I’ve been thinking a lot about safety lately: what it means for me, and how it means something different for every other person on the planet.

Safety has become something I have to constantly negotiate as a queer disabled woman, not something guaranteed. Of course, it’s not something of which any of us can ever be entirely certain, but the ground beneath my feet was a lot less shaky before the pandemic.

Image: Alexander McKween and Tequila Mockingbird at Haven, June 2024. Photo taken by Millie Gryphon and cropped by Archer Magazine for use above.

Before the COVID pandemic, I’d join a dating app and worry about whether I’d get any matches, or whether the picture of me in my wheelchair would scare people off. Now, in the nebulous, so-called post-pandemic era, matches may have accepted my wheelchair, but will they pass my COVID test?

Most people don’t know how to act when they see a person in a wheelchair. I’ve had a range of experiences, from a man who stood directly above me and proclaimed, “I bet you can’t do donuts in that thing,” to people who, in well-meaning acts of condescension, tell me how brave I am.

I’d heard from friends that civility tends to disappear on dating apps, so I’d kept my sexual orientation private and avoided sharing photos of myself in my wheelchair until fairly recently.

My wheelchair is part of my identity. It brings me freedom and so much joy. I’d started to feel like not including it on my dating profile would be akin to lying. Similarly, my queerness is part of who I am, even though it’s something I’m still beginning to understand as I unpick decades of internalised homophobia.

Growing up, I’d seen bisexuality in film and TV either erased or as the butt of jokes. Is that what I would become, if I owned who I was? Not to mention that queer spaces can be notoriously inaccessible.

Queer and disabled and COVID-cautious. How often I wished I had less baggage.

Existing in the world as a wheelchair user makes me unavoidably visible. The chair rattles as it rolls along the footpath. The motor whirs as it travels up or down a hill, and the display beeps each time I turn the chair on or off or adjust its speed. As a wheelchair user still wearing a mask, I stand out even more.

But just like the wheelchair is essential for my safety – minimising pain and eliminating the possibility of tripping over – the mask is a necessary part of any outing.

Last year, I rejoined a dating app and matched with a guy with whom I shared values, interests and a cultural background. Let’s call him John.

John must have seen my wheelchair on my profile, but he didn’t ask about it. Like me, he’d been quite close with his nonna. He’d never visited Italy, but it was on his bucket list. He was a bibliophile and preferred to spend his weekends reading on the couch, which is how I spend most of mine.

John and I maintained a conversation – messaging back and forth every day – for several weeks. I was housesitting in June, so we talked about meeting up at one of his favourite cafes once I was back home.

Then came the nail in the coffin.

“I’m still taking COVID precautions,” I wrote, “so I’ll be wearing a mask. And is it okay if we sit outside?”

Up until that point, John had been fairly responsive. Sometimes he’d take a day or two, but he’d apologise and explain that he’d been busy with work or whatever else. This time, he read the message. A week went by, no response.

As my psychologist says: “No response is still a response.”

But I didn’t want to give up right away. I didn’t want to believe that the connection we’d forged – friendship, if nothing else – could be so easily undone. I sent another message, asking if he still wanted to meet up. Again, read with no response.

I’d officially been ghosted because I mentioned the C-word.

After this happened, I was shaken. I was more rattled than the end of a connection of a few months would usually warrant, because I’d lost more than a potential friend or partner. I’d lost – temporarily – the belief that anyone could see and respect my mental illness, my physical disability and my need to take COVID precautions.

In short, I’d fallen into the ableist trap of thinking that I was too much. I deleted the dating app.

I’ve reflected in the months since, unpacking my reaction with my psychologist and my friends.

Public attitudes towards COVID precautions aren’t getting any better. If anything, they’re getting worse, and for disabled people, this is beyond frustrating. It’s downright dangerous.

Wearing a mask is not difficult (unless you have a medical exemption, which I completely respect). Yes, they’re expensive, and so are RATs, which is why I always offer to purchase both.

COVID precautions are common courtesy during the ongoing pandemic. People don’t want to talk or hear about COVID anymore, but acting as though it’s over, or living in a bubble of pretend positivity isn’t an option when the consequences are permanent functional decline or death. The people who respect and know me best acknowledge that, and anyone I date will have to acknowledge it too.

A few months ago, I redownloaded the dating app and donned my armour, more prepared for rejection and misunderstanding.

Through the app, I’ve formed a cherished friendship with someone who wears a mask without me having to ask and reschedules if she’s sick, who has shown me that accessibility is not too difficult, and I am not too much.

The app is still on my phone, not currently in use.

The risks remain. I might receive a barrage of biphobia or ableism. I might get ghosted again. But if I do, I’ll know it’s not my fault.

I’ll know that I deserve to be seen in my entirety, to be safe and to have my disabilities respected and my access needs met. And if people can’t accept that, they don’t deserve me.