My Experience using a Mobility Aid at a Concert Venue

Before we get into it, let me break the fourth wall real quick:

I am no stranger to living with a chronic disability. I was diagnosed with several auto-immune disorders and chronic pain conditions in my childhood. I have lived with “invisible” disabilities, chronic pain and mobility challenges for as long as I can remember. In school a 504 plan & medical accommodations in adult hood I take advantage of reduced-fare transit & lifetime access to national parks; the way I see it is if you’re in pain and these things are available, take them. 

I have passed as a fully mobile, able-bodied, and even viewed as a strong man. I don’t use mobility devices daily, which means people love saying wildly out-of-pocket things like, “Just wait ’til you’re older, everything starts hurting.”

Buddy… It already hurts. I promise you I’m not looking forward to the deluxe edition. Here is my personal experience using a mobility aid at a concert venue.

I’m writing this post fresh off of hip surgery and need to use crutches for a few weeks. I bought tickets to this show months ago and had no idea I’d be attending the show 4 days after having my bone spurs grind down, My femur reshaped and having a brand new (new to me at least) hip labrum from a cadaver.

Why am I saying all of this? Because not every disability looks the same; some you can see, others you cannot. I am writing this article because I attended a concert for the first time in my life with a mobility aid and I want to share that experience. 

Many people live with challenges that you can’t always see. I have times in my life where I had to wear certain braces or went for certain procedures and during those times people could see my disability; however they always initially assume it is an injury. My mobility issues became visible to my fellow music fans the second I showed up to a concert with crutches. And let me tell you—being at a show with a mobility device is… an experience. Not bad. Not great. Just eye-opening.

Step 1: Parking – “The Warm Up Round”

The venue didn’t have its own parking lot, but my friend and I grabbed a paid lot across the street. A totally manageable distance. 

What wasn’t manageable?

The crosswalk countdown timers that do not care that I was moving slower than a dial-up modem. Halfway across the street and the number’s already flashing, the anxiety sets in, i felt like the world would explode if I didn’t make it across in time.

Although this has nothing to do with the venue nor the concert this feels important to note because it’s absolutely a factor in real life for folks who walk differently.

Step 2: Entracing – “The First Boss Level”

I made it across Colfax without being hit or honked at, a triumphant success! Waiting in line was fine…until it came time to take out my ID and tickets on my phone. Two hands, two crutches, one cross body bag, and one rapidly advancing line of people behind me doing that thing where they exhale judgment but pretend they’re not. The line is slowly steeping forward each time I try to retrieve my phone & ID preventing a successful retrieval of my items. I decide to wait until it’s my turn to retrieve my ID. 

I also work part-time in concert security so I have their perspective and understand the importance of a smooth entrance. But I give myself the grace given my circumstance. It takes me a moment to retrieve my ID from my cross body bag. The guards are understanding and patient; I feel as if the folks behind me are anxious to get in but i dont turn around to check. 

The guards put a bracelet on me indicating I’m +21 but that’s whatever to me because I don’t drink. Now it’s time for the awkward part, the metal detector. 

Having a bag to house all my belongings made this process a bit easier than it would have had I carried my belongings in my pockets. I open the bag and set it on the table for inspection. It took me a moment to steady myself on the crutches and bring my bag over my head. 

Now it’s through the metal detectors I go; I of course set it off. Is it okay if I pat you down?” (the I is italicised because the security guard appeared to be a woman and I appeared to be a man; typically security teams will do pat downs with the same gender as themselves) I say yes she stops as she is patting down my left leg. “Do you have anything here?” I explain I’m wearing compression socks which got a little bunched up. She accepts my answer and the next guard scans my tickets. 

I bought a pair of GA tickets back in March with no idea that I’d be going to this show using a mobility device. Then I turned to the team and began to ask for accommodations, but before I could open my mouth, the guard saw the crutches and asked, “Do you need ADA seating?” 

Yes. Yes, I do.

Step 3: ADA seating – “The Great Voyage & Triumphant Arrival”

A guard with a flashlight escorted us through the crowd. He walked fast, too fast and got ahead of me before realizing and circling back. He apologized. I appreciated that. That little moment of accountability was huge.

Concert goers were quick to make way for the person with the flashlight. We traversed the crowd down the ramp the venue had along the perimeter. This is a theater style venue with tiered seating so there were multiple levels but the ramp made it significantly easier to get to where we needed to go. 

We made it to the ADA platform (right next to the sound booth—elite placement), and he dropped a folding chair for me and let my friend know she could stand nearby.

I said hello to my neighbors and made some small talk about the band we were all there to see. There was this immediate sense of camaraderie among everyone around me; with both the folks in need of accommodations and their friends/loved ones. A feeling of  gentle shared humanity from people who knew the drill. It felt good.

Step 6: Bathroom Run – “The First Circle of Hell”

Leaving the ADA section without the guard’s flashlight was… chaos.

My friend did her best to clear a path for me, which was well received by certain people but more or less ignored by others. We did our best to walk to the restrooms without the aid of the security guard and his flashlight. The fear of being tripped or bumping into someone and it resulting in a fall was very real. I was 4 days post surgery. If I were to fall I’d surely be doomed. 

The bathroom line was tight. The corner was tighter. A family restroom opened up directly next to me, but the guard who exited didn’t offer it. Not a huge deal, but it could’ve made things far safer. I wasn’t in a condition to open a handled door on my own. 

Multiple close calls. Zero actual collisions. An early Christmas miracle.

Step 7: Merch Table – “Anxiety Activated” 

I reunited with my friend in the lobby and we both joined the merch line. I was spared no sympathy by the merch person barking orders to “PICK A LINE!”. It felt rude so I disregarded her and browsed the merch for a second. The barking orders continued, oh well, yell all you want; I’m not going to move any quicker. The merch person did not seem to care about my mobility issues which felt a bit cold at best but whatever they have a job to do and I was going to buy merch anyway.

Step 8: The Return to ADA – “The Final Boss” 

I of course wasn’t going to try to leave with the rest of the crowd; that would have been far too dangerous. My friend and I waited it out until a majority of the crowd had cleared out. We saw some friends we didn’t know were present as the crowd exited which was fun. Once it was safe we made our way towards the exits. When we reached the lobby some security guards saw me coming and opened a closed door for me, my own private exit door, how nice! That went a long way with me.

What I Learned

My night on crutches wasn’t awful. It also wasn’t perfect; but I wasn’t expecting it to do. But it made one thing painfully obvious:

People moving with mobility devices deal with obstacles that most concertgoers never even notice nor consider.

Security? Amazing.

The venue layout? Pretty workable.

The crowd? A mixed bag—some kind, some oblivious, some dangerously impatient.

But here’s the heart of it:

A tiny amount of awareness from fellow concertgoers could change someone’s entire night.

• Look around.
  
• Give a little space.
  
• Don’t rush around people who clearly can’t pivot like a street fighter character.
  
• Be patient. Be courteous.
  

You might not think twice about it, but trust me—it makes a world of difference.

This was but one experience at one venue; and disability is unique to the individual. Be kind, be mindful and look out for each other out there. n life as in the pit; when you see someone down, you pick them up (don’t actually pick up a differently abled person unless they ask you).

Using a mobility aid at a concert venue is a unique experience for some, a fact of reality for others.

This isn’t about pity. This isn’t about fragility. It’s about community care. And music is supposed to be for all of us.

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