From Techno-Ableism to True Autonomy: The Disabled Innovators Redefining Rehacare
Between Lederhosen-clad PR stunts and stair-climbing wheelchairs, a small but steady wave of disabled entrepreneurs and activists is slowly changing perceptions at Europe’s largest accessibility fair, Rehacare 2026 in Düsseldorf, Germany. They are no longer waiting for non-disabled brands to get it right—they are taking matters, design, and decision-making into their own hands.
When disabled people are excluded.
When I visited Rehacare last year, I overheard a conversation between a non-disabled vendor selling pressurized mattresses that can automatically turn people lying on them and a person in an electric wheelchair. “No, we don’t offer a remote control for this system. Many disabled people have asked us for one, but it’s a safety concern. What if the disabled person pushes the wrong button and gets hurt?!” the vendor says. “The remote control is placed at the lower end of the bed so that the nurse can make adjustments.” The disabled person looks at the vendor, opens their mouth slightly, then quickly closes it again, turns around, and rolls away. Their face shows a mix of anger, frustration, and sadness. This example summarizes one of the most pressing problems in the assistive devices industry: paternalism when non-disabled brands misunderstand their job as guardians for safety rather than creators who listen to their potential disabled customers.
Another contrasting problem is techno ableism, which means flashy, over-engineered pseudo-solutions that solve problems disabled people have never asked to be solved while completely ignoring daily function. One example some, but not all, disabled people feel is unnecessary is the stair-climbing robots, of which many are presented at Rehacare as well. Those put the responsibility for a society-created barrier – stairs – on the disabled person rather than designing accessible buildings with ramps and elevators, which would make those wheelchairs redundant.
“What all these products have in common is that they view the body as a problem—which it isn’t. It’s what we have, and that’s a good thing. Not only that, but these products—and the mindset behind them—suggest a norm (for instance, that a person stands firmly on two legs) that doesn’t exist. They also share a tendency to throw around superlatives and try to look incredibly hip—or what certain people take for hip,” Raúl Krauthausen, a disabled activist and author, says.
Fairs such as Rehacare have come a long way.
While non-disabled brands still are the majority and many these days present their mobility devices with spectacular sets, such as an artificial Oktoberfest with customer service in Lederhosen and marching band music, others have forgotten that mobility devices these days also need to be somewhat fashionable. This bizarre contrast between over-the-top corporate marketing and outdated, clinical-looking aids ignores the actual needs of disabled people. However, it is noticeable that the Rehacare PR team puts in a lot of effort to shift representation towards their disabled visitors, so the narrative shifts from “we make devices for disabled people” to “we include disabled people in decision-making positions.” So in between these few over-the-top or underwhelming vendors are these raw diamonds a disability rights journalist craves to talk to.
Disabled people want to be fashionable, too!
One person that understands functionality and style is Paul de Livron, who builds wooden wheelchairs in France. His brand “Apollo Wooden Wheelchairs” combines the function of manual wheelchairs with style, and each one is uniquely built for the customer. “I initially built a wooden wheelchair as a challenge, but using it in the streets changed everything. It looked more like a fashion accessory than medical equipment. It changed how people looked at me and boosted my self-esteem, so I realized I could help others gain that same confidence through a more aesthetic wheelchair,” de Livron says. He has built ten custom chairs so far. “I realized my wooden wheelchairs could have the power to change how people look at me, bringing me more self-esteem. So I thought it could be the good business idea I was looking for: helping other people gain that better self-esteem through a more aesthetic wheelchair,” he adds. His wheelchairs cost around 4,000 euros depending on the customer’s wishes.
In the same spot where de Livron had his stall last year, a fashion brand showed its futuristic Rock’n’Roll designs: Next UD.
“Next UD is a company based in Japan that develops accessible clothes that are also fashionable. Some brands on the market produce accessible clothes, but they aren’t very stylish. Accessible and stylish clothes matter because we’re people, and we have the right to look good. I mean, why not?” says brand ambassador Sandra Elena, who uses a wheelchair.
One highlight of the accessible designs they brought to Rehacare is their “banana boots”, which have four zippers, so they open like a banana. “Accessible clothes need a lot of zippers, magnets, and shouldn’t be too tight. I looked everywhere to find something stylish that is also easy to put on, but that’s quite a challenge.”
Inclusion means people with disabilities can be part of every aspect of life and actually feel like they belong. Of course, that includes fashion!
Check out our Fashion Week Coverage!
Sport is inclusion
“The easiest way to include people is through sports,” says Moritz Brückner, Paralympic athlete. Brückner plays wheelchair rugby and is one of the panelists at Rehacare. “For me personally, it’s this great mixture of speed, action, crashes, and flying around the court, and playing this sport simply makes you feel alive once again. Before the accident, I was more or less athletic. I played soccer, as everyone from a small village does, and mostly did a lot of dancing. Elite sports were never really on my bucket list. But now I find myself right in the middle of it and am just riding the wave as long as I can.” Refreshingly, many of the sports demonstrated at the Rehacare are dominated by disabled peers, and often the people trying them are non-disabled. Sports have the power – probably much more than any other hobby – to connect people through shared passion or, for some, a shared spirit of liking to compete, to see how far we can push. “When people say para-sports aren’t the same as ‘normal’ sports, I can tell them: I don’t think you’ve ever tried it. You are more than welcome to take up my invitation to sit in an armored wheelchair with a battering ram attached to the front and hooks on the left and right, and see how you would react—and whether you’d react any better when someone crashes into you head-on,” Brückner adds.
To avoid crashing into anyone or falling over, Sit’n’Skate’s skate park has instructors such as Florian Günther. “Sit’n’Skate came about because we wanted to introduce kids and teenagers to wheelchair skating. At first that sounds really fancy with jumps off ramps, and that is part of it. But everyday skills are also a huge part of what we do. We teach them how to get around in everyday life—how to get over steps and go down ramps so they naturally gain confidence to handle their own wheelchairs independently,” Günther explains. “A lot of kids are very overprotected. When a child in a wheelchair falls, it’s often treated like something terrible, but it’s just part of life—anyone who learns to walk, skateboard, or do sports is going to fall. You get back up, get back in your wheelchair, and keep going. And when we watch these kids grow over eight or nine years, seeing them become more confident, start school, and achieve things they might not have accomplished without us—that’s really awesome.”
Bravely, fellow reporter and teammate Isabell Tröger tried wheelchair skating with the support of Florian Günther, who made sure she wouldn’t fall over. “It was incredibly fun, but really challenging,” Tröger, who is not physically disabled, shares. “You realize very quickly how much core strength and precision it takes just to stay balanced, let alone move with speed. I am still sore.”
Check out our Sit’n’Skate Article.
When disabled people become creators.
While the sports arena celebrates what bodies can do, another generation of inventors is focusing on the “taboos” that sometimes come along with disability: the intimate, unglamorous need to use the restroom – a topic filled with shame for many disabled people. And often, the most groundbreaking solutions aren’t as superficially impressive as our stair-climbing wheelchair… They may come as a belt with a pocket-sized device worn under clothes to measure bladder fill levels, which is important for, for instance, paraplegic people who may not have bladder control. “We recently had one user who took the device with her on vacation. After she came back from her trip, she said it was the first time she could fully live her everyday life. She didn’t have to set alarms or keep checking the time anymore. She was able to feel completely free on vacation, knowing that the device would let her know when her bladder was full so that she could empty it in time,” Jannik Lockl, CEO and Co-Founder of inContAlert, shares. Their device was developed with people such as Moritz Brückner and uses infrared to measure how full the bladder is, then sends an alert to users’ phones. This simple device avoids accidents and therefore has such a huge impact on disabled people’s lives. Unfortunately, it’s not yet available to buy. Still, according to Lockl, the company is working to get its product registered as a medical device so users can get it through (German) health insurance.
Unaffordable devices.
Unfortunately, even with health insurance – doesn’t matter which country – disabled people still often don’t have access to all the products presented at fairs such as Rehacare that would make life so much easier. A report presented at Rehacare about Germans with a disability shows that two-thirds feel incredibly overwhelmed by the bureaucratic efforts it takes to apply for cost coverage of mobility devices. 76 percent of people say they only get what they need if they are well informed and persistent. About half of all survey participants feel they constantly have to justify their access needs, and even more say that the insurer’s economic guidelines restrict their choices. Overall, only 36 percent feel they have the same chances to participate and be included compared to non-disabled people. To disabled people, these numbers come as no surprise. Given the fact that disabled people are much more likely to be poor, it’s a paradox to be surrounded by all those devices which would have a large impact on autonomy and inclusion that they won’t be able to afford. So access isn’t just physical; it is also systemic and political.
Fairs as political spaces.
André Dietz, a popular German actor who has a daughter with a disability, argues on stage that families, particularly caregivers, need more support. They constantly have to fight for medical devices while, at the same time, caring for their family members. “We get asked all the time how we manage to pull it all off, and honestly, sometimes I don’t even know. For example, we went nearly four years with almost no sleep because Marie had terrible sleep issues. On top of that, we have three other kids to take care of. And yeah, you get used to it. It sounds terrible to say “you get used to it,” but we somehow powered through that time. But we only manage to get through it by fighting for things. By remodeling the house, fighting tooth and nail to get a wheelchair approved, and then fighting all over again for the next size up,” Dietz says. “Those are the bureaucratic hurdles, but everything else is only doable thanks to our family setup—it’s a team effort where everyone has to pitch in. And the foundation for that is really simple: it’s love. That’s how you manage to get through daily life. But sometimes we’re so exhausted that all we want to do is cry and scream. That’s part of it too, and it’s important to be open about it and say it out loud. That’s how you cope—by dealing with it proactively.”
Not “just” disabled.
Disabled people are a multi-layered group whose lives don’t only revolve around medical needs; they often have to navigate multiple layers of marginalization at once. So holding a space for these intersectional communities is crucial too. “One of the biggest challenges, first of all, is mobility – and simply being able to participate in queer life. A lot of spaces, just like in mainstream society, aren’t accessible. At large events, people with disabilities are not taken into consideration. So for example, I go to a Pride Parade in a wheelchair, and I am in the third row or cannot access the restrooms,” Peter Hölscher, who works with queerhandicap e. V. says. “Queer people with disabilities face multiple forms of discrimination. It is difficult to put us in boxes, because you never really know: What exactly is this person?”
To make intersectional people visible, Rehacare created a “Community Hub” where, over the course of the day, creatives, activists, and other people from within the disability community speak. One of those people is Mieze McCripple. “I do activist, political spoken-word performances in drag—sometimes classic lip-syncing too, but always with a pinch of glitter and social criticism,” McCripple says. “I try to connect all these themes—always keeping in mind that people can be multiply marginalized. And it feels really wonderful to not be in the minority for once, and to see so many people with visible disabilities—knowing that there are certainly many here with invisible disabilities as well,” McCripple adds.
Activism and fairs go hand in hand.
Even though fairs are still often seen through a caretaker lens, and many visitors are professionals from nursing care facilities or hospitals rather than disability justice advocates, Rehacare tries to shift the narrative toward a disability justice approach. They have invited critical art exhibitions by disability rights groups, highlighting topics rarely seen outside of the community. This year, for the second time in a row, #AbleismusToetet (translates to ableism kills) is showing their research project, highlighting violence in nursing homes in Germany. “There are very strong relationships of dependency. You depend on the person providing your care, and often there is only one person there. You can’t call for help, and it can be very difficult to defend yourself, especially if you are physically unable to do so. A lot happens between two people when one of them has a great deal of power, and the other one doesn’t,” Thomas Schulze zur Wiesch, a member of AbilityWatch e. V., a German disability rights organization, explains.
Concurrently, organizations like AbilityWatch e.V. campaigned for the full implementation of the Human Rights Model of Disability under the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (UN CRPD), which views disabled individuals not as medical cases requiring fixes, but as full rights-holders deserving systemic equity, structural support, and total self-determination.
“#AbleismusTötet calls for everyone to be able to live a self-determined life in the first place—to live independently in your own home, in the environment of your choice. Yet very often the answer today is still: ‘You live in an institution’ or ‘You work in a sheltered workshop.’ As long as these systems exist, we need effective, sustainable protections against violence—not something institutions implement just for show.”
And that’s what fairs like Rehacare should be about: centering disabled people not as passive consumers, but as primary customers who know best what they need for their own independence. The transition from “techno-ableism” to actual autonomy will not happen through non-disabled designers assuming what customers need. It happens when disabled people lead—whether that means crafting wooden wheelchairs, sewing four-zippered boots, engineering wearable sensors, or taking the stage to demand fundamental human rights.
