By now, many in the disability sector have grown used to broken promises. But the latest NDIS pricing cuts introduced on July 1 may represent more than just a policy misstep. They may be the clearest sign yet that the system is failing the very people it was built to protect.
In a case shared by the Australian Physiotherapy Association (APA), the consequences of these changes are laid bare: a woman’s life now hangs in the balance, not because of her disability, but because of government decisions that have left her without care, without options, and dangerously close to institutionalisation.
Angie, a woman in her 50s living with cerebral palsy in Brisbane, had managed to live independently for years. Her support system? Jodie, her physiotherapist and support worker of more than 15 years, and a proud APA member.
But when Angie suffered a medical crisis two years ago, her life was thrown into disarray. After collapsing at home and being rushed to hospital with pneumonia, sepsis, and influenza A, she spent over a month in intensive care. She survived, but just barely.
Upon discharge, her condition had significantly deteriorated. Doctors recommended round-the-clock care. Yet, Angie’s NDIS funding had already run out. With no family to advocate for her, no reserves in her plan, and no backup support, she was essentially left to fend for herself.
The government’s response? Indifference. When Jodie approached the NDIS to explain the urgency of Angie’s needs and request payment for her continued care, she was told bluntly: “You knew the funding was running out. You should have walked away.”
But Jodie didn’t walk away, because walking away meant death. And she’s not alone. Across Australia, countless allied health professionals are making the same impossible choice: provide life-saving care for free, or abandon the people who depend on them.
This is not just a funding issue. It’s a moral crisis.
Let’s be clear: the NDIS was created to ensure people with disability could live with dignity, independence, and support. But these recent changes – particularly the slash in pricing for therapy assistants and growing administrative hurdles – are undermining the scheme’s core purpose.
For Angie, the cuts have meant the loss of even the most basic autonomy. She can no longer get out of bed by herself, use the bathroom unaided, or prepare a simple meal. She is now wheelchair-bound, dependent entirely on Jodie’s care, and dangerously close to being institutionalised. “If Jodie wasn’t here, I wouldn’t be alive,” Angie says.
This is what system failure looks like.
How many Angies does it take for policymakers to act?
We are watching a slow-motion collapse of community-based care. The NDIS is no longer responsive to complex, high-needs cases. Instead, it’s become a bureaucratic fortress, flooded with paperwork, dismissive of nuance, and increasingly driven by cost-cutting rather than care.
Health professionals are being turned into unpaid labourers. Participants are being stripped of dignity. And somewhere in Canberra, balance sheets are being praised for staying on target.
What makes this story so confronting is how common it’s becoming. Jodie and Angie’s experience is echoed in aged care, in mental health, in home support services across the country. The problem is systemic, but the consequences are deeply personal.
The APA is sounding the alarm. It’s time for the public – and more importantly, policy leaders – to listen.
If we don’t fix this now, the NDIS won’t need to be dismantled. It will crumble under the weight of its own contradictions.
