People often believe that if a space is accessible, it must be usable. These words sound similar, but they do not mean the same thing. Accessibility is the presence of something. Usability is the ability to use it safely, independently, and without barriers. The difference becomes clearer when you live with a disability and spend your life navigating the gap between the two.
The Equality Act entered UK law in 2010 and brought more than 100 separate pieces of legislation into one framework. Sixteen years later, the world can feel more accessible and inclusive. New buildings must be legally accessible. Old buildings must make reasonable adjustments. Although some skirt around what “reasonable” means, I have seen many thoughtful adaptations added to historic and listed buildings without fuss. This was especially true when Hannah and I took on our accessibility challenge to make Rochester more accessible in 2020.
Yet systems can look accessible on paper while remaining unusable in practice. Policies, roles, and the language of inclusion often create a polished surface that hides deeper barriers. When power sits unevenly and conformity is rewarded, accessibility becomes a performance rather than a reality. Even soft‑power spaces, like friendly rooms, pastoral tones, reassuring words can disguise pressure. They sound gentle but often guide disabled people toward compliance instead of collaboration. It is the difference between being invited in and being allowed to participate, equality and equity, and accessible and usable.
Last Sunday I was preaching at church. The service was shaped by grief after the sudden loss of our Curate, Sue. Many of us were mourning. I had to hold the space, preach pastorally, honour Pentecost, and link it to our current series. I struggled to write something that felt right. The service and the balance mattered.
When I arrived, the chancel was set for able‑bodied leaders. A table had been placed for the congregation to light candles in Sue’s memory. The lectern and mic stand were positioned where able‑bodied preachers stand. My ramp, which I bought so I could reach the chancel and lead like anyone else, was brought out, but it became obvious that I would hit everything. The ramp gave me access. The layout removed usability.
I asked for the table to be moved back more than once. Each time I explained why. Each time the team struggled to see the problem. The lectern had to be moved to the opposite side because my wheels would catch the tripod legs. Logic vanished. I had the equipment out. I should have been happy. Accessibility was present. Usability was not.
A few days later I was at our fortnightly coffee morning. I sat with a group of people who all live with different disabilities. We spoke about the Diocese Enable Team, the new disability office, my advocacy, this blog, and the difference between equality and equity. Many believed we were already an inclusive and accessible space. I understand why. Over fifteen years we have made huge progress: a toilet with disability supports, custom metal ramps replacing old wooden ones, a bridge ramp for the bell tower, and the foldable ramp for the chancel. We are careful with touch and physical contact. I held coffee mornings for disabled people and carers. The church has twenty‑seven disabled children and adults. I have pushed for change for a long time.
This is all amazing. The church is accessible, but that does not mean it is usable.
The toilet corridor now stores stacked chairs, making the turning circle tight. The kitchen counter is high, which means hot drinks are lowered down towards my face. The cake and biscuits sideboard is blocked by tables and chairs. Even if I reached it, the depth means I cannot access anything at the back. I navigate my chair around furniture, pillars, and people while holding a hot drink. Most weeks someone makes my drink and brings it to me. They tell me what cake is available. They serve me. This is kind, welcoming, and inclusive. It is not usability. It is a workaround. An unspoken reasonable adjustment in an unusable space.
Then came Thursday when I went clothes shopping. Some shops were accessible but not usable. One had a ramp so steep — around a 50 to 60 degree angle — that going down felt unsafe. Going up pushed me sideways. If a plant box stand had not been there, I would have fallen. The staff were confused because the ramp “worked for buggies.” It took all my strength not to roll my eyes. I hate wheelchairs being compared to buggies. The ramp showed they had considered parents with prams, which is good, but their idea of accessibility centred on a group that is not disabled. It was accessible for buggies and maybe manual wheelchairs if being pushed. It was not usable for powerchairs or those with walking issues.
They were kind and meant well, but didn't understand. It was my knowledge of Rochester, the 2020 accessibility campaign, the shops with ramps, and which ramp belonged to which shop that solved the problem. They ran to the comic book shop, borrowed their ramp, and it worked exactly as I said it would. I would have been stuck there otherwise.
These examples highlight the difference between accessibility and usability. Accessibility is the presence of a ramp, a toilet, a lift, or a space. Usability is whether a disabled person can use it safely, independently, and without relying on others to bridge the gaps. Accessibility is a tick‑box. Usability is lived experience. Accessibility opens the door. Usability lets you through it.
Most places aim for accessibility. Disabled people, unfortunately, live in the space between the two. Usable spaces should now be the aim.
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