What It Feels Like to Be Called 'Non-Essential' by Your Own Government

A weathered metal sign reading "Government Closed" is attached to a black iron fence, with the U.S. Capitol building blurred in the background.

Shutdowns don't just stop paychecks. They chip away at people.

If you've never lived through one, it's easy to think it's just bureaucracy. Temporary. Inconvenient.

It's not.

I've been through shutdowns before, but this one feels different.

Maybe it's because I've seen too many people I care about wake up to RIF notices after decades of public service.

People I worked alongside. People who trained me. People who gave everything to this government only to be told they are no longer essential. My former colleagues at USPTO are among them. Some of the most dedicated professionals I've ever known. Their careers ended not with ceremony or dignity, but with silence.

Cruel actions from a supposed model employer.

That word. Non-essential. It doesn't just hit your paycheck. It hits your purpose.

It is an emotional body blow.

And for disabled federal employees, it hits even harder.

Shutdowns pause more than systems. They stall accommodation requests. They cut off the very processes that allow us to do our jobs in the first place. Timelines get frozen. Cases fall through the cracks. And no one knows when things will pick back up.

And the timing? It's National Disability Employment Awareness Month.

We can post about inclusion all day, but the reality is that thousands of disabled public servants are currently locked out. Some temporarily. Some permanently. And there is no guarantee that access, or dignity, is coming back.

Meanwhile, our own administration is publicly mocking us.

The official The White House YouTube account posted a montage of clips from The Office, meant to portray federal employees as lazy and useless. At the exact moment we're being furloughed, RIF'd, and dragged through bureaucratic uncertainty, the Executive Branch is laughing at us.

And if that weren't enough, we've been given official "guidance" on what to include in our out-of-office replies. Language that leans partisan. Messaging that doesn't feel neutral or respectful but instead feels like we're being used as pawns in a larger political game. WIRED reports U.S. Department of Education unilaterally changed employee’s out of office to reflect that language.

Our own government is mocking us and demeaning the work we do.

Canine Companions® Lovey knows something is off. She's been glued to me since this started. Watching more closely. Laying a little closer. Matching her breathing to mine.

Because this isn't just about politics or policy.

It's about people.

To every civil servant who is furloughed, fired, or just trying to hold it together: You are not disposable. And you deserved better than this.

To everyone else: please be kind to your federal friends. We are not okay. We are doing our best to survive.

Not Just a Glitch: Why Uber’s Discrimination Against Service Dog Teams Matters

In this CBS News segment, disability advocate and accessibility strategist Ryan Honick shares his personal experience with repeated Uber ride denials while traveling with his service dog, Lovey. The interview follows a new lawsuit filed by the U.S. Department of Justice against Uber, alleging widespread discrimination against passengers with disabilities who use service animals.

Yesterday, I spoke on CBS News about the U.S. Department of Justice lawsuit against Uber. I’m named in the complaint, but I’m not the story. The story is the pattern. The silence. The systems that kept letting it happen—and the people expected to endure it quietly.

Lovey isn’t a pet. She’s my Canine Companions® service dog. She’s not a “suggestion.” She’s medical equipment with a heartbeat. Legally protected. But try explaining that for the third time in one day while someone slams a car door in your face.

People have told me I look angry in my videos. And you know what? I was.
By the time I hit record, I’d often already been denied 2–3 times. I wasn’t upset about one driver. I was tired of the years of broken complaint forms and corporate PR that pretended this wasn’t happening. My tone wasn’t the problem. The problem was the pattern, and the lack of enforcement behind it.

This lawsuit is a first step. Not toward perfection, but toward truth. And that’s what we need more of: clarity, policy that works, and a whole lot less compliance theater.

So thank you to the DOJ for stepping in.

And thank you to Jennifer Williams, Elizabeth Cook, and the CBS News team for giving me space to talk about it like a whole person and not just a headline.

Because what’s at stake here isn’t just the ride.
It’s dignity. Autonomy. Access.

What It Took to Get to the DOJ v. Uber Lawsuit

A close-up of a person holding a smartphone displaying the Uber app logo. The phone is held in one hand inside a vehicle.

I’ve been denied rides with my service dog more times than I can count.

Not because I was unclear. Not because the law wasn’t on my side. But because a driver could take one look at us and decide: nope. And Uber, no matter what it says in press releases, let them.

Over the years, drivers have challenged me to file complaints, knowing nothing would happen. And they were mostly right. I started documenting the rejections publicly in 2018. I called it “rejection time,” the extra hour I’d build into my schedule just to find a driver who wouldn’t leave me at the curb.

If I needed to be somewhere at 1pm, I’d call a ride by noon. Not because the drive took that long, but because I had to plan for the fight.

Once, before Uber Pet was even a backup option, I was in such a rush I paid for an Uber Black. It cost exponentially more than UberX, just to avoid being denied again. I paid a premium to be treated like I belonged.

This wasn’t rare. It was weekly. Sometimes daily. And when I shared my experiences, the pushback came fast:

“You’re overreacting.”
“Maybe try Uber Pet.”
“Why didn’t you just leave the dog at home?”

Lovey isn’t a pet. She’s a highly trained service dog from Canine Companions®. She’s my access partner. Before her, it was Pico, my first service dog, who stood next to me through the worst of this. I still wish his name could be in the court record.

On Thursday, the U.S. Department of Justice filed a lawsuit against Uber for violating the ADA, denying rides to people like me. My name is in the complaint. CBS News covered it and quoted me saying what I’ve felt for years:

“The incidents are not isolated, but evidence of a widespread civil rights failure.”

“No one should be forced to choose between their mobility and their legal rights.”

It’s validating to be heard. But also exhausting that it took this long.

This lawsuit isn’t just about one company. It’s about a culture of compliance theater that leaves disabled people behind. And then expects us to be grateful for the ride when it finally shows up.

What I want now is simple: real enforcement. Not just good PR. Because access isn’t a suggestion. It’s the floor.

If you’ve never had to schedule rejection time, count yourself lucky. If you have, I see you.

And I hope you’ll answer this:

When have you had to shrink yourself just to get through the day?

What does accountability look like where you work, not just in writing, but in action?

Uber denies rides to passengers with disabilities, Justice Department claims in lawsuit

What It Really Means to Advocate for Disability Rights And Why I Keep Showing Up

Ryan and Canine Companions Lovey pose for a photo. Ryan is wearing a white shirt and jeans. He leans against Lovey who is staring straight ahead wearing her working vest.

I don’t always enjoy talking about myself, but when I do, I make sure it’s honest.

Grateful to be featured in the latest issue of WE ROAR Magazine™, where I got the chance to reflect on access, advocacy, and the quiet power of showing up (with Canine Companions® Lovey, of course).

Huge thanks to Kassandra Ayala-Najera, Jennifer Cairns and the entire WE ROAR team for the space to share my story—not just the polished wins, but the hard-won perspective that comes from navigating the world as a disabled advocate.

If you’ve ever wondered what keeps me in this work—or what it costs—this is a pretty good place to start.

Check out issue 10 here:

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.