The Quiet Trauma of Dependence
There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from waiting for someone else to help you do the things most people take for granted - to eat, to shower, to get out of bed. It’s not just the waiting itself, but what it represents: the loss of control over your own life. As a disabled person, I live in the constant tension between gratitude for the help I receive and grief for the independence I’ve lost. The world likes to paint dependence as noble or inspiring, but what it really feels like is psychological captivity, a quiet, daily erosion of your sense of self.
People often assume that once you “get the help you need,” your problems are solved. They don’t see that the system of care we rely on is fragile, underfunded, and often unreliable. They don’t see the nights you lie awake wondering if your caregiver will show up in the morning. They don’t see the panic that creeps in when someone cancels a shift and you’re left trying to figure out how to eat, use the bathroom, or get into bed without anyone there. Every small disruption has enormous consequences, because your survival depends on other people’s availability, mood, or sense of responsibility. It’s not just inconvenient and flat out dangerous - it’s mentally and emotionally exhausting.
Over time, that kind of dependence starts to shape how you think about yourself. You begin to apologize for existing. You thank people too much, even when they’re being paid to be there. You feel guilty for needing help, even though needing help is not a moral failing. But our society is built on the idea that independence equals worth, that the more self-sufficient you are, the more valid your place in the world becomes. So when your body forces you to rely on others for the most basic things, it can feel like you’ve failed at being human in the way society expects.
There’s also the emotional whiplash of dependence, the way it pulls you between vulnerability and resentment. You open your life and your home to others, often strangers, because you have no choice. You depend on them to treat your body with respect, to show up on time, to handle your needs gently. But too often, the caregiving relationship becomes a power dynamic you didn’t consent to, where your boundaries are blurred, your privacy is invaded, and your dignity is negotiated moment by moment. Even when your caregivers are kind and competent, you can’t ignore the truth that your freedom is conditional.
And in today’s Canada, that sense of instability is only getting worse. Our economy is crumbling under the weight of inflation, housing shortages, and an overwhelmed healthcare system. Wages for personal support workers and caregivers remain painfully low, while the cost of living continues to skyrocket. The result is a perfect storm of desperation - where too many people are taking on care work not out of skill or compassion, but out of financial necessity. And when desperate people care for desperate people, exploitation becomes inevitable.
This economic pressure has made it increasingly difficult to find safe, reliable, and trustworthy caregivers. Many disabled people are forced to take dangerous risks, hiring unqualified individuals, tolerating mistreatment, or ignoring red flags simply because there are no other options. We live in a country where being disabled means constantly negotiating between your safety and your survival. And it’s not just the physically unsafe situations that harm us, it’s the mental toll of knowing that your life rests in the hands of people who may not truly value or respect it.
An economy in decline doesn’t just make food and housing more expensive; it erodes the foundation of care itself. When support work is devalued, it attracts exploitation from both sides: caregivers are exploited by low pay and poor working conditions, and disabled clients are exploited by the instability and lack of oversight those conditions create. We are all paying the emotional and psychological price for a system that refuses to recognize care as essential infrastructure.
The emotional fallout from this cycle is staggering. Anxiety becomes your baseline because every day depends on someone else’s reliability. Depression creeps in quietly, disguised as exhaustion. Shame sits heavy in your chest when you ask for help again, or when you sense frustration from the people who support you. And yet, we’re told to be grateful just to have any help at all. Gratitude becomes the currency that replaces dignity.
But there is nothing “inspirational” about surviving neglect. There is nothing heroic about being trapped in a system that leaves you vulnerable because you cannot afford to be safe. The real inspiration lies in the strength disabled people show simply by enduring a society that continually undermines our right to autonomy.
If Canada truly wants to be an inclusive and compassionate nation, it needs to start treating care as a matter of public safety and human rights - not charity. That means investing in living wages for caregivers, enforcing stronger screening and accountability measures, and creating stable funding that allows disabled people to hire and retain qualified support workers without bureaucratic barriers. It means recognizing that reliable, dignified care isn’t a luxury - it’s the foundation of survival for millions of Canadians - especially now with our ageing population.
Relying on others for basic necessities shouldn’t be an emotional battlefield. It shouldn’t cost us our peace of mind, our dignity, or our safety. Until our country reckons with how economic desperation fuels the exploitation of vulnerable people, disabled Canadians will continue to carry this invisible weight - quietly, daily, and far too alone.
