When the Journey Doesn't End at the Aircraft Door

Reflections on Hidden Disability, Air Travel, and the Human Experience

By Prince DeAndre, Duke of Hanumanteshwar
June 26, 2026

After spending six remarkable months in India, it was finally time to return home to Seattle.

Like many long journeys, mine required weeks of preparation before I ever arrived at the airport. Clothes were packed. Work was finished. Goodbyes were said. Flights were confirmed. Yet unlike many travellers, one of the most important parts of my preparation had nothing to do with passports or luggage.

It was arranging wheelchair assistance.

Three years ago, I was diagnosed with HLA-B27 spondyloarthritis, an autoimmune disease that affects my joints, spine, and energy levels. Some days I move comfortably. Other days every step comes at a physical cost that cannot be seen by the people around me. It is what is often referred to as a hidden disability. Although my condition may not always be visible, its effects are very real.

For this journey, I had requested wheelchair assistance from door to door.

Not from one gate to another.

Not for part of the journey.

From the aircraft door in Mumbai until I reached the public arrivals area in Seattle.

As I prepared to travel, I did everything I could to help make that process as clear as possible. I wore the airline's wheelchair assistance badge. Around my neck hung a Hidden Disabilities Sunflower, internationally recognised by many airports as a discreet way of indicating that a passenger may require additional support. Alongside it was my own Hidden Disability identification card explaining my diagnosis, the symptoms I may experience, and even my medical sensitivities.

None of these identifiers were intended to seek sympathy.

They existed for one simple reason.

To make communication easier, allowing frontline staff to immediately understand that the assistance being requested had already been arranged.

The journey began beautifully.

At Mumbai, I was treated with professionalism, dignity, and kindness. The assistance I had requested was waiting. Boarding was smooth, respectful, and effortless. It was exactly the experience every traveller hopes for.

When I landed in Hong Kong, the experience continued.

A wheelchair was waiting at the aircraft door. I was guided comfortably through one of the busiest international airports in the world, transferred to my connecting flight, and once again treated with quiet professionalism. No one questioned whether I needed assistance. No one asked me to justify my disability. They simply delivered the service that had already been arranged.

As someone living with a hidden disability, those interactions mattered far more than the wheelchair itself.

They allowed me to conserve my energy for the journey ahead.

They reduced unnecessary stress.

Most importantly, they allowed me to travel with dignity.

Then I arrived in Seattle.

The contrast was immediate.

Instead of being greeted with the same confidence and reassurance, the conversation became about whether I could walk.

I was encouraged to leave the aircraft and make my way into the terminal, where I was told someone would meet me later.

It may sound like a small request.

After all, I can walk.

That has never been the issue.

The issue is that I had not requested permission to walk.

I had requested wheelchair assistance from door to door.

There is an important difference.

Living with a hidden disability often means constantly making decisions about how to use your body's limited energy. Walking one hundred metres today may mean considerably more pain tomorrow. Standing for extended periods may trigger inflammation that lasts for days. Conserving energy is not about convenience. It is part of managing a chronic medical condition.

What struck me most was not the physical challenge.

It was the assumption.

A stranger looked at me and decided that because I appeared capable of walking, the service I had requested could be reconsidered.

Yet nobody standing at the aircraft door knew my medical history.

Nobody knew how much pain I had already managed during nearly twenty hours of travel.

Nobody knew what tomorrow would feel like.

And they should not have needed to know.

The decision had already been made long before the aircraft landed.

The assistance had already been requested.

The airline had already accepted that request.

The responsibility should simply have been to provide the service that had been arranged.

My experience is not about assigning blame to one employee, one airline, or one airport.

In many ways, it reflects a much larger conversation taking place across the global aviation industry.

Every year, millions of passengers request mobility assistance. Populations are ageing. Hidden disabilities are becoming more widely recognised. Airports are handling increasing numbers of travellers who require additional support, while balancing staffing, logistics, and operational pressures unlike anything seen a generation ago.

These are real challenges.

But they should never change one fundamental principle.

Accessibility begins with trust.

If a passenger has requested assistance, if that request has been accepted, and if the passenger arrives clearly identified through recognised accessibility programs, then the conversation should no longer be about whether they appear disabled enough.

It should be about delivering the service with dignity, professionalism, and kindness.

My journey home reminded me that accessibility is about far more than ramps, elevators, or wheelchairs.

It is about human interaction.

It is about understanding that not every disability can be seen.

And it is about recognising that the most meaningful assistance often begins with something very simple.

Believing the person standing in front of you.

This journey has left me with many questions about how airports, airlines, ground handling companies, and governments can continue improving accessibility for an increasingly diverse travelling public.

Over the coming weeks, I hope to explore those questions in greater depth.

Not simply through the lens of my own experience, but through the broader story of how air travel is changing, and how we might build a system that serves everyone with greater dignity in the years ahead.

About the Author

Duke Hanumanteshwar

Writer & Memoirist | Independent Political Strategist for Conscious Governance | Founder, H1927LLC (Global Leadership, Mindfulness & Diplomacy) | Co-Author of A Royal Commitment | Cultural Diplomat & DEI Advocate

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