Changing Perceptions on Sight Loss in Style
I’m a disabled journalist and my Access to Work was cut by 80% overnight – now my mental health is suffering.
Today’s post is going to be a little different from what I usually share here. If you’ve followed my work for a while, you’ll know I’m disabled — I’ve had severe sight loss since birth, I’m chronically ill, and I’m also a guide dog owner.
But aside from that, I’m also a full-time journalist — this is my full-time job outside of content creation, and it has been for the past three years. I don’t always write about the behind-the-scenes realities of balancing disability, chronic illness and work, but right now it’s impossible to separate my life, my career and my wellbeing from what’s happening.
My Access to Work support has been cut by 80%, and it’s taking a toll on me mentally — and, in turn, physically.
Access to Work is a UK government scheme designed to help disabled people into employment by funding practical support. That can include specialist equipment, an interpreter, taxis to work where the route isn’t accessible, and support workers.
But let’s rewind a little.
Since finishing my Master’s degree in 2017, I spent years trying to secure full-time employment. I was constantly applying, chasing responses and trying to stay hopeful. A huge part of the struggle wasn’t just finding the right role — it was finding an employer willing to see my skills first, not my disability.
Then, in 2022, something finally shifted. I secured a full-time job in journalism with Newsquest, and I was completely thrilled.
As part of starting that role, I applied for Access to Work. After waiting around 10 weeks from the start of my job — which I’ll admit was difficult, because I’d begun a new role without the support I needed — I was finally awarded my grant.
This included funding for equipment, taxis to and from the office, and a support worker for 37 hours a week.
I’ve had some criticism about that last part, with people asking why I need a support worker for so many hours.
To answer those questions: my job is fast-paced and involves a lot of visual work, including photos and handling data. Certain aspects of my role are not possible without human support.
I want to be really clear about what a support worker does, because it’s easy for people to imagine it as “extra help” rather than essential access. A support worker can help with tasks that are harder — or take significantly longer — because of disability. In my case, as someone with a visual impairment, that support is the difference between doing the work and being locked out of it.
They help me move through tasks at the pace journalism demands: the admin, the research, the systems, and the practical barriers that sighted people never even have to consider.
For the last three years, that support allowed me to do my job properly. It helped me keep up with deadlines, take on stories with confidence, and work in a way that didn’t punish my health.
Then, towards the end of 2025, everything changed.
When my grant came up for renewal, I was told my support worker hours were being cut — from 37 hours a week down to eight. That’s an 80% reduction, in one decision, made by one person based on a new set of policies.
I don’t think I can fully describe the shock of that moment. Up until then, I had been receiving the same level of support for years, and suddenly it was like someone had put my career in a blender overnight — even though my needs hadn’t changed.
I ended 2025 in a place I never expected: emotionally overwhelmed, anxious, and struggling to see how I was supposed to enter 2026 without the support that makes my job workable.
And the impact hasn’t been hypothetical — it’s immediate.
With far fewer hours, my job has become harder, and the range of stories I can realistically deliver has narrowed. I’m trying to work at full speed, while the support that enables me to do that work has been slashed.
What makes it even more difficult is that when I tried to explain this and push back, I was effectively told the decision had been made and couldn’t be changed in the moment — my only option was to ask for a reconsideration.
That process can take months, and there’s no promise it will end in the outcome I need.
After applying for reconsideration, I received a letter in the post confirming what I had expected: their decision had not changed.
So now I’ve been left with few options.
After contacting Access to Work, I was advised that the best course of action would be to make a new claim for “Enablement Support”. This is because their policies state that different types of support work include “Replacement Support”, which can only ever be 80% of your total hours.
However, after receiving advice from RNIB, I’ve been told to continue going down a reapplication route, following guidance from their legal team.
Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that my support has been cut drastically — and I’m still desperately trying to keep my head above water. Lately, it feels like I’m going under little by little.
The current wait times for Access to Work claims, according to the DWP, are 37 weeks for both new and existing claimants. So where does that leave people who are trying to get into work — or stay in work?
Trying to navigate the Access to Work system can feel like you’re being tested on rules you were never given. But if you “fail”, the consequences aren’t small — it can mean losing your ability to stay in work.
Since I spoke about what happened, other people have reached out to share that they’ve experienced similar sudden reductions too.
Being disabled can feel like being trapped between two impossible requirements: you need a job to survive, but you need Access to Work support to actually function in that job. Even when you do get the job, you might be forced to wait months for support — and when the delay is that long, it’s not surprising that people feel pushed away from work entirely, because many of us simply cannot do the job safely or effectively without support.
And then there’s the stigma.
Disabled people are still painted with the same tired narratives — that we’re “lazy” or that we “don’t want to work”. The truth is often the opposite: many disabled people are fighting to work, to contribute, and to build a life — and the barriers come from systems that don’t provide timely, reliable support.
For me, Access to Work once opened doors I’d been trying to get through for years. Now, it feels like those doors have been slammed shut.
Organisations supporting blind and partially sighted people have been raising concerns for a long time. RNIB has said that problems with Access to Work are one of the biggest issues people come to them about, with delays that can stretch many months and renewed grants being reduced in ways that put jobs at risk. That aligns painfully with what I’m experiencing right now.
So if you’ve read this far — thank you.
And if you’re someone going through something similar, please know you’re not imagining it and you’re not alone. This isn’t about wanting “special treatment.” It’s about access. It’s about fairness. And it’s about disabled people being able to work without having the foundations ripped away overnight.
