Dating with a disability isn't just about finding a partner — it's about redefining worth, independence and the relationship with yourself
Lance Lim
Writer, Artist
Dating is tough. Period.
For anyone, it’s a balancing act of vulnerability, logistics and hope. But when you live with a disability, there’s a layer of complexity that shapes every decision.
I use a wheelchair, so planning a date isn’t just about where to go or what to wear — it’s about accessibility. Can I fit through the door? Will there be room for me inside? Is the elevator working, or worse, is there even one? What happens if there’s an emergency?
And the question I find myself circling back to, time and again: Is it really worth it?
With physical challenges, I dress to be comfortable. Comfort is a necessity, but it comes with its own set of judgments. People see it as me not “keeping up” with myself, and that stigma sticks. It chips away at my self-esteem in ways I don’t always know how to combat.
Then there’s the guilt — the nagging sense that I can’t always meet a partner’s needs, no matter how much I want to.
I know this might sound like a self-pity party, but it’s not. It’s just reality.
The truth is, I don’t date anymore. It feels more practical that way.
If I ever met my partner — or “spouse,” as the government so clinically puts it — my disability assistance would be reduced. Their income would become our income, and I’d be labelled “dependent.”
Dependent. Fragile.
It doesn’t take long before those labels start staring back at you in the mirror, weighing you down in ways you can’t shake.
After a while, it’s hard for you and your spouse to remain equals—if you ever were. The imbalance feels baked in, predetermined by systems and stereotypes.
And then come the words. The ones that are so hurtful they echo long after they’re spoken: “You’re not pulling your weight.”
For a long time, I avoided disability assistance. It wasn’t until I moved in with my son and suffered a heart attack that I was forced to apply. Now, part of me feels likeI have to prove I can still do something.
So, I chose dance.
Dance reminds me I’m not perfect — and that’s OK.
It teaches me to accept my limitations and honour who I am.
It shows me that it’s all right to stumble, to mess up, to keep moving. Because in the end, the most important relationship we have is the one with ourselves.
Lance Lim
Writer, Artist
Lance is a single dad and lifelong Strathcona resident. He joined Megaphone as a vendor about five years ago. Lance is trained in design and worked as a graphic artist. He also enjoys writing and is a member of The Shift peer newsroom. He likes spending time with his dog Zeke.
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