It took months to find a rehabilitation facility willing to accept me, and even then, it only happened because of a personal connection. The facility itself was not wheelchair accessible. To shower, I had to remove myself from my chair and crawl under the shower door. That was only the beginning. Many tables were inaccessible, beds were positioned in ways that made basic movement impossible, and in some cases I had to physically move or tip furniture just to reach the bathroom. In one facility, the shower chair was permanently attached to the wall at an unsafe angle, if someone without leg function attempted to use it, they could easily slide off and be seriously injured.  I pushed through all of it anyway, because getting sober mattered more to me than comfort, privacy, or dignity.

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After a relapse, I tried to reenter treatment. For nearly four months, I contacted facility after facility. I was placed on hold with no follow-up, denied return calls, or told outright that I could not be accepted because of my wheelchair. Some facilities were honest enough to say they did not want the liability of accommodating someone like me. The sense of rejection, abandonment, and discrimination that came with those responses is difficult to put into words.​  At that point, it became very clear that the system had no place for me, and no intention of making one.

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Eventually, someone helped me find another facility willing to accept me, but only if I paid $9,000 upfront. Living on SSI, as a single father of four children and no financial assistance, this was impossible. We negotiated a partial payment arrangement, yet after I left treatment, I was still billed for the full amount. More than a year later, I continue to carry that debt, adding financial pressure to an already fragile recovery. Even when I was able to access treatment, the struggle did not end there. Finding accessible sober living or appropriate aftercare was nearly impossible. Facilities openly admitted how difficult it was to place me after discharge. In one instance, one rehab center discharged me with nowhere to go, effectively leaving me homeless again because no accessible options were available.​  By chance, I later met a man at a gym who owned a sober living home. He had previously denied my entry multiple times due to his lack of understanding of wheelchair users. After getting to know me, he connected with my attitude and determination and offered me a place to stay. I am grateful for that opportunity, and I also played a meaningful role in supporting the men in that home and contributing positively to the community.

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However, the environment itself was not equipped to support someone with a physical disability or complex mental health needs. During my stay, I was physically assaulted by another housemate and transported to the hospital by ambulance. Thankfully, my existing spinal injury was not further damaged. That incident highlighted another serious and often overlooked issue: the lack of training, awareness, and mental health support when it comes to disabled individuals in recovery environments.​  Most able-bodied people do not understand the constant mental effort it takes to remain positive, composed, and resilient while navigating addiction and a life-altering disability at the same time. I often say, “the smile on my face is for the people around me.” Without proper understanding and support, people like me are frequently misunderstood, mistreated, or even abused in spaces that are meant to protect us and help us heal.

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This is not just my story.  I know many people in wheelchairs who have already given up. They drink constantly, rely heavily on painkillers, or turn to other substances because help feels inaccessible,inappropriate, or nonexistent. Their mental health declines, their bodies suffer, and their families are left watching it happen. There are very few places where people in wheelchairs can live, learn, and heal together, where they can rediscover what it means to be capable, connected, and sober. Because of this gap, many never make it to recovery. Some do not survive. That reality is heartbreaking, and it is one we

continue to ignore far too often.

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This is a major failure in our system. When people with disabilities reach out for help and are repeatedly turned away,

ignored, or treated as liabilities, many eventually stop asking. The cost of that silence is devastating.  I do not believe this has to be the reality.  With the right support, we can create recovery programs and sober living environments that are fully accessible, trauma-informed, and built with dignity at their core. Most importantly, these spaces must be designed by people with disabilities, not by those guessing at what accessibility looks like. I learned this firsthand when an able-bodied person designed my bathroom after I returned home from the hospital. A ramp was installed into the shower, something that might seem helpful to the average person, but in reality is one of the most dangerous features you can give a wheelchair user in that setting.

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There can be places where people with disabilities feel welcome, safe, and understood, where they and their families have a real chance at healing and long-term sobriety, together.​  I am sharing my story, not for sympathy; but to show why this work matters and why it is urgent. With proper funding, leadership, and intention, we can build solutions that no longer exclude people simply because their bodies work differently.

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Matthew Minton

‘This Is Our Warzone Where We Fight For Us And Those Like Us”