What it's actually like to apply for DWP disability benefits

We so rarely hear about what it's actually like to apply for these benefits, and instead of taking the time to understand – or give space to disabled journalists who have lived experience of the benefits system – much of our media treats disabled people as statistics instead of human beings, reducing the discussion around benefits to a book-balancing exercise. 

My experience with PIP began in December 2022, after being discharged from hospital. I went from being a university student in Edinburgh to moving back home with my dad in England. My condition meant I was unable to walk, shower, dress or cook independently.

The process of applying for PIP isn’t simple: it’s designed to be as difficult as possible and to put people off completing their application. You can’t just fill out a form online, you have to ring up a helpline and tell them you want to apply, and then they’ll post some forms that you then have to fill out by hand and return within a certain timeframe.

I was honestly stunned when I received the form in the post. It was more than 50 pages long and felt impossible to get through. Before you can even make a start on filling it out, you have to gather and make copies of all of your supporting evidence – things like hospital records, details of medical professionals, medication lists, treatment details. That alone can take days to compile, and requires energy and resources that many people simply don’t have.

When you get on to the actual form, it’s not just a case of ticking a few boxes. There are questions on every single aspect of your life, focused on preparing food, eating and drinking, managing treatments, washing and bathing, using the toilet, communicating with others, dressing, reading, managing money, planning journeys and moving around.

To be transparent, I wasn’t well enough to fill this out myself. Instead, my dad – who acted as my carer during this time and essentially gave up a year of his life to look after me – took the time to go through the form with me and fill it out based on what I said and what he had experienced first-hand. I’m very lucky to have someone in my life who was able and willing to do this, when I know that so many people going through this process don’t have access to that kind of support.

You can see from the kinds of questions you’re asked that it might feel invasive. Yes, it’s important to provide a full picture so you can get the help you’re entitled to, but this form is so clinical and devoid of emotion that it makes you feel less than human.

What many people might not realise about this is that in making yourself so vulnerable, in detailing every intimate aspect of your life, you’re forced to confront the reality of your situation. For me, it was very difficult to accept that I needed help – I could barely admit this to myself, let alone to the Government.

Some random stranger was going to read about how I couldn’t shower alone, how I couldn’t get dressed or go to the toilet by myself, how I couldn’t stay alive without someone else making sure I ate, how I had become so anxious and self-conscious that I had become shut off from my friends.

The application took days to fill out, and after sending it off it took just shy of three months (87 days, to be exact) before I moved on to the next stage – the assessment. These are more common in England, where they’re primarily carried out by private companies, than in Scotland. Social Security Scotland, which administers ADP, only tends to use these when deemed absolutely necessary.

My assessment took place over the phone and lasted around an hour. Most people have to do their assessments in person – which is more tiring and stressful – meaning that what I experienced is just a fraction of the humiliation that many other people go through.

It wasn’t really an assessment – it was an interrogation. From the minute I picked up the phone, I was treated with suspicion. With PIP, you are guilty by default until you can prove yourself innocent.

Every answer I gave was dissected and challenged. Whenever I gave an example, I was pushed on it as if I was exaggerating or lying. It felt like an exam I had to revise for, which is ironic given that I would be given a score based on how disabled they deemed me to be.

By the end of it I was in tears. I had spoken for so long and exhausted what little concentration I had mustered that I slept for the rest of the day. Writing about it now, I realise this is the first time I’ve truly allowed myself to process just how degrading it was.

You don’t find out then and there if you’re going to be awarded PIP, which means you’re left constantly worrying about what will happen.

I received a letter with my claim 12 days later, meaning it took 99 days, or just over 14 weeks, from applying to getting a decision. This is the same as the current average waiting time in England, according to the most recent UK Government statistics from April 2025, while in Scotland the most recent average waiting time was 37 days, or just over 5 weeks.

While that’s a stark contrast, it’s important to note that more people will be claiming PIP in England than ADP in Scotland, which will impact how long it takes to process PIP applications.

It’s extremely difficult – albeit necessary – to recount my experience. I hope it offers a bit of perspective as we look on at politicians making ill-informed decisions with devastating consequences on whether disabled people should be able to access the help they’re entitled to.

They can talk about reform all they want, but we should be clear that reform is about more than cutting costs. These cuts will cost lives.

There’s no need for PIP to be this way. There’s no justifiable reason it can’t be a system centred on compassion and understanding, rather than mistrust. 

At the very least, it should be a system that treats and respects you as a human being.