My name is Jacquline Elizabeth Rucker, and I am a 40-year-old mom, wife, and woman who has lived two lives: the one I knew before my accident and the one I live now on wheels. For 20 years, I worked in the hospitality industry. My husband has worked in this industry for more than 40 years. Together, we understood hospitality deeply. We believed we knew what it meant to welcome someone, to serve them, and to create a space where people could relax and feel valued. But the truth is, even with all our experience, we never really understood accessibility until life forced us to see it from a completely different angle.
Four years ago, my world changed in a moment. A car accident fractured my C3 and C4 vertebrae, leading to an incomplete spinal cord injury that left me a quadriplegic. I cannot move my legs or my arms. In the beginning, I felt hopeless. I felt like everything I was before had disappeared. I didn’t recognize my life, and I couldn’t see any of the strength people kept telling me I had. But slowly, through my children, my husband, and my own spirit, I began to understand something important: life does not end when your body changes. It shifts. It reshapes. It becomes something new.
I am still a wife. I am still a mother. I have four beautiful children: a young adult navigating independence, two teenagers learning who they are, and a toddler who approaches the world with pure innocence and curiosity. They are my reason for choosing to keep living fully. They still want to go out, celebrate birthdays, enjoy cake dates, have dinners together, and make memories out in the world. And I want to share all of that with them.
But the reality is that our experiences now depend heavily on whether the places we visit are truly accessible. My husband, who has been in hospitality his entire life, often says that if this accident hadn’t happened, we never would have noticed the things we see now. We never would have understood how different the world feels when your body cannot move the way it used to. We would have continued believing that a simple ramp or a wide door was enough. Working inside the industry gives you one perspective. Living like this gives you another one entirely. And only now, from this new view, can we truly see where hospitality often falls short.
My experience begins in the parking lot. I cannot simply step out of a car. I need stable, level, secure ground where my caregiver or family can transfer me safely into my wheelchair. If the surface is uneven, slanted, or cramped, that moment becomes frightening. Already, before I even reach your entrance, I am reminded of how different my world has become.
Inside, I rarely get to choose my table. A path that looks spacious to someone walking can feel impossibly tight for a wheelchair. I often end up placed near the entrance because it is the only spot I can fit through. My teenagers notice it every time. My young adult notices it. Even my toddler tilts their head as if to ask why we always sit in the same kind of spot. These are small moments, but they add up. They teach my children something about whether their mother is expected or welcomed in the world.
And then there is the human interaction, perhaps the most important part of hospitality. There have been moments when staff have spoken to my husband or my children instead of speaking directly to me. My husband, after four decades in the industry, sees it instantly. He notices the discomfort, the hesitation, the uncertainty. My teenagers see it too, and it affects them. My toddler, even without words, senses when I am being treated as if I am different. These moments leave a mark not just on me, but on the people who love me.
My family still wants to experience life together. My young adult wants to take me out proudly. My teenagers want to show me new cafés or restaurants they love. My toddler wants to sit beside Mommy while we share something sweet. I want all of that too. I want to be present in their memories, not limited by buildings that were not designed with people like me in mind.
When I look at the hospitality industry now, I see it through two sets of eyes: the eyes of someone who worked in it for decades and the eyes of someone who now depends on true accessibility. The difference between those two perspectives is bigger than I ever imagined. My husband often says that if this accident had never happened, we would never have understood how much change is still needed. We would never have questioned what accessibility really means. Now we see that accessibility is not just about meeting a standard. It is about creating a world where families like mine can enjoy life without barriers.
So when you look at your establishment, I hope you think of me. I hope you think of my husband, who has spent his life perfecting the art of hospitality, and how even he never noticed the gaps until we were forced to live with them. I hope you think of my children, who just want their mom included. I hope you think of the families you serve, the ones you may not even realize are struggling quietly because the world was not built for bodies like mine.
True hospitality is not just about food, service, or ambiance. It is about making every person feel like they belong. And belonging should never depend on whether someone can walk through your door.
