When “Access” Isn’t Accessible

What one weekend taught me about safety, support, and responsibility in shared spaces

I’m writing this as COACHELLA and Arts Festival wraps up for another year—and I find myself wishing I had shared this story sooner.

Not because it’s new. Because it stayed with me.

Sometimes it takes distance—and experience—to understand what a moment was really asking of you. And what it revealed.

The Context I Carried In

On April 9th, 2019, I had ACL surgery.

Less than a month later—on May 2nd, 2019—I attended what I still think of as “stagecrutch 2019.”

My incision was still healing. I was on crutches. Every step required intention.

And still—I went.

Because like so many people, I wanted to be part of something joyful. Something communal. Something alive.

Day One: The Front Gate

On the first day of Stagecoach (the country weekend after Weekend 1 & 2 of COACHELLA and run by COACHELLA ). I approached the front gate on crutches expecting some form of ADA support or guidance after purchasing my tickets far in advance and ready to enjoy the musicianship rather than just listening to the music. 

Instead, I was denied access to ADA services.

I was not offered ADA transportation. I was not guided toward an alternative.

And without my surgical paperwork physically on me, I was not considered for support.

There was no flexibility in the moment. No acknowledgment of what was visibly in front of them.

Just a quiet realization:

I was going to have to navigate this on my own. And I'm with my younger sister. We've got each other. We are ready for fun. We can handle anything. We're 5'9" compassionate and caring WOMEN. 

Returning—And Being Turned Away Again

I came back the next day. And the next.

Still on crutches. Still recovering. Still asking.

And each time, I was met with the same outcome— no access to ADA support, and no transportation assistance offered.

At a certain point, you stop expecting help.

You adapt.

The Distance You Don’t See

Over the course of the weekend, I walked nearly 10 miles a day on crutches.

Not to explore freely. Not to dance. But simply to exist within the space.

Distances between stages were long. Shade was limited. Water and support weren’t always easy to reach.

And when systems don’t meet you where you are, your body absorbs the impact.

When It Became About Safety

The moment that has never left me came in the heat of the day.

108 degrees.

My sister fainted.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered except getting her help.

I remember lifting her onto my back— balancing on crutches— moving as quickly as I could through a crowd, trying to find the emergency tent.

It was disorienting. It was urgent. And it shouldn’t have been that hard to access care.

Accessibility Isn’t a Feature—It’s Safety

We often talk about accessibility as if it’s an added layer.

But in moments like that, the truth becomes very clear:

Accessibility is safety.

It determines:

• How quickly someone can reach medical care

• Whether support is visible before it’s needed

• Whether a person in distress is met with ease—or with distance

Because when access fails, people are left to carry the weight themselves.

The Gap Between Policy and Practice

Policies can exist.

But if they rely on:

• Perfect documentation in the moment

• Rigid interpretation without context

• Or systems that don’t respond to visible need

Then they are not serving the people they’re meant to support.

Accessibility should not depend on whether someone has paperwork in hand while standing on crutches at a festival gate.

What Needs to Change

If there’s one thing I carry forward from that weekend, it’s this:

We need more water and wellness checkpoints.

And beyond that:

• ADA access that responds to real, visible need

• Transportation support that is offered—not withheld

• Staff trained to assess and assist in real time

• Medical and wellness stations that are easy to find, not far to reach

Because when someone is injured, overheating, or in distress, distance becomes a risk.

A Broader Conversation Around Care

I’ve been a longtime supporter and advocate for  End Overdose .

I went to UCLA with our inspiring, Darcy Michero —she's bringing dirrect care and awareness of care directly into music spaces.

And it reinforced something I already knew:

Whether it’s:

• Injury

• Heat exhaustion

• Overdose

Care should be immediate. Visible. Accessible.

Not something people have to prove they deserve.

The Perspective I Carry Now

Since then, I’ve worked across music, live events, sports, and community spaces, and alongside sustainability teams like Clean Vibes .

And what I know now is this:

The best events don’t just create moments. They take responsibility for the people inside of them.

A Truth Worth Holding

No one should be turned away at the gate because they don’t have paperwork in hand— while visibly on crutches.

No one should have to return, day after day, asking for help— and still not receive it.

And no one should have to carry someone they love across a festival just to find care.

I wish I shared this sooner.

But maybe now is exactly when it needs to be said.

Because we can design better. We can respond better. And we should.

Big hugs. Strong high fives. More water. More sunscreen. More wellness checks.