Rosa Didn’t Know. Neither Did Most of the Line.

What happened at a Canvas Stadium security gate and what everyone working one should understand

I did my homework.

Before we made the trip to Canvas Stadium in Fort Collins, I read the bag policy. I looked up their ADA accommodations and was genuinely impressed. Dedicated ADA parking lot? Check. Thoughtful accessibility information published online? Check. Gluten-free AND dairy-free food options at a sports venue? Stop it. We were off to a great start.

I even measured my bag against the permitted size (roughly half a sheet of 8.5 x 11 paper). I felt prepared. I felt organized. I felt like a person who had done the thing.

I had, it turns out, slightly miscalculated. My bag, the Baggallini Modern Everywhere Out and About Crossbody, measures 10” W x 10.7” H x 2.5” D, which indeed exceeded their standard clear-bag dimensional limits. It also looks super cute with my OG Adidas Sambas, by the way. The rocks outside the stadium did not seem to mind.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Because none of this was really about the bag.

Why We Were There

We were there to watch my daughter perform with the Blue Knights, a Drum Corps International competitive ensemble. If you know DCI, you already understand. If you do not — imagine hundreds of young people who have spent an entire spring and summer perfecting something that is equal parts athletic performance, musical artistry, and sheer human determination, all compressed into eleven minutes on a football field. It is the kind of thing that makes you cry before they even start playing.

I was not going to miss it. I had planned, prepared, and packed accordingly.

The Gate

There I was. Standing in the security line, sun beating down, family already through the gate and waiting, dizzy, brain foggy, holding my bag and trying to explain myself to Rosa.

Rosa was the manager on duty for Allied Universal Security Services at the gate. She was pleasant. She was smiling. She listened to me try to explain what was in my bag and why I needed it. And then she told me the contents were not “medical.”

Let me tell you what was in that bag:

• A cooling neck fan — because my body does not regulate temperature properly, and heat is a clinical trigger, not a preference
• Bladder control pads — because some of us manage incontinence as a symptom of autonomic nervous system dysfunction, and that is just a Tuesday
• An asthma inhaler and Benadryl — because breathing is, medically speaking, something I prefer to continue doing
• Eye drops and mouth spray — for Sjögren’s Disease, Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA), Lupus and Systempic Sclerosis, which are all autoimmune conditions that causes severe dryness that is less “uncomfortable” and more “constant and medically significant”
• Lip gloss — also for suspected Sjögren’s, in my case. Dry, cracked lips are not a vanity item. They are a symptom.
• Electrolyte and salt tabs — essentially prescribed for a condition called POTS, which causes blood pressure to drop when standing, making a long line in the sun a genuine medical event. I understand that folks with Parkinson’s or other forms of dysautomia like Pure Autonomic Failure (PAF), Vasovagal Syncope, and Inappropriate Sinus Tachycardia (IST) or Multiple System Atrophy (MSA) also require these at the ready. I share this list because it is likely not uncommon at event entry points. 
• A pill organizer — with my daily medications

Not medical, she said.

I tried to explain. I really did. I began walking her through the conditions, the items, the why behind each one. She listened pleasantly and held firm. My brain was already running on fumes from the heat and the standing and the cognitive load of navigating a crowd with a body that requires more logistics than most people bring to an entire vacation. My family was waiting just past the gate. The line behind me was growing. I was embarrassed in that particular, searing way that only happens when your invisible illness becomes suddenly, publicly visible. You know, the kind of embarrassment that comes on only when you are thrust into discussing your failing bodily functions in a public setting  and then gets dismissed anyway. It turns out my comfort zone doesn’t just end at explaining my lack of nerve-to-bladder communication to a pleasant woman in a neon vest, it completely evaporates.

But that shouldn’t have mattered because by ADA compliance I should have qualified for a medical exception and that bag could have been the size of a house. Instead, I wanted to remain inconspicuous and have the smallest bag that would work for my needs and blend in with the crowd. In fact, it is one of my favorite casual weekend bags—it costs about $90 and looks really cute with my OG women’s adidas samba sneakers. I wasn’t trying to make a statement; I was just trying to look like everyone else while carrying what I needed to survive. Too much to ask, it seems.

So I gave up. Which is a thing people with chronic illness do approximately constantly, and which never feels great.

Rosa, to her credit, offered a solution. She suggested I tuck my purse into the rocks and plants near the entrance so I could transfer everything into my husband’s small clear bag and get through the gate.

Yep, I sure did, Reader, I hid my purse in some landscaping rocks outside a Colorado State football stadium.

Here is the part where I paused later and thought: wait. She had already looked inside the bag. She had already inspected the contents. The medical supplies were visible. The bag itself was not the thing concealing anything… and yet somehow the solution was to hide the bag in rocks and move on. I am not sure the rocks were the variable that needed addressing here. But in the moment, depleted and overheated and just wanting to get inside before my daughter took the field, I did not have the bandwidth to point that out to Rosa.

I redistributed my medical supplies into my husband’s clear bag, walked through the gate, found my seat, and cried approximately six minutes later when the Blue Knights marched onto that field.

Worth it. Every single bit of it.

The ice cream was also excellent. The GF and dairy-free options were genuinely impressive. It’s a rare and welcome find at a sports venue. Canvas Stadium does so much right, and the accessibility infrastructure they have built is real and thoughtful.

Which is exactly why the gap at the gate stings.

Here Is What Rosa Did Not Know

Colorado State’s own published bag policy states clearly that exceptions will be made for guests with medical requirements and special needs. That policy exists. It is written down. It lives on their website right now.

The problem was not the policy. The problem was the space between what is written in a document and what gets communicated to the person in the vest checking bags in the heat on a Saturday afternoon.

That gap has a cost. And people with non-visible disabilities pay it every single time.

Here is a fun fact: medical supplies do not have to look miserable to be mandatory. Sure, an inhaler is obvious. But when your immune system treats the environment as a hostile invader, Benadryl is a security guard. When your autonomic nervous system goes on strike, a portable cooling fan is a literal thermostat. When your blood pressure plunges, electrolyte tabs are medicine, not a fitness trend. And when nerve damage affects your bladder, incontinence supplies are non-negotiable.

My bag looked like a casual weekend cosmetic pouch, but it was actually a walking pharmacy. Those eye drops, that mouth spray, and that exact tube of lip gloss? Not vanity items. They’re a structural rescue mission for salivary and tear duct glands that an autoimmune disease decided to systematically dismantle. A neck fan is a lifestyle choice for some; for me, it’s climate control. Context is everything, and judging medical necessity by how “clinical” an item looks is a massive design flaw.

What It Actually Feels Like in That Moment

I want to be clear: this is not about Rosa. She was kind. She was doing her job as she understood it.

It is about what it feels like to be standing in that line, already depleted, already running a background calculation of heat exposure and how many steps remain and whether your body will cooperate through the next three hours while also then having to become your own ADA advocate. In public. While dizzy and slightly nauseous from standing in line. While your family waits. While strangers watch.

Most of us do not advocate. Most of us do exactly what I did. We find a way through, say nothing, and go home a little more tired and a little more certain that the world was not quite designed with us in mind.

The invisible part of invisible illness is not just that people cannot see your symptoms. It is that they cannot see all the planning, the research, the measuring of bags against paper, the reading of ADA policies the night before, that went into simply getting yourself through the gate.

What Better Looks Like

It is not complicated. The policy infrastructure is often already there. Implementation is the fix.

• Train gate staff on what medically necessary actually means, including items for conditions that are not visible or obvious. A cooling fan is not a luxury for someone with dysautonomia. Electrolyte tabs are not a snack for someone with POTS.
• Designate a medical screening lane. Many venues do this already. A private, lower-stimulation space where someone can show their items and have a real conversation is far better than holding up a general line while brain-fogged and overheating.
• Believe people. A person carrying an inhaler and salt tabs who parked in the dedicated ADA lot did not wake up that morning looking to smuggle contraband into a football stadium. They woke up that morning doing the same math they do every single day: can I manage this outing safely, and what do I need to bring to make that possible?
• Please do not ask someone parked in the disability lot to walk back to their car. That one should genuinely not require a training module.
• And perhaps reconsider the rocks suggestion. Just as a general policy.

Canvas Stadium Disability Lot #575

We made it in. We watched my daughter take the field with the Blue Knights and perform something that made an entire stadium hold its breath. I cried. I was so proud I could not see straight (which, to be fair, was likely also partly the dysautonomia and Sjogrens) but mostly the pride.

We ate the tasty ice cream. We had a great day. And the rocks protected my purse.

_{Thanks Josh & John’s Ice Cream Company booth at Canvas Stadium with their great Glute Free (GF) and dairy free options! Nom, nom.}

But I also spent part of that afternoon thinking about the person behind me in line who might have had even less capacity to problem-solve in the moment. Who might not have known their rights. Who might have just turned around and gone home and missed the thing they came for.

Rosa was pleasant and well-meaning. The system she was operating in failed her training and then it failed me.

We can do better than rocks.

Colorado State / Canvas Stadium’s own policy states: “Exceptions will be made for those with medical requirements and/or special needs.”

If you are denied entry for a medically necessary item:

• Calmly ask to speak with the ADA Coordinator or Guest Services Director, not just a gate manager.
• Ask for the denial to be put in writing.
• Request access to a designated medical screening lane if one is available.
• File a complaint with the DOJ at ADA.gov or call 1-800-514-0301.

Before your next event:

• Call the venue’s Guest Services or Disability Services line in advance and get the medical exception confirmed in writing.
• Bring a brief letter from your physician listing your diagnoses and the items you need.
• Screenshot your confirmation and have it ready at the gate.
• Arrive with extra time so you are not problem-solving under heat and crowd pressure.

You have rights. You deserve to be in the room. Bring the supplies. Bring the fan. Bring the lip gloss. Leave the rocks out of it.

Now that I know, I’ll try some of these next time.

If you are navigating life with a non-visible condition, you belong here. And so does everything in your bag.

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