what I could do instead of what I couldn’t. The assumption was that if I couldn’t meet the standard version of productivity, I didn’t belong there at all.

That experience forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: many workplaces are not built for disabled people, even when they claim to be inclusive. Reasonable adjustments are often treated as inconveniences. Disabled bodies are seen as risks. And illness, especially when it’s invisible or fluctuating, is met with scepticism rather than support.

For a long time, unemployment felt like another loss layered onto diagnosis. Another door quietly closing.

But eventually, something shifted.

Being pushed out of the workforce gave me a clearer view of the system itself. I began to understand that what happened to me wasn’t a personal failure—it was structural. The problem wasn’t my body. It was a workplace culture that values output over people and sameness over sustainability.

I started learning about disability rights, reasonable adjustments, and employment law. I listened to other disabled people’s stories and realised how common mine was. Retail, hospitality, and other frontline industries are particularly unforgiving when it comes to chronic illness and fluctuating capacity.

That’s when advocacy entered my life—not as a career plan, but as a necessity.

Today, I am a disability employment advocate because I know firsthand how easily disabled workers are discarded when they no longer meet able-bodied expectations. I speak out because I don’t want others to internalise the idea that losing a job means losing worth.

Disabled people are not unemployable.

We are often just unsupported.

Flexible hours, adjusted duties, mobility accommodations, and trust are not special treatment—they are access. And access benefits everyone, not just disabled workers.

Losing my job was painful. It destabilised me at a time when I was already learning how to live in a changing body. But it also clarified something essential: I deserve dignity, whether or not I am productive in the narrow way capitalism demands.

I was let go—but I was not less than.

And now, instead of trying to squeeze myself back into spaces that were never built for me, I work to help change them.

Disability inclusion at work doesn’t require grand gestures. It requires listening, flexibility, and a willingness to move beyond able-bodied assumptions about productivity.

Here’s what meaningful support actually looks like:

• Reasonable adjustments as standard practice, not reluctant exceptions. Adjustments shouldn’t feel like favours. Flexible hours, modified duties, seating options, and rest breaks are basic access needs, not perks.

• Trusting disabled employees to understand their own bodies. Chronic illness fluctuates. Capacity changes. That doesn’t mean someone is unreliable—it means workplaces must adapt to variability rather than punish it.

• Separating performance from physical endurance. Many roles, especially in retail, equate productivity with stamina. That standard excludes disabled people unnecessarily. Capability is not measured solely by how long someone can stay on their feet.

• Open conversations without fear of penalty. Disabled employees should not have to choose between honesty and job security. Disclosure should lead to support, not scrutiny.

• Understanding that inclusion benefits everyone. Flexible policies don’t only help disabled workers. They create healthier, more sustainable workplaces for parents, carers, and anyone navigating life outside of work.

For disabled workers, access means opportunity. For employers, access means retaining skilled, loyal staff instead of quietly pushing them out.

Advocacy exists because too many people are still being let go—not for lack of ability, but for lack of accommodation.

Disabled people don’t need to be fixed to fit the workplace. Workplaces need to be fixed to fit people.

This article is part of Seen, Not Broken, a disability visibility series exploring chronic illness, access, and self-worth in adulthood.