I don’t know if this trend exists because we live in a post-COVID world—one where people learned to feel entitled—or if it’s just the circumstances around me lately, but I can’t stop noticing it.
Am I seeing more advocacy? Or are people simply more entitled? What is the difference?
Haley stand in the kitchen as I do the dishes. She looks at me and says, “But Mom, if those parents stood up for their kids and got them into the program, isn’t that advocacy?”
It seemed simple enough of a question that I should have been able to answer, but the situation was more nuanced. This discussion with Haley inspired this post. Her question helped me articulate what I had been noticing and feeling for a while.
But let’s start with the other day, when we took Sienna to her first concert. Our seats were nosebleeds—high up, endless steps, teenage squeals bouncing off the walls. Sienna doesn’t do well on steps (she even takes the elevator at school sometimes because of her hypotonia). By the time we settled in, all of us were out of breath.
A few songs in, Sienna looked at me and said, “Potty.” When she verbalizes that, it’s urgent. I watched her push herself up those 40+ steps and barely make it. On the way back, I noticed the ADA section at the top of our row—empty chairs sitting, unused. I asked the usher if we could sit there. “Of course,” he said kindly, “but if someone shows up who reserved them, you may need to move.” I thanked him profusely. He even brought us an extra chair later. I treasure acts of kindness like that.
And then, out of nowhere, a father stormed up, shouting at the usher about sensory issues and pointing toward us. I didn’t hear everything, but I saw enough—the usher apologizing, the scene escalating. And it struck me: entitlement.
Here’s the truth—if someone had shown up who had reserved those ADA seats, I would have moved. I hadn’t planned ahead. That would’ve been on me. A diagnosis doesn’t entitle me to extra. An accommodation is a right, yes—but it’s also a responsibility. The usher didn’t have to let us sit there, but he did out of kindness, with the caveat that we may have to move.
Earlier this summer, Haley was selected for a program with specific qualifications. We talked at length about the requirements—how many kids would be included, the markers they needed to meet, and how much of an honor it was for her to be chosen. She pushed back at first, out of insecurity, but Jason and I convinced her she belonged.
When she noticed kids participating who didn’t meet the requirements, she asked about it. I was irritated—I had worked so hard to explain the rules to my kid—so I shrugged and said, “Their parents must have made a fuss.” That’s when she hit me with the question: “Well, isn’t that advocacy?”
It blew my mind. Is it advocacy—or entitlement? Those parents probably had a list of reasons their kids should’ve been included. Maybe they were valid. I’ve certainly asked for Sienna to access spaces she’d otherwise be excluded from. So what’s the difference?
I had to look it up. Advocacy is “the act or process of supporting a cause”—strategic, respectful, rooted in fairness. Entitlement can mean a rightful claim, but it also describes a mindset where someone expects special treatment without respect or responsibility. That father’s outburst—claiming ADA rights without prior arrangement—felt like entitlement.
I thought about other moments, like Disney in 2018 when getting a disability pass was simple, versus Universal in 2024, where we spent over an hour being “interviewed” about Sienna’s needs. I answered honestly, and the pass we received didn’t give us the same accommodations others had. By mid-day, Sienna was melting down—heat, sensory overwhelm, exhaustion. She collapsed in a gift shop, sobbing and refusing to move. After an hour of holding her while people stepped around us, I broke. I marched back to guest services, explained again, and they gave us a new pass. From then on, she experienced the park like her peers.
I questioned myself: should I have advocated harder earlier? I wanted to respect the process. I didn’t want to feel entitled. But waiting until my child melted down wasn’t fair either.
That’s where the line feels less clear. Advocacy is about justice. Entitlement is about shortcuts. But even then, it’s not always simple. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, We don’t truly need this shortcut, but our lives are harder than most—so maybe we deserve the break. And I wonder: am I justifying the end result, or am I asking for fairness in a world that rarely offers it freely?
I’m not perfect. Lately I’ve been doing more reflecting than ever. The constant justification of why Sienna needs Medicaid has forced me to explain and defend her worth. Politics have made everything divisive, and I often feel like I spend half my life proving that her services are valid, her needs are warranted, and she is worth the cost.
Maybe it’s the political climate, maybe it’s exhaustion, but I see more and more entitlement masquerading as advocacy. Parents who can afford school lunch but work the system to get it free because their child has Medicaid—that’s entitlement. Parents fighting tooth and nail for services their kids are legally owed—that’s advocacy.
So, how do we call out entitlement without discouraging advocacy? I don’t have the perfect answer. What I do know is this: I will recognize my privilege. I will advocate when something is unjust. And I will not let the bitterness of injustice harden into entitlement.
Here’s what I am choosing to tell my kids: speaking up against what is unjust or discriminatory is advocacy. Throwing a fit to get around a fair system is entitlement.
Because equity doesn’t mean everyone gets the same—it means everyone gets what they need. And that requires us to know the difference between asking for fairness and demanding more than our fair share. And lately, that line seems to be one more and more people are toeing.
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