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 Floor, Not the Ceiling: Continuing the ADA's Legacy

A brick wall with a round button labeled "PUSH TO OPEN" featuring a wheelchair accessibility symbol.

All month long, I've been reflecting a lot on how disability is so often misunderstood. The Americans with Disabilities Act was a groundbreaking achievement for disability rights. But let's be real—it should be seen as the floor, not the ceiling, for what we aim to achieve.

A major misconception about disability is viewing it as a monolithic experience. It's not. Disability is vast, varied, and beautiful. Just like NPR readers pointed out, “Disabilities aren't one size fits all” and “not all disabilities are visible or immediately recognizable.” This diversity within our community needs more acknowledgment and understanding. We must break free from narrow definitions of what’s considered a “legitimate” disability. The ADA definition of disability is broad, in large part due to the recognition that disability affects everyone differently.

The ADA has indeed been instrumental in advancing the rights of people with disabilities. It opened doors and provided legal protection against discrimination. Yet, as Andrew Pulrang emphasizes, the ADA is often seen as “toothless” because of inconsistent enforcement and the persistent barriers—both physical and societal—that we encounter daily. Accessibility should be a basic right, not an inconvenience that gets ignored when it’s costly or challenging.

People’s ideas of what disability looks like are often so limited. They have these fixed notions that lead to gatekeeping and judgment. I remember when I got matched with Canine Companions® Pico, in 2014. Moving through the world with him opened my eyes to many nuances of disability access. Even though I’ve been disabled my whole life, being a new service dog handler was an entirely new experience. Pico and I faced challenges, but we also created positive change by challenging perceptions of what we could accomplish as a team.

True inclusion begins with empathy and a willingness to understand the varied experiences of those of us with disabilities. It means challenging preconceived notions and really listening to the voices within our community. As one NPR reader aptly put it, “Disability is not a fate worse than death. You can adapt, and you would if you suddenly became disabled.”

“Our disabilities are not flaws to be fixed, but integral parts of our identities that shape our unique perspectives and strengths,” Kim Chua told NPR. “We’re not defined solely by our disabilities. We’re whole, complex individuals with dreams, talents, and contributions to make.” By fostering a culture of empathy and understanding, we can work toward a society that truly values and includes everyone. The ADA was just the starting point, but our journey toward full equity and inclusion is ongoing. Let’s keep moving forward together.

As we close out Disability Pride, remember to lead with empathy and curiosity.

What NPR readers want you to know about living with a disability-readers-stories

Disability Pride: Beyond the Celebratory Facade

A wheelchair user wearing a superhero cape navigates a city street filled with obstacles like stairs and debris. The cityscape includes tall buildings, narrow doorways, and inaccessible paths.

Disability is like any other complex relationship, filled with highs and lows. Some days are easy, some days are challenging, and some days we triumph over societal barriers—lack of access, accommodations, empathy, or compassion. And then there are days when we’re simply too exhausted to fight and need time to recoup. We don’t owe anyone 24/7 optimism, even during Disability Pride Month, but that doesn’t mean our lives hold any less value.

My entrepreneurial father Craig Honick once told me, “Advocate so well you put yourself out of business.” It’s a lofty goal I still think about often. Ideally, we’d live in a world where disability awareness is ingrained in our societal fabric. But we’re not there yet. So, we fight. The progress we’ve made excites us, but the fight is exhausting, and we feel it deeply. As the calendar flips to a new month, we’ll still be here, fighting, and we’ll still be disabled.

Throughout this month, I and other advocates have spotlighted daily examples of our community’s struggle for basic equity and inclusion. But awareness without action is empty. Now that you’re aware of the struggles, what are you going to do? Too often, our voices are drowned out by our non-disabled peers. So here’s our ask: pass the mic when you can, amplify our stories, and when you see something wrong, speak up. We need your allyship not just in July, but all year long.

Emily Ladau put it best on the latest episode of The Accessible Stall podcast: “Sometimes I just don’t feel like practicing [Disability Pride]. I’m exhausted.” This sentiment resonates deeply. Pride in our disability is indeed an ongoing practice, a muscle that needs stretching. Awareness is step one. What will you do to be a better ally once the spotlight dims?

Here are some actionable steps to support disability advocacy and inclusion:

• Educate Yourself and Others: Learn about the issues facing the disability community and share this knowledge with those around you.

• Amplify Disabled Voices: Use your platform to highlight the stories and experiences of disabled individuals. Folks like Kristen Parisi, Tiffany A. Yu, MSc, Alexa Heinrich, Marisa Hamamoto, Margaux Joffe, CPACC, 🦻 Meryl Evans, CPACC (deaf), Keely Cat-Wells, Julie Harris, Jamie Shields, Catarina Rivera, MSEd, MPH, CPACC, Donna Cruz Jones, Sheri Byrne-Haber (disabled) and so many others who do amazing work.

• Advocate for Accessibility: Push for accessible practices in your workplace, community, and beyond. Accessibility benefits everyone.

• Offer Genuine Support: Ask disabled people what support looks like for them and follow through.

• Speak Up: When you see discrimination or inaccessibility, don’t stay silent. Use your voice to advocate for change.

Let’s move beyond just awareness. Let’s take action together to create a more inclusive and equitable world for all. Your allyship matters every day.

Piecing It Together: A Story of Self-Discovery and Disability Awareness

A festive indoor celebration scene for the 34th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act. The centerpiece is a large two-tiered cake decorated with the Disability Parking Symbol in blue. The top of the cake features lit candles and large number "34" candles. The cake is inscribed with the message "Happy 34th Anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act." The background is adorned with colorful balloons and streamers, creating a joyful and vibrant party atmosphere.

As we celebrate the 34th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, I want to share a story close to my heart. It's about my best friend, who, in her early thirties, has only recently come to realize she's been disabled for much of her life. Her journey of self-discovery is a testament to the complex and unique paths we each take to understand our own disabilities.

Growing up, she was that quirky, clumsy teenager who fell down all the time. Friends joked that someone needed to be nearby to catch her, and frequent ER visits were chalked up to her being "accident prone." High heels? A fashion no-go because of her wobbly ankles. Gym class? A nightmare, especially when a heart condition—misdiagnosed for years—made sustained exercise impossible.

Her life was a series of "quirks" that never quite added up. Hypermobile joints, ADHD symptoms, and a heart that often felt like it was drowning were all dismissed as part of her "unique charm." It wasn't until her mid-twenties that the pieces started falling into place with proper diagnoses: hypermobility, inappropriate sinus tachycardia, and an ongoing assessment for ADHD.

Reflecting on her journey, she realized how internalized ableism and a lack of confidence about what "counts" as a disability had prevented her from embracing her disabled identity. She had tried to fit into the mold of the manic pixie dream girl, cultivating her issues as endearing quirks rather than recognizing them as signs of her disabilities.

Dating, too, was fraught with challenges. She constantly worried about keeping up with potential partners who enjoyed activities like hiking and running—activities her body couldn't always handle. This anxiety stemmed from societal perceptions of disability hierarchies and the pressure to be "normal."

Her story is a powerful reminder that disability journeys can begin at any time and are often unexpected. Understanding disability through formal or informal diagnosis provides a unique lens and vocabulary to better understand oneself. It's a journey of discovery, relief, and pride.

On this anniversary of the ADA, let's celebrate not only those who fought for our rights but also those just beginning to understand and embrace their disabilities. Their stories are vital in the ongoing fight for diversity, equity, inclusion, and access.

The Power of Words: Trump's Harsh Views vs. Biden's Compassion

A disabled parking logo is depicted with blood dripping down, symbolizing the erroneous belief that disabled people should die. The scene is a dark and eerie, with the surrounding environment having a grim and foreboding atmosphere, including dark, leafless trees and a misty background.

I can’t stop thinking about President Biden’s address to the nation last night—his first since deciding to exit the 2024 race. His speech was filled with humanity and a focus on inclusion, qualities that starkly contrast with sentiments expressed by Donald Trump, as revealed in a recent TIME Magazine article by Fred Trump III.

Biden’s words from the Oval Office were profound: “We have to decide: Do we still believe in honesty, decency, respect, freedom, justice, and democracy? In this moment, we can see those we disagree with not as enemies but as fellow Americans.” This message of unity and respect is essential, especially as we celebrate the 34th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act. The ADA, passed under the George H.W. Bush administration, is more contested than ever in today’s political climate. I’m not sure it would pass Congress in 2024.

Contrast this with the shocking statements from Donald Trump, as recounted by his nephew Fred Trump III. Fred’s article reveals a chilling disregard for disabled people. President Trump reportedly said at the height of COVID-19, “The shape they’re in, all the expenses, maybe those kinds of people should just die,” in reference to his own blood. These words are not just hurtful; they are a stark reminder of how far we still have to go in fighting for the rights and dignity of all Americans.

Biden’s commitment to disability rights has been evident throughout his administration. His support for updates to Section 508 of the Rehabilitation Act is a critical step forward. “The federal government has an obligation to ensure that its services are accessible to people with disabilities, including its websites and technology,” said Senator Bob Casey, co-sponsor of the proposed updates. This legislation aims to make federal technology accessible to all Americans, ensuring that no one is left behind.

I use a wheelchair. I handle a service dog. I leverage assistive technology to navigate the web due to my visual impairment. These updates are not just necessary; they are vital. It’s not just about physical barriers; it’s about breaking down attitudinal ones as well.

Biden’s words remind us that we are all in this together: “We are a great nation because we are a good people...The power’s in your hands. The idea of America lies in your hands. You just have to keep faith.” In contrast, Trump’s comments reflect a divisiveness that undermines the progress we’ve made and the values we stand for.

As we approach this significant anniversary of the ADA, let’s remember the work that still needs to be done. Let’s continue to fight for a world where everyone, regardless of their abilities, has equal access to opportunities and resources. When given the respect and dignity we deserve, we not only thrive, we persevere. The only thing that needs to die is ableism.

My Uncle Donald Trump Told Me Disabled Americans Like My Son ‘Should Just Die’