Access Isn’t Extra: What It’s Really Like Navigating Seattle with a Service Dog

Canine Companions Lovey holds a pair of socks in her mouth while staring directly into the camera.

New city, same fight.

Over Labor Day weekend, my girlfriend and I went to see a comedy show at The Crocodile Seattle. It was supposed to be a chill date night. Instead, the guy at the door gave us side-eye and told us:

“We don’t allow dogs.”

I told him: Lovey is a service dog.
He said: “Doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. Legally. Ethically. Logically.
We asked for the manager.

She got it instantly. She saw Lovey’s Canine Companions® vest, smiled, and walked us to our seats. But the same staffer who initially denied us entry? He made sure we knew we weren’t welcome, even after being corrected.

That look in his eye—the disdain for being told he was wrong—that’s going to live in my body for a while.

Here’s the thing:

I wasn’t asking for VIP treatment. I wasn’t trying to make a scene. I just wanted to enjoy a show with my partner and my trained, federally protected access partner by my side.

But access wasn’t given.
It had to be won. Again.

This past month, I’ve:

• Been denied indoor seating at restaurants
• Had packages repeatedly misdelivered because Amazon drivers ignore access notes
• Been told “I don’t think I can do that” after requesting a door opener at Starbucks
• And had groceries dropped off at the wrong building by an Instacart driver who refused to admit it—then told me to “contact support”

Each one of these things on their own might seem like no big deal.
But they’re not one-offs.

They’re the tax we pay for needing access.

They’re the emotional labor of having to fight—calmly, constantly—for the right to participate.

And even then, we’re expected to smile.

Not get too loud.
Not push too hard.
Because “everyone’s doing their best,” right?

Except we’re paying for services that don’t serve us.
We’re doing the work of fixing the broken systems we didn’t break.

My girlfriend, who’s lived in Seattle her whole life, looked at me after all of this and said:

“I feel embarrassed for my city.”

Let me say this clearly:
Access is dignity.
Access is a right.
Disabled people deserve to exist without making everything a fight.

And since it’s National Service Dog Month, let me also say: Lovey isn’t a pet. She’s not optional. She’s not “extra.” She’s a trained, working professional who helps me live. And her presence doesn’t make me inspirational. It makes me able to participate.

I’m not fighting because I enjoy the fight.
I’m fighting so I can stop fighting.

Reasonable Accommodations Aren’t Favors — They’re Rights

Close-up of a Reasonable Accommodation Request stamped PENDING, with a pen on the desk and a blurred wheelchair in the background.

Here’s the thing about reasonable accommodations:

The law frames them as “reasonable.” The process calls them “interactive.” But depending on whether management engages in good faith, they can either be empowering… or soul-crushing.

For many disabled professionals, the first physical reaction is anxiety. Every ping in the inbox brings the dread of having to re-prove what has already been proven. The process can feel less like collaboration and more like erosion, slowly wearing people down. Whether leadership engages in good faith makes all the difference.

And here’s the painful truth: nothing changes about an employee’s ability to do their job. They’re still the stellar hire management believed in, still delivering results. The only shift is that they ask for support to keep doing the job well, and suddenly the ground moves beneath them. Trust erodes, and that’s gut-wrenching.

Disabled employees know this feeling: the endless re-justification, the sense of being undervalued, the quiet fear of not being believed.

And managers? Believe your employees when they ask for an accommodation. Make it easy. They’re not asking for special treatment, they’re asking for what they need to keep doing the job you already knew they could do. Extra scrutiny doesn’t help anyone. It breaks trust, fuels turnover, and makes good employees want to leave.

Work with your people, not against them. That’s how accessibility works.

What My Service Dog Lovey Taught Me in Our First 90 Days as a Team

Ryan Honick smiles beside his service dog Lovey, a yellow Lab in a blue Canine Companions vest, with green foliage in the background.

Three months in, and I still catch myself smiling at the little things.

Canine Companions® Lovey bringing me socks I didn’t ask for. Trotting proudly with the leash in her mouth like she’s the one taking me for a walk. That perfectly timed automator button press when my hands are full.

We may have only just started, but the rhythm? It’s real.

The truth is, I didn’t know what this next chapter would feel like. New dog. New bond. New routine. But from day one, Lovey made it clear: she was ready. And I had to catch up.

Hardworking. Hilarious. The kind of dog who brings me clean socks—unprompted—like she’s running her own little Target. She followed me into the bathroom the first night like it was her job (spoiler: it kind of is). And one evening when I collapsed on the dorm floor in sheer exhaustion, she pounced on me like a 50-pound reminder that rest is okay—and also apparently playtime.

That’s when I started to feel it. Not all at once. But slowly. One command at a time. One tail wag. One moment of “Oh—you get me.” And she did. She does.

Graduation was a blur. I didn’t get handed Lovey’s leash by her puppy raiser—but their close friend passed it to me with the same intention: “She’s yours now.” And I felt that weight. That privilege. That joy. Because being matched with a service dog isn’t just about tasks. It’s about agency. It’s about trust.

And Canine Companions doesn’t just train dogs—they build partnerships. They saw something in me worth investing in. Again. Ten years after they first matched me with Pico, they did it all over—with the same care and commitment. All at no cost.

I take that seriously. Because Lovey isn’t a mascot. She’s not an emotional support animal or a pet in a vest. She’s trained. She’s focused. She’s the reason I can show up to policy briefings, comedy clubs, and day-to-day life without apology.

We’ve already changed how people interact with me in the world. Now, together, we’re going to change that world.

To the volunteers, trainers, puppy raisers, staff, and donors at Canine Companions—thank you. For trusting this match. For sharing our story. For ensuring that disabled people like me don’t just get access—we get partnership.

And to anyone wondering how to help? Support organizations like this. Elevate their work. Ask better questions. Fund the future.

Because when we say “service dogs change lives,” we mean it. I live it.

If you’ve worked with a service dog, what did they teach you?

Performative Allyship Is Exhausting—Here’s What Real Support Looks Like

Quote graphic with a photo of Ryan Honick and the text: “I don’t need another empty statement about inclusion. I need the kind of allyship that shows up when no one’s watching.”

Earlier this month, I went to the first-ever WAWABILITY event at The Anthem. It was joyful. Messy in the best way. Loud. Hilarious. Real. And even with a modest turnout, it mattered—a lot.

Credit to Warren "Wawa" Snipe, the visionary behind it. The guy brought his full heart, his artistry, and his community. I hope it continues. I really do. This city needs more of it.

But then I looked over at the sponsor display—and there it was: Uber. One of about a dozen logos backing the event.

And I just sat with that for a minute.

Yes, that Uber.

The same company that’s denied me rides because of Canine Companions® Lovey. The same one that’s been sued (repeatedly) for discrimination. The same one that looked the other way after I was left on the curb.

But sure. Throw some money at a Disability Pride event. Put your name on a banner. Snap a photo for the DEI newsletter.

That’s what performative allyship looks like. And disabled folks? We know it when we see it. We’ve had to get really good at reading the fine print behind the smiling statements.

It’s the employer who posts about Disability Employment Awareness Month, but makes you jump through three layers of HR just to get a basic accommodation.

It’s the airline that says your safety is “top priority”—while treating your wheelchair like oversized luggage.

It’s the landlord who says $5,000 for a power door opener is “too much,” even though the company manages a billion-dollar portfolio.

You start to realize: it’s not that they don’t have the resources. It’s that they don’t see us as worth spending them on.

That takes a toll. Not just professionally. Not just logistically. But emotionally.
Because every time we advocate, we’re calculating the cost. Will this change anything? Will they retaliate? Will they suddenly see me differently?

Spoiler: they often do.

I’ve watched the shift.

I’ve felt it.

I’ve disclosed a disability and watched my standing change—without my performance changing at all. And if you push back? Suddenly you’re the problem. You’re “too sensitive.” You’re “hard to work with.” You’re imagining it. We’re not imagining it. We’re just tired of proving it.

So let’s be real: I don’t need another empty statement about inclusion. I need the kind of allyship that shows up when no one’s watching. I need people who are willing to be angry with us—not just empathetic. I need the 80%—the non-disabled folks in rooms we’re not in—to stop whispering support and start saying something out loud.

Because we see the gap between your message and your actions. And we’re done pretending we don’t.

Have you ever felt that shift—celebrated one day, sidelined the next?
If you’ve disclosed a disability at work, what changed afterward?
And for the allies: when was the last time you said something—not just felt bad about it?

Why Uber Keeps Failing Disabled Riders—And What It’s Costing Us

A golden retriever service dog sits in the back seat of a white Uber car with its tongue out, looking out the open window.

Yesterday, I watched a third Uber driver pull up, see my Canine Companions® service dog, and drive off.

And I’ll be honest—I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t. Because I was standing in public. And because Lovey was watching me. She's trained to take her emotional cues from me. So I did what disabled people are expected to do: I swallowed it. I stayed calm. I performed grace under pressure—because anything else might cost me more than just a ride.

That’s the emotional labor we never talk about. The choreography of suppression. Not just because we’re trying to get somewhere, but because we have to protect our dogs, our reputations, and the egos of strangers who break the law.

This wasn’t some random errand. I was going to lunch with one of my oldest friends—a mentor who helped shape the career I now use to fight for equity. We’d planned it for weeks. It might be the last time I see him before I relocate.

But instead of getting to say “It’s so good to see you,” I walked in 15 minutes late, out of breath, emotionally wrung out, and apologizing for being disabled.

That’s the cost. The real one.

The financial one? That too. I finally gave up and selected Uber Pet—just to get downtown without being denied again. That upcharge runs me about $10 each way. Multiply that by the 3–4 round-trips I take per week, and we’re talking about $80 a week. Over $4,000 a year in fees I shouldn’t have to pay.

All because I use a service dog, and Uber won’t enforce the law.

And before someone says “Just report it”—I have. For over a decade. I’ve got videos. Data. Screenshots. Press. One or two drivers have faced real consequences. The rest? Nothing. Uber sends the same canned replies and moves on. Meanwhile, I’ve been gaslit, dismissed, and even had drivers mock me for trying to file a complaint.

Here's the part that nobody expects: I’ve gotten used to it.

I’ve internalized rejection so deeply that I now build in time to be discriminated against. I pad my schedule knowing I’ll likely be denied at least once—maybe twice—before I get a ride. I do math in my head to figure out when the emotional cost becomes too high and I need to just pay the upcharge.

And that? That is messed up.

So tomorrow, when someone says “It’s just a dog,” or “It’s just one ride,” or “Calm down, it’s not that serious,” I want you to remember this: It’s never just one thing. It’s the cumulative weight of being invisible, delayed, overcharged, and expected to smile through it.

If you’re reading this and you’ve never had to explain your rights in order to get where you need to go, I’m genuinely glad. But for the rest of us? We’re tired. We’re exhausted. And we’re still waiting for justice to show up.

So let me ask:

👉 Why are disabled people expected to pay more for access that’s legally guaranteed?
👉 Why does emotional restraint become our currency for survival?
👉 And what would it take—for real, lasting change—to happen?

Reclaiming Broken: Disability, Humor, and the Power of Naming Ourselves

A close-up photo of a white wall with bold black graffiti-style text reading "BROKEN KID" overlaid by a red circle and diagonal line, resembling a "no" or prohibition sign. The red paint is slightly uneven, giving it a raw, street-art look.

Someone once told me I shouldn’t call myself a “Broken Kid.”

They meant well. They always do.

They said it sounded demeaning. That I should be kinder to myself. That it made them uncomfortable.

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t talking to them.

I don’t remember exactly when I started calling myself that. Probably just trying to make someone laugh. That’s always been my default: if I can make you laugh about the thing everyone’s afraid to say, I’ve already won.

I’ve been called worse. I’ve been called the R-word, stupid, slow. You want to call me broken? Cool. You’re not wrong. You just lack originality.

The phrase stuck because it worked. It made people laugh—and more importantly, it made me feel powerful. Not in spite of my disability, but through it.

That’s what reclaiming is. It’s not self-hatred. It’s a litmus test. Can you laugh with me, or do you need me to make you comfortable first?

People miss that part. They hear “Broken Kid” and want to fix the language, not the systems. They try to tone-police my own experience while I’m just out here trying to live it.

But I’ve made peace with my body. And yes, it’s a piece of work. It’s twisted. It stumbles. It drops me sometimes—literally. And yeah, it’s funny. My partner and I will both call it out mid-conversation: “Yep, that’s the broken kid move.”

And strangers? They don’t know what to do with that. It short-circuits their assumptions.

That’s the point.

Because if I can joke about it first, I’m not waiting for the world to decide how I should feel. And if the world’s going to leave me out of the serious stuff—access, policy, participation—then at least give me the dignity of choosing my own damn words.

I don’t need euphemisms. I need honesty.

I don’t need a rebrand. I need a ramp.

And if you’re still hung up on the phrase “Broken Kid”? That says more about your fear of disability than it does about mine.

Humor is how I survive. Always has been. It’s helped me find my people, cut through red tape, and make meaning out of moments that should’ve broken me.

It’s not about pity. It’s about power. Self-given. Self-named. Self-honored.
You don’t have to like the words. But you can’t take them from me.

Let’s talk about that.

Disability Pride Month Is Great—But Disability Happens All Year

Let’s talk about service dogs, speech-to-text, and that weird moment when accessibility becomes “cool” only after it’s gone mainstream.

I had the honor of sitting down with Myles Wallace for his podcast, My Disability Story, ahead of Disability Pride Month. We talked about everything from CP to curb cuts to the public choreography of using an elevator with a service dog. But the heart of it all? Canine Companions® Lovey.

Lovey is trained in over 50 tasks and, yes, smarter than most humans I know before coffee. But she’s not a pet. She’s not a perk. Under the ADA, she’s medical equipment. As essential to me as someone’s cane, glasses, or a wheelchair.

Still, public understanding? Wildly uneven. I shouldn’t have to explain federal law everyday to exist. But here we are.

And while we’re at it—assistive tech isn’t niche. You use it. Every time you dictate a text, use a screen reader, or flip on closed captions in a Starbucks. The difference is: disabled folks were the early adopters. Society just didn’t care until it became “normal.”

That’s the pattern, right? When disabled people use a tool, it’s seen as “special.” When non-disabled people use it, it becomes innovation.

The same goes for remote work. I wasn’t thriving because of the pandemic—I was surviving because finally, the system cracked open just wide enough for access. Now, as RTO mandates creep back in, too many disabled workers are being quietly pushed out, again.

And let’s be real: this isn’t just about me. It’s about how we design workplaces, shape policy, and build culture. Are we building for inclusion—or waiting for exclusion to make the news?

To Myles—thank you. For asking about things most people overlook. For letting me share how bonding with Lovey wasn’t just emotional—it was life-altering. And for giving me space to joke that calling non-disabled people “pre-disabled” might sound like a mafia threat—but also happens to be the truth.

We shouldn’t care about accessibility just because “this could be you someday.” We should care because it’s the right thing. Because humanity means looking out for each other without needing a calendar to tell us when.

So, I’ll ask:

👉 What assistive tech do you rely on every day, even if you’ve never thought of it that way?
👉 How accessible is your workplace—really?
👉 And are you treating accessibility as a one-month moment—or a year-round movement?

Let’s talk. And more importantly—let’s listen.

Dressed Up, Denied, and Determined: What One Day Revealed About Access

A professional portrait of me, my girlfriend, and my service dog, Lovey. We’re seated on a light wood floor with a soft green backdrop behind us. I’m in a white shirt and jeans; she’s in a white lace dress. Lovey, in her blue Canine Companions vest, lies calmly between us. The photo captures not just a moment, but our bond—grounded in love, advocacy, and pride during Disability Pride Month.

We got dressed up to get turned away.

My girlfriend and I had planned the whole day around one simple thing: getting photos taken with my service dog, Canine Companions® Lovey. It’s a tradition for us—something joyful. This year felt extra special: our first in-person visit since Lovey entered the picture.

We booked at Picture People. My girlfriend grew up going there—nostalgic, right? But when we showed up, after a 45-minute Uber, we were told we couldn’t do our shoot.

Why? Because Lovey is a dog.

Apparently, their policy lumps service animals in with pets, and we were told those appointments must be booked last in the day. That slot was already taken. Never mind that no such policy was listed when we booked. Never mind the travel, the planning, the outfits. Never mind the federal law.

I got on the phone with the manager. Calm, direct—but angry. Because here’s the thing:

Why is it always on us—disabled people—to do the emotional labor?

Why do we have to fight just to participate in the most basic of joys?

My girlfriend and I were left standing there, stunned. She’d talked up this place for years—and this was my introduction to it.

Enter: JCPenney. Same mall. Same request. And they got it.

They adjusted their policy. They saw Lovey as a working dog. We got the photos. No fight, no fuss. Just compassion. It was a total 180—and a reminder that inclusion is a choice.

But the day didn’t start there. It started with an Uber denial. I usually pay the extra “Uber Pet” fee just to avoid confrontation—even though legally, service animals ride for free. That day, I didn’t. And sure enough, we got denied. Again.

So yes, I was angry. Because I’ve been doing this advocacy work for over a decade. I’ve published. I’ve documented. I’ve spoken up. And yet here we are: 2025. Still explaining the difference between a pet and a service dog. Still negotiating access like it’s a favor.

And Lovey? She stayed calm. Steady. Grounding me while I navigated frustration and disappointment. A better example of grace than most corporate policy manuals.

Disability Pride Month should be more than hashtags and lip service. So I’m asking:

Have you witnessed discrimination like this?

What policies or companies have gotten it right?

Where can we call others in—or out?

Inclusion isn’t theory. It’s practice.

It’s training. Transparency. Leadership that includes us at the table.

We’re not asking for special treatment. We’re asking to be treated like people.

Let’s talk about that.

Meet Lovey: A New Chapter in Pride, Partnership, and Paws

The truth is, I wasn’t sure my heart had room for another dog. After losing my first service dog, Pico, everything got… quiet. Not peaceful quiet—more like echoey, empty-room quiet. We’d been matched for 11 years. He was my shadow, my rhythm, my freedom in a four-legged suit. As my dad, Craig Honick put it in the documentary, “Pico became synonymous with Ryan.” He wasn’t wrong.

But this May, something changed.

I met Lovey. Hardworking. Affectionate. Slightly obsessed with belly rubs and laser pointers. Also: a superstar.

We were matched through Canine Companions®, and our story was captured in a short documentary filmed during our two weeks of training at their Northeast Training Center in Medford, NY. Watching it back? It’s a front-row seat to how trust is built, one cue at a time—with equal parts skill, sweat, and soft ears.

Here’s the thing: the film is more than just a highlight reel of commands and cues. It’s a tribute to what real access looks like. It's the in-between moments—her curling up next to me after a tough day, or mastering a new task with her signature “I got this” tail wag. It’s also a love letter to everyone who made it possible: her puppy raiser, the trainers, the behind-the-scenes team, and the folks who saw something in me worth capturing.

Lovey lives up to her name. She’s my new shadow. A little different than Pico—more snuggles, slightly faster, more opinions about squirrels—but she’s teaching me just as much.

Being matched with a service dog isn’t just about tasks. It’s about agency. It’s about being able to show up—fully, confidently, and without apology. This is what Disability Pride Month is really about: visibility, independence, and the right to exist without barriers.

So yes, I’m grateful. I’m thrilled. And I’m ready for this next chapter.

Want to see what two weeks of transformation, laughter, learning, and a whole lot of fur looks like? I invite you to watch the full documentary and get a closer look at what service dog training truly entails. Spoiler: there are tissues involved.

To the incredible team at Canine Companions Northeast Region, the production crew, and everyone who helped share our story—thank you. It means more than you know.

Let’s talk about independence, access, and the joy of starting over—with paws.

The Real Cost of Doubting Disabled Students

A dark-themed infographic titled "What Accommodations Actually Do." At the center is a circular diagram divided into four segments, each with an icon and a label. Starting from the top and moving clockwise:

"Remove unnecessary barriers" with the subtext "Address structural obstacles" and an icon of a hurdle.

"Provide equal opportunity" with the subtext "Not an unfair advantage" and an icon of a person.

"Give a fighting chance" with the subtext "Fair shot at success" and an icon of dice.

"Level the playing field" with the subtext "Create equitable conditions" and an icon of balanced scales.

I remember the hours I poured into LSAT prep—practice exams, flashcards, the quiet resolve of Saturday mornings spent chasing a dream. I took the test twice, both times with extended time, not because I wanted an edge, but because I needed it. My disability meant I processed information differently, and those accommodations didn’t make the test easier—they made it possible.

So when I read recent pieces by Jillian Lederman in The Wall Street Journal and Dennis Beaver in Kiplinger suggesting that disability accommodations are being widely abused in law schools, I wasn’t just disappointed. I was angry.

Lederman’s article asks readers to consider whether the rise in accommodations reflects dishonesty rather than need. Beaver goes further, labeling it a “dirty, well-kept secret” that some students are “dishonor students” gaming the system. That rhetoric isn’t just damaging—it’s dangerous.

Yes, fraud exists. But “1 in 4 adults may exaggerate ADHD symptoms” ≠ everyone is cheating. That kind of math erases real people—people like me—who need accommodations just to compete on equal footing.

According to Lederman, over a third of Pepperdine Caruso Law students now receive accommodations. Instead of asking why more students are seeking support, these articles cast suspicion. One Pepperdine student who circulated a petition was accused of bullying for questioning the process, highlighting just how fraught this conversation has become.

I’ve lived that tension. I’ve had professors doubt me. I’ve heard administrators say accommodations like colored charts “compromised academic standards.” And I’ve watched students and professionals with legitimate needs stop asking—because the process of justifying your existence is too exhausting.

Here’s the truth: 1 in 5 Americans has a disability. We’re finally seeing more people understand their rights. That’s not a scandal—it’s progress. But that progress is under threat when headlines frame inclusion as cheating.

In the workplace, I’ve rarely asked for “extra time” on a deadline. That's not practical in many fast-paced workplaces. I use tools—screen readers, flexible arrangements—to do the job well. Regardless of what accommodations are leveraged, they aren’t a cheat code. They’re a lifeline.

So here’s my ask:

✅ If someone says they need an accommodation—believe them.
✅ If you don’t understand—ask, don’t accuse.

And if you’ve ever had to justify your disability to someone who didn’t want to believe you—I see you.

We can’t keep mistaking access for advantage. If we want equity to mean something, it starts by choosing to believe people the first time they tell us what they need.