Kimberly Harmer: Legalise assisted dying and you shift how society views illness

Kimberley Harmer works as a Senior Caseworker for Charlie Dewhirst MP. She serves as the Chair of Fuse Youth Services and is the Humber & Yorkshire CPF Regional Ambassador.

As someone living with a progressive illness and a genetic condition, the debate on Assisted Dying is not hypothetical. It is painfully real. There may come a day, at the very end, when I might want that choice. But today, as the legislation still stands – I would not support it.

I am not an MP, but I work closely with one. I sit on safeguarding boards, I help shape policy, and I support victims of domestic and sexual abuse and those at risk of exploitation in my community. I also live with disability. I know what it feels like to be in pain, to have your independence chipped away, to live with exhaustion and fear. I know what it means to be vulnerable, not just in theory, but through lived, relentless experience.

I have also survived domestic abuse. I know how coercion works. It’s not always a dramatic threat – it can be subtle. It grows in silence, in exhaustion, in fear, in moments where we feel like a burden. And in my current voluntary work, I see that reality playing out again and again. Coercion isn’t just possible, it’s common – and that is what makes this Bill so risky.

Wes Streeting, the Health Secretary, has voiced concerns himself: “The case for assisted dying deserves a serious, compassionate hearing, but we cannot ignore the risks for disabled people and those who might feel pressured.” That pressure isn’t always direct. Sometimes, it’s in a sigh from a loved one who is struggling. Sometimes it’s in knowing the cost of care, the waiting lists for palliative support, or the social messaging that says your life is less valuable once you are ill, old, or dependent.

We are still not ready for this legislation. Because as it stands, it is not safe.

Where are the protections for those who are easily manipulated or emotionally worn down?

Who is truly verifying that a decision to die is free from silent influence?

Why has judicial oversight been weakened rather than strengthened?

And how can we legislate for dying when we are still failing so many at the point of living?

Let me be brutally honest: I live with chronic pain every single day. My condition causes joint dislocations, gastrointestinal complications, and even puts me at risk of sudden blood vessel rupture. When you live with that kind of suffering, the idea of a peaceful exit is appealing, especially on the hardest days. But it also makes you deeply aware of how important it is to have robust protections, because choice doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It exists in a world where people like me might feel like we’re ‘too much’, or ‘taking up space’, or holding others back. That’s when quiet coercion creeps in, and the line between relief and removal begins to blur.

That’s my greatest fear: the blurring of lines. Once you make assisted dying legal, you shift how society views illness, dependency, and suffering. It’s a cultural shift, not just a legal one. And once that boundary moves, it rarely stays still.

Let’s not pretend otherwise. Some people will feel pressure, whether from relatives, healthcare systems, or even internalised guilt. Others may face more targeted coercion from those seeking control or power. Vulnerable groups, including those with severe learning disabilities, people on the autism spectrum, or individuals with complex trauma, are at high risk. The legislation, in its current form, doesn’t sufficiently protect them – and if you think coercion couldn’t lead to wrongful deaths, I’d suggest you haven’t spent time with the communities I have.

Even in places like Switzerland, which prides itself on regulation, the data is sobering. Over 1,500 Brits have travelled to Dignitas since its founding. A 2022 analysis by the European Association for Palliative Care noted an increasing trend of people opting for assisted suicide not due to terminal illness, but because of chronic conditions, mental health issues, or even a sense of loneliness or feeling like a burden.

That’s not choice. That’s despair.

And yes, I’ve often joked with friends that if I develop dementia and forget my kids, they should drive me to Switzerland and leave me outside Dignitas. But here’s the truth: the version of me making the joke isn’t the same as the version who’d be in that state. The future me might still find joy in music, in a smile, in a hand held. Would we really advocate ending my life based on my past self’s fear of decline?

Assisted dying is permanent – and we are not yet offering people the alternatives they need to live well before they choose to die.

Our palliative care services are underfunded. Mental health support is patchy. Carers are exhausted. Some disabled people wait months, even years, for suitable housing, accessible support, or proper pain management. If we can’t guarantee people safety, dignity, and compassionate care in life, how can we say we’re offering them true choice in death?

This isn’t about being anti-choice. Far from it. I believe in autonomy. But I also believe in informed, protected, supported choice. And we are not there yet.

I know people who support this legislation come from a place of compassion. So do I. But we must never confuse compassion with convenience. We must never allow a system to quietly offer death as the more accessible option simply because living well is too expensive, too complicated, or too politically inconvenient.

So no, I would not back this legislation. Not now. Not until:

• Coercion is clearly defined and rigorously safeguarded against
• Judicial oversight is restored and made mandatory
• Mental health, palliative, and disability services are fully funded
• We can guarantee that assisted dying won’t become the default path for those society already fails

This isn’t about abstract principles. It’s about people like me. People who hurt, who fight, who carry on even when our bones dislocate, our pain flares, our minds spiral. People who sometimes joke about giving up, but don’t really mean it. People who want to live, be safe, and be seen as worth saving.

One day, when the legislation is watertight and the safety net is real, I’ll revisit my position. But right now, this country has too much silence, too many gaps, and too many people at risk of slipping through them.

I want dignity in life first. Then we can talk about dignity in death.