When excursions don't make space for disability, our family is split

Photo of Syona and Nal on a trip to Charlevoix, Quebec.

By Anchel Krishna

I was scrolling on Instagram the other day when a post came up about a set of caves in Ontario. 

The photos were gorgeous. Narrow passageways. Small groups winding their way into spaces that opened into bigger chambers. This trip—combining adventure, mystery and nature—could stay with a kid for years. I looked for a long time. Then I kept scrolling.

Here is the calculation I made: The caves are not accessible. My older daughter Syona has cerebral palsy and uses a power wheelchair. There is no version of this trip that includes her. So the question is not: “Do we want to go?” The question is: “Do we go anyway, with my younger daughter Nal, and leave Syona at home?”

This is a question we have been navigating for nine years, since Nal was born. It has no clean answer.

The honest version is: We want Nal to see the world, we just wish it was built for wheelchair users, along with the rest of us. 

Given advances in technology, it is astonishing that so much of it still is not. Syona lives with those barriers every day, and we do not want them to be the only ones that shape where Nal gets to go. 

Nal is a kid who loves exploration, nature and trying new things. That would not be fair to her, and if I am honest, it would not be fair to Syona either. Syona would not want her sister to be held back.

At the same time, we want to go places as a family. All four of us. That is what we signed up for when we became a family of four.

Those two things are not always compatible.

So we experiment. Some trips are family trips, and the first filter is accessibility. Where can we be together? What hotels will work? What bathrooms? What kind of transport? Which activities can Syona do with us instead of watching from the sidelines? These are the trips where we are all together. They are precious, but narrower in scope than they would be if we were a different kind of family. 

We went on our first family beach vacation to an all-inclusive resort a couple of years ago. It was great. Lots of fun beach and pool time and amazing memories. But it was a vacation. It wasn’t a trip where we were immersed in another culture or new experiences. 

Then there are the trips that are mostly accessible, except for a few experiences, like a hike. In some cases, Syona can take an accessible gondola, and usually one of us pairs up with Nal to do the hike. It feels like a compromise, and inevitably when we have a picture of smiling faces at the top of the hike, I wish Syona was there with us.

While adapted outdoor equipment exists for kids like Syona, we have not yet felt secure trying it with her. Maybe we should. But I worry about what happens if we stumble, trip or catch ourselves off balance. 

We have worked hard, over the years, to make sure Nal has a life that is her own. Her classes, her interests, her friendships, her strengths. All of those get real attention and investment. We also have the privilege that she does not have to come to every appointment or every therapy session, which means her identity extends well beyond being Syona’s sister. We try hard to protect that.

Nal still wants all four of us together. She is nine, and when I ask her what kind of trip she wants, she says one where everyone comes. She has not yet reached the age when going somewhere without her whole family sounds like a better option. That is coming. I know it is. And when it comes, part of this calculation will shift. 

What I have not figured out is how to feel about it all. 

There is guilt in both directions. When we leave Syona at home, I feel it, even when she is happy and Nal is having the time of her life. When we skip something because Syona cannot come, I feel it on Nal’s behalf, even when she has not noticed. I am always weighing the pros and cons.

I used to think I would eventually land on a philosophy. A principle I could apply, a rule for what counts as fair. I have not. Nine years in, I still weigh it experience by experience. 

What I have realized is that there is no resolution to this. There is only my hope that day-to-day memories, joy and these experiences add up to something both of my daughters recognize as their childhood.

I recognize the privilege that comes with this struggle. We must be selective about where we go, what we do and the dollars we spend, but outings and trips are not something that every family can do, for a variety of reasons. 

For now, I am scrolling past the caves. Maybe one weekend, my husband Dilip will take her, or I will. Maybe we will find a different trip Syona can be part of. Maybe we will skip it entirely and go somewhere else, together, where all four of us can be in the same room.

I am not going to pretend that I have this figured out. I am just going to keep making the call, one trip at a time.

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