Социальный работник ушла с должности из-за отсутствия поддержки при работе с инвалидностью

By Caroline Dove For almost twenty years, I worked as a social worker in both permanent and locum roles. Helping people through some of the most difficult periods of their lives was a privilege, and building relationships with children, families and adults was always the part of the job that came most naturally to me. Despite the pressures, I never doubted that social work was where I was meant to be. What many colleagues never saw was that I was doing that work while living with arthritis, which was affecting my knees and the base of my spine, as well as with diabetes. Working with invisible disabilities My disabilities are largely invisible. People saw me walking into the office or attending meetings, but they did not see the planning involved before my working day had even begun, or the pain I often worked through simply to do my job. They did not see the physical impact of long walks between offices, climbing stairs, carrying equipment or sitting in meetings for several hours without the opportunity to move around. Living with diabetes also meant that meal breaks were not simply a matter of comfort. They were an important part of managing my condition. Yet, like many social workers, I regularly found myself working through lunch or staying beyond my contracted hours because the demands of the job came first. Those expectations affected everyone, but they carried additional consequences for me because they directly affected my health. Developing coping strategies In my time as an agency worker, the pressure was different. Taking time off did not simply mean losing a day's pay. It also carried the risk that my placement might end. I developed my own coping strategies, carefully planning journeys, relying on taxis whenever I could afford them and pushing through pain more often than I should have. I persevered because I loved my work, but coping strategies can never replace meaningful support from an employer. Vital adjustments that rarely became a reality Years later, following a period of sickness absence during one permanent role, I was referred to occupational health. Several reasonable adjustments were recommended, including working from home one day a week to reduce the physical strain of travelling and improve the long-term management of my condition. For the first time, I felt hopeful that I would be able to continue doing the job I loved without compromising my health. Unfortunately, those adjustments rarely became reality. I raised the issue with management on several occasions. The conversations were always professional, and I understood the pressures services were facing. However, the message I took away was that the service needed someone who could simply do the job. My adjustments were acknowledged, but when they conflicted with staffing shortages or operational demands, they were often the first thing to be set aside. As someone working in a profession built on equality and inclusion, I found that difficult to reconcile. The hidden cost of working with a disability Sometimes the management’s decisions made little practical sense. On one occasion, I travelled into the office despite another duty social worker already being available to respond much more quickly. By the time I had arrived, the work could not realistically be completed until the following day. My agreed adjustment had been ignored and neither the service nor the family had benefited. But the only person who paid the price was me. Travel became one of the hidden costs of working with a disability. Although public transport was available, buses and trains frequently involved more walking than my back and knees could comfortably manage. To remain in work, I relied heavily on taxis. Some weeks, I spent as much as £300 simply travelling to and from work and between visits. Those costs were never a luxury. They were the price of remaining mobile enough to do my job. I became conscious that some colleagues questioned how much I spent on taxis. Few understood that I was not paying for convenience. I was paying to arrive at work able to function rather than already exhausted and in pain. Disability carries financial costs that are rarely recognised until you are the person paying them. Lack of accessibility within the workplace There were other challenges too. Something as basic as having an appropriate chair was not always treated as a priority, particularly when I was working as a locum. Meetings often lasted several hours with little opportunity to stand, stretch or take a break, increasing the pain and stiffness caused by my arthritis and causing me to miss regular meal breaks, which affected my diabetes. None of these adjustments would have required significant financial investment. They simply required an understanding that disability sometimes means working differently, rather than working less. Another issue that particularly concerned me was the absence of a personal emergency evacuation plan (PEEP) in some workplaces. My arthritis affects my mobility, particularly when using stairs or moving quickly. Although I repeatedly raised the issue with various managers, a PEEP was not always completed. I was assured that arrangements would be made, but those promises often failed to materialise. This left me anxious over what would happen if the fire alarm sounded one day - whether anyone would know how I could leave the building safely. When my health deteriorated, the focus often shifted to managing my sick leave rather than asking whether consistently implementing my agreed adjustments might have prevented some of that absence in the first place. Occupational health referrals sometimes felt like a response to the issue escalating, instead of a way to prevent it reaching a crisis point. Eventually, there came a point when perseverance was no longer enough. Leaving social work became the ‘only realistic option’ One day, I was expected to undertake a journey of around five hours by public transport to visit a child. Knowing the impact that journey would have on my arthritis, I asked whether there was another way. There wasn't. I wasn't refusing to do my job. I was asking whether there was a reasonable adjustment that would allow me to keep doing it. The expectation remained that I would make the journey regardless. At that moment, I realised I could no longer continue sacrificing my health to remain in a profession I loved. After almost 20 years as a social worker, I accepted that leaving might not be what I wanted, but it had become the only realistic option. I left because the physical demands of the role, combined with the inconsistent support for my disability, had become unsustainable. This remains one of the hardest professional decisions I have ever had to make. I still believe social work is one of the most rewarding professions there is, and I miss the privilege of working alongside the people I supported. Listening to disabled staff I often wonder how many experienced practitioners are lost in the same way, not due to a lack of commitment or ability, but because the support that would allow them to remain in work is absent. My advice to managers is simple: listen when disabled members of staff tell you what they need. If occupational health recommends reasonable adjustments, protect them rather than allow them to become the first casualty of service pressures. Small adjustments can make the difference between retaining an experienced practitioner and losing them altogether. Social work rightly challenges barriers that prevent the people we support from living full and independent lives. We should show the same commitment to the professionals who dedicate their careers to helping others. My hope is that disabled social workers in the future will not have to choose between protecting their health and remaining in a profession they love.