This past semester, I underwent major, highly invasive surgery to treat a rare and debilitating nerve condition that has caused chronic pain, neurological symptoms, and serious disruption to my daily life for nearly a year now. I turned to the Weingarten Center, the University’s home for student disability services, for academic support during this time.
It was not the first time I found myself navigating disability at Penn; I have a documented learning-related disability and have received formal accommodations through Weingarten. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the frustration and exhaustion of being denied the very protections I was promised — at the exact moment I needed them most.
This piece is not an attack on the University. I am grateful for my time here and the resources that have helped me succeed. But it is a necessary critique of a system that failed to enforce the accommodations it granted, leaving me to fight for flexibility while actively recovering from surgery.
Weingarten provides students with formal academic accommodations based on documented disabilities. Along with these, I was granted two additional relevant accommodations this semester in light of my condition: modification of course attendance policy and extension of assignment deadlines. In theory, these should have protected me from being penalized for health-related absences. In practice, neither was honored.
In my neuroeconomics course, all assessments were conducted in person. The syllabus clearly stated that assignments could not be made up and that attendance was required to earn participation credit. There was no asynchronous option, no virtual check-in, no written alternative. When I missed two class sessions due to my surgery and recovery, I had no way to recover those points.
I approached this class like I would any other — ready to participate, learn, and finish strong. Even knowing that the class structure left little room for flexibility, I didn’t expect that documented, medically necessary absences would leave me without options.
This was a required course for my major, and I had no way of knowing at the start of the semester that my diagnosis and surgery would fall squarely within it. Despite notifying my professor in advance and providing medical documentation, I was told those two missed classes would count as my only two dropped scores — the same policy applied to every student, regardless of circumstance.
Let me be clear: this is not about the professor. The course policy was applied consistently across the board. But consistency is not the same as equity, and that’s where Weingarten failed.
After a few weeks of internal deliberation, Weingarten responded not with support, but with a vague, syllabus-quoting email that sidestepped how my accommodations were being honored. Hoping that a real conversation might bring clarity, I requested a meeting. During that meeting with two Weingarten staff members, I was told that accommodations are only activated when a course does not already offer flexibility. Because the neuroeconomics course drops the two lowest grades by default, I was told that this built-in policy was considered sufficient. As a result, Weingarten refused to intervene unless I missed more than two classes.
What stood out most was how little weight my accommodations seemed to carry — even though Weingarten’s own website defines them in clear, actionable terms. But in my Weingarten Center portal (where students are able to schedule appointments, submit accessibility requests, and manage accommodations), the language used was far more conditional and ambiguous, including phrases like “encouraged to be flexible.” That weakened the accommodations rhetorically, leaving too much room for interpretation. It felt like the support I was promised depended more on tone than principle.
In other words, despite having formal accommodations, I was denied the opportunity to make up missed assessments — assessments I had no access to outside the classroom — simply because a general drop policy already existed. That policy was designed for the average student, not students with disabilities, and does not account for what happens when a student with accommodations is medically forced to miss class and still wants to demonstrate their learning.
It’s the same reason I receive extended time on assessments, regardless of how much time other students are given. That accommodation has never been questioned — because it levels the playing field. So why should medically necessary absences be? Accommodations aren’t advantages — they create an equal playing field. A general policy that applies to everyone shouldn't negate what’s been formally approved for someone with documented needs.
This practice is indefensible, and the obvious contradiction between formal approval and practical inaction makes it clear that Weingarten’s support is conditional, vague, and in this case, nonexistent.
That logic doesn’t just inconvenience students with medically necessary absences — it excludes us.
If my accommodations can be overridden by a syllabus, then what exactly is the point of registering with Disability Services in the first place?
After weeks of back-and-forth, Weingarten informed me that allowing make-up assessments in this course would constitute a “fundamental alteration” to the curriculum. Though it’s been over two weeks since I asked for clarification, and despite acknowledging my message, they have yet to explain what that vague, dismissive phrase actually means.
I did not ask for special treatment. I followed every protocol. I notified my professor in advance, provided medical documentation, and asked only for the flexibility my accommodations were designed to provide. As I told Weingarten: “I didn’t ask to be excused from class forever. I asked for a way to recover what my medical condition took from me.”
If a chronic illness costs someone attendance and there’s no way to recover credit, then the accommodation system has failed. If students are asked to trust in University systems that then offer them no meaningful support, what exactly are we being protected from?
The most exhausting part of this semester wasn’t just the surgery, or recovery, or even the schoolwork. It was also the physical and emotional toll of self-advocacy while seeking a diagnosis — followed by having to return to the classroom just to argue for basic flexibility. It was energy that should have gone towards healing, or learning, or both.
This experience has made me feel dismissed, like I am being quietly prompted to just let it go. That the word “encouraged” in my accommodation meant “optional.” That there would be no follow-up, no enforcement, no modification. Just a signature on a document and silence when it came time to act on it.
Worse, Weingarten treated my conditions as isolated, as opposed to overlapping, creating greater academic barriers. The compounded impact of managing a chronic illness and a learning-related disability has been completely disregarded.
Universities that receive federal funding have a legal duty under the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act to provide reasonable accommodations and ensure equal access to education. When accommodations are granted but then dismissed or overridden in practice, that duty is not being fulfilled. Accommodations that exist only on paper are no better than none at all, and leave institutions in dangerous legal territory.
I know from personal experience that Weingarten does important work. But when that work stops short of action, good intentions fall short.
Disability isn’t always predictable. Symptoms don’t follow syllabi. That’s why accommodations exist: to provide flexibility where chronic conditions don’t allow for it. When support is withheld simply because a student didn’t miss “enough” classes, it reduces disability to a formula instead of a lived experience.
What I needed was advocacy. What I got was silence masked as policy.
And I’m not alone. The students most in need of accommodations are often the least resourced to advocate for them — especially while dealing with pain, surgery, or disability. That’s who this system is failing most.
If this system truly exists to protect students with disabilities, then it must be willing to act on our behalf when it matters most.
True access means clear, enforceable protections. Not just encouragement. Not just paperwork. Support that shows up when it counts.
IMANI RHODRIQUEZ is a College senior studying psychology. Her email is manirhod@sas.upenn.edu.
