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.
Why the Federal Government’s New Hiring Rules Terrify Me as a Disability Advocate
A view of the OPM Logo outside a conference room.
Let’s talk about what it feels like to be a disabled person trying to work for your government—while your government quietly rewrites the rules to keep you out.
Picture this: You’re a recent college grad, disabled, maybe neurodivergent. You’ve spent years preparing for a federal career. And now, you’re told your first task is to write a 200-word essay about how you’ll support the president’s executive orders. Oh—and don’t even think about using AI to help. Just you, a keyboard, and a soft demand for ideological loyalty.
This isn’t fiction. It’s policy. According to Axios, applicants now face essay questions designed to gauge patriotism—not qualifications. “How would you help advance the President’s Executive Orders?” one question asks. Never mind your skills. Your support for the administration comes first.
And if you’re already in the system? The rug may already be gone. Reuters reports that the Trump administration has proposed a rule to fast-track firings. Agencies can now skip traditional discipline, refer someone directly to U.S. Office of Personnel Management (OPM), and—if approved—terminate them in five days. No real process. No protection. No time to fight back.
Now imagine you're autistic and need extra processing time. Or you’ve got long COVID and had to request accommodations. Or maybe you just asked too many questions. What happens when those behaviors are labeled “misconduct”?
It’s not just hiring that’s shifting. POLITICO reported that agencies have been ordered to stop using diversity data in hiring—no tracking of disability status, race, or gender. No benchmarks. No visibility. So if fewer disabled people are getting hired… who’s supposed to notice?
I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: the federal government isn’t just another employer. It’s the largest employer in the U.S. It sets a tone. And right now, that tone is saying: “Conform, or you're expendable.”
So here’s my question for you: What does "merit" really mean when it excludes nuance, experience, and identity?
Disabled workers aren’t liabilities. We are the very people who’ve spent our lives adapting, solving problems, navigating systems that weren’t built for us—and still showing up. That sounds like public service material to me.
If you’ve been impacted by these policies—drop a comment, share your story, or reach out. Because this isn’t just about job applications. It’s about belonging.
And the rules can’t change who we are. But maybe, just maybe, we can change the rules.
“We All Have Something” Is a Lie That Harms Disabled People—Here’s Why
Quote graphic with a photo of Ryan Honick and the text:
“Disability isn’t a metaphor. It’s not a personality type. And it’s definitely not something you can pray, push, or positivity your way out of.”
I’ll be honest: I’m tired. Not just physically—existentially. Because every time I talk about disability, someone inevitably says:
“Well, everyone has something, right?”
Everyone’s a little neurodivergent.
A little ADHD.
A little OCD.
We all have trauma.
We’re all on the spectrum.
Except… no.
We’re not.
And saying we are? It’s not inclusive. It’s dismissive.
You don’t have to flatten the disability experience to feel connected to it. And yet, this "everyone has something" mindset keeps popping up in classrooms, in DEI trainings, and on conference panels—as if lived experience is just a vibe we all sort of share.
Here’s the thing: “Relating” to something isn’t the same as living with it.
It’s one thing to feel distracted. It’s another to navigate the world with ADHD while constantly masking to meet neurotypical expectations.
It’s one thing to like your desk organized. It’s another to live with OCD and be consumed by intrusive thoughts that disrupt your entire day.
It’s one thing to be upset. It’s another to be triggered—and suddenly transported into a trauma state that can take hours or days to come down from.
When we use clinical terms casually—or treat disability like a shared inconvenience—we erase the people actually living it, day in and day out.
Disability isn’t a metaphor.
It’s not a personality type.
And it’s definitely not something you can pray, push, or positivity your way out of.
And yet, society loves a good overcome story. It makes people feel comfortable. But comfort has never been the goal of disability justice. Equity is. Access is. Dignity is.
We’re not here for inspiration. We’re here for infrastructure.
Disability is real. It’s physical. It’s mental. It’s emotional. It’s systemic.
And while yes, it’s common—1 in 4 people in the U.S. have a disability—that doesn’t make it universal. And it sure as hell doesn’t make it insignificant.
So please. For the love of accuracy and advocacy:
Stop saying “everyone has something.”
Say:
✅ I’m listening.
✅ I want to understand.
✅ I’ll advocate for accessibility.
Because that? That’s how we move forward.
The Harmful Myth of “Never Letting Disability Stop You” – Why We Need to Rethink Resilience
A screenshot of a tweet by Ryan Honick (@ryanhonick), posted on March 3, 2020, at 1:59 PM. The tweet reads: 'I don’t know who needs to hear this but the “I never let my disability/pain/illness stop me” is an ableist and harmful narrative. Sometimes chronic issues are debilitating and they do stop you. And you shouldn’t be made to feel guilty about it. Period.'
On March 3, 2020, I wrote a tweet that continues to resurface in conversations about disability and chronic illness:
"I don’t know who needs to hear this, but the ‘I never let my disability/pain/illness stop me’ is an ableist and harmful narrative. Sometimes chronic issues are debilitating and they do stop you. And you shouldn’t be made to feel guilty about it. Period."
I wrote that in the midst of the most painful period of my life, after years of chronic pain. I didn’t expect it to go viral, but it did—and it still does. It has been screen-grabbed, reshared, and discussed across Meta, Instagram, Reddit, Inc., and Twitter/X, popping up repeatedly like clockwork. The response? A mix of gratitude, validation, and, of course, criticism.
Too often, society presents disability as something to be overcome rather than lived with. We hear phrases like:
👉 "Mind over matter!"
👉 "You’re so strong for pushing through!"
👉 "You’re such an inspiration!"
While well-intended, these comments send a damaging message: that acknowledging our limitations means we are weak. They erase the reality of chronic pain, energy limitations, and the simple fact that sometimes, our disabilities do stop us—and that’s okay.
This kind of toxic positivity pressures disabled people to perform an unrealistic level of resilience. It tells us that resting or honoring our limits is "giving up." But accepting the reality of disability isn’t defeat—it’s survival.
Over the years, responses to my tweet have fallen into predictable categories:
✅ “Thank you. I needed to hear this.” Many disabled people found validation in the idea that it’s okay to rest, to pause, to honor what their bodies need.
❌ “This is just giving up.” Some—both within and outside the disability community—claimed my perspective promoted a defeatist attitude. 🤦
These reactions highlight a deeper societal issue: many people are uncomfortable with the idea that disability is, at times, limiting. They need the feel-good narrative of disabled people triumphing over adversity because it reassures them that they would do the same in our position. But disability isn’t a morality test—it’s a reality of life.
Disabled people don’t exist to inspire you. We are not here to be motivational backdrops for non-disabled people. We have our own goals, dreams, ambitions, and struggles—just like anyone else.
Here’s the truth:
• Some days, I can push through. Other days, I can’t—and both are valid.
• Disabled people don’t need to perform resilience for your comfort.
• Accepting our limits isn’t "giving up"—it’s respecting our bodies.
We live in a world that tells us we must constantly justify our existence. That we must "overcome" disability rather than demand societal changes that accommodate us. But disability isn’t a battle to be won—it’s a reality to be acknowledged.
Trump Blamed DEI for a Plane Crash. Here’s Why That’s Dangerous.
Emergency response units assess airplane wreckage in the Potomac River near Ronald Reagan Washington Airport on January 30, 2025 in Arlington, Virginia.
I wish I could say I was surprised. But I’m not.
A tragic plane crash happens at Ronald Reagan National Airport, and instead of waiting for the facts, instead of mourning the lives lost, Trump rushes to the mic with an all-too-familiar playbook: Blame Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. No evidence, no logic—just another reckless attempt to weaponize tragedy to attack marginalized communities.
And this time? He went straight for disabled professionals.
In his press conference, Trump suggested that DEI efforts were responsible for putting “unqualified” people in roles like air traffic control, even going so far as to claim that under Biden, the Federal Aviation Administration was hiring people with “severe intellectual disabilities and psychiatric problems” as part of diversity initiatives. He made it sound as if DEI is about lowering the bar, as if safety has taken a backseat to inclusion .
Let’s set the record straight.
DEI doesn’t weaken standards—it strengthens them. It ensures that highly qualified individuals—people who have always had the skills but have historically been shut out due to bias—get a fair shot. The FAA’s hiring requirements haven’t changed. Air traffic controllers still go through the same intense screening, the same rigorous testing, the same high-pressure training. Nobody gets a free pass. The idea that disabled people are handed these jobs without meeting the same standards as everyone else is not just false—it’s insulting.
Maria Town, President of the American Association of People with Disabilities said it best, “Preventing the FAA from hiring people with disabilities does not make planes more safe, It just removes opportunities for disabled people."
And yet, here we are again.
For those of us in the disability community, these kinds of attacks aren’t new. We’re used to people questioning our qualifications, assuming we’re only here because of some imaginary quota. It doesn’t matter how hard we work, how much we achieve—someone, somewhere, will always suggest we don’t belong.
Trump’s words don’t just spread misinformation. They do real harm. They give people permission to question whether disabled professionals should be allowed in the workforce at all. They fuel narratives that say our presence in critical jobs is a “risk” rather than an asset.
Here’s the truth: Disability doesn’t make a person unqualified. It doesn’t make them less capable, less intelligent, or less deserving of responsibility. I know this firsthand. I have spent my career proving what I—and countless others—already knew: We belong.
Trump didn’t just attack DEI. He attacked the very idea that people like me, people like us, deserve to be here.
And we cannot let that stand. The only way to drown out falsehoods is with truth. And the truth is, DEI isn’t the problem—it’s the solution.
Trump Blames DEI, Democrats for Deadly Plane Crash
The War on DEI: What It Means for Disability Advocacy in the Federal Workforce
The image shows a close-up of a document titled "Termination of Employment" placed on a wooden desk. To the side, there is a partial view of a keyboard and a yellow-tinted pair of eyeglasses resting on a closed book.
The federal government is currently experiencing a period of significant change in areas such as Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, return-to-office mandates, and executive orders that directly affect federal policies. As a long-time federal employee, I find myself closely observing these developments and working to adapt—just like many of you. This is undoubtedly a time of uncertainty for federal workers, and understandably so. Recent rollbacks in DEI programming, elimination of related roles, and the enforcement of RTO mandates are reshaping the workplace landscape at a rapid pace.
For me, these changes feel personal. As someone with a disability—navigating chronic pain, a visual impairment, and reliance on assistive technology—this shifting landscape poses significant challenges. The pace of change is unsettling, but it’s important to acknowledge that much remains unknown. While the push for these policy changes is concerning, full implementation will take time. Many of the fears we face today may not materialize immediately.
Despite the uncertainties, one thing remains clear: we all share a responsibility to uphold the humanity of our workplaces. Whether as colleagues or leaders, it’s on us to ensure that everyone—regardless of ability—can succeed in the roles they were hired to fulfill. While DEI initiatives and remote work policies are evolving, some measures remain stable for now.
The current RTO memo includes language that supports remote work as a reasonable accommodation for employees with disabilities. This provision is a step in the right direction. However, the future of Schedule A—a hiring authority designed to bring individuals with disabilities into federal service—is less certain. While Schedule A has its limitations, it has served as a vital pathway into federal employment for many. For now, it remains intact, offering a glimmer of stability amidst the changes.
As federal employees, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the uncertainty and rapid shifts happening around us. But it’s important to take a moment to reflect and breathe. We are still in the early days of this administration, and much of what is being proposed will require time to take shape. The federal government’s processes are famously slow-moving, and significant changes often face bureaucratic resistance and legal challenges before they can be fully implemented.
This doesn’t diminish the real fears and concerns many of us are feeling. The anxiety around job security, workplace accessibility, and the future of DEI initiatives is valid and deeply felt. However, it’s also important to recognize that the laws protecting disabled workers have been hard-won and will not be easily undone. Legal safeguards and advocacy efforts remain powerful tools in preserving workplace equity.
As we navigate these turbulent times, let us move forward with care, grace, and resilience.
Reclaiming Disability Language: Empowerment, Humor, and Advocacy
A conceptual image of a large pane of shattered glass with the words "spaz," "special," and "dumb" etched into its surface. A bold red prohibition circle with a diagonal line crosses over the words, symbolizing rejection of harmful language. Cracks radiate outward from the center of the glass, emphasizing the fragility and breaking of outdated, offensive terms. The background is a gradient of teal and blue, adding depth and contrast to the image.
Words. They’re sharp, heavy, and at times, loaded. But they’re also fluid, malleable, and, most importantly, ours to shape. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the language surrounding disability and how it’s evolved—how words that once stung can now feel like a badge of defiant pride when reclaimed.
A recent TIME piece by Angela Haupt explored how to respond when someone says something offensive about disability, emphasizing the importance of educating others without assuming malice. This idea resonated with me deeply, but I kept circling back to a less discussed angle: reclaiming the very words that have historically marginalized us.
I’ve heard my fair share of slurs: cripple, spaz, retard. As a kid, these words cut deep. But as an adult, I’ve found joy—and, dare I say, humor—in reclaiming them. These words only hold the power we assign them, and I choose to wield that power on my terms.
For example, my close friends often call me “Broken Kid” or “Spaz” endearingly. It's not mockery; it’s camaraderie. “Don’t forget your broken kid card for parking,” they’ll say with a laugh. And yes, it’s hilarious to watch well-meaning bystanders recoil in horror: “You shouldn’t say that!” or “You shouldn’t refer to yourself that way.” Their shock, while understandable, underscores the power of reclaiming language. For me, humor is not only healing—it’s a form of activism.
It’s crucial to acknowledge that not every disabled person feels the same. As Katy Neas of The Arc of the United States pointed out, “So much of what we’re seeing is behavior grounded in either fear, ignorance, or the normalization of incivility.” Some prefer to challenge offensive language directly, turning these moments into educational opportunities. Others disengage entirely, protecting their peace.
Both approaches are valid. Disability is not a monolith. But for those like me, reclaiming words is about taking back agency. It’s about laughing in the face of stigma. And sometimes, it’s about asking the cheeky, yet pointed question:
“Can I ask why you think that’s funny?” (Thanks for the tip, Jennifer Gasner!)
That said, humor doesn’t erase the very real battles we face for access, opportunity, and equity. I don’t overlook the damage careless language can do, especially when wielded maliciously. But I choose to find the humor where I can, saving my energy for bigger fights. As Lachi ♫, a legally blind performer and advocate, wisely said, “We win when we include.” I’d add: We win when we laugh—on our terms.
This approach won’t resonate with everyone, and that’s okay. Reclaiming language is deeply personal. But for me, it’s a way to strip harmful words of their venom and inject them with power, resilience, and a healthy dose of comedy.
Do you find empowerment in reclaiming words, or do you see language differently?
The FTC’s $1M Wake-Up Call to accessiBe: Why Accessibility Overlays Are Failing Us
A colorful and abstract digital artwork depicting a judge's gavel. The gavel is stylized with splashes of vibrant paint in shades of yellow, green, blue, purple, orange, and black, creating a dynamic, graffiti-like effect. The background is a chaotic blend of splattered colors, giving the image an energetic and bold appearance
As someone who uses assistive technology on a daily basis, I understand the value of true accessibility. Overlays purport to perform magic, but instead simply render many websites unusable, particularly for people with screen readers or those using other assistive devices. That’s why the recent $1 million Federal Trade Commission fine against accessiBe is not just a headline — it’s a landmark moment for digital accessibility.
The Federal Trade Commission revealed accessiBe’s deceptive practices, which included paying reviewers to talk about its products. Samuel A.A. Levine, the director of the F.T.C.’s Bureau of Consumer Protection, said in the statement, “Companies seeking assistance to make their websites [accessibility] compliant need to be able to trust that products do what they promise.” When they fail to do so, everyone loses — and so does the disability community.
Advocacy groups have been ringing the alarm for years. National Federation of the Blind condemned accessiBe’s business practices as “disrespectful and misleading” and more than 400 accessibility advocates signed an open letter imploring businesses to abandon automated overlays. And the risks for companies? Huge. In 2021, over 400 organizations utilizing accessibility widgets were sued over non-compliance with accessibility standards.
This isn’t just about the failings of one company; we need to rethink our whole approach to accessibility in the digital age. You might think overlays are the solution, but the reality is, there are no shortcuts to inclusion. Real accessibility is the result of audits, user testing with people who have disabilities and compliance with WCAG standards. It’s not just about keeping away from lawsuits — it’s about building an internet that benefits everyone.
The FTC’s action should be a wake-up call. Convenience should not come at the expense of inclusion, transparency, and accountability — so it’s time for businesses to prioritize it.
FTC orders AI accessibility startup accessiBe to pay $1M for misleading advertising
Turning Frustration Into Fuel: Disability Advocacy in 2025
Portrait of Alice Wong, a disability activist and MacArthur genius, sitting outdoors surrounded by lush green foliage. She is wearing a colorful outfit, and a ventilator tube is visible at her neck. Her expression is calm and contemplative, reflecting her resilience and strength.
The world feels heavy, doesn’t it? Some days it’s hard to shake the thought that everything is unraveling. Advocacy, especially disability advocacy, can feel like shouting into the void. The uphill battle seems steeper than ever, and yet—we press on. Because we must.
Alice Wong, a luminary in disability activism, put it bluntly telling The Guardian: “Yes, life is a complete dumpster fire, but I am reminded that I am not alone.” Her words hit home. Advocacy isn’t a solitary act. It’s a collective one, fueled by the connections we forge and the communities we build. It’s messy. It’s relentless. But it’s also transformative.
Anger? It’s a battery charger. Wong speaks to this beautifully: frustration doesn’t have to drain us—it can energize us. When progress feels stagnant or outright regressive, channeling that fury into action becomes a radical act of hope. Advocacy, after all, isn’t just about surviving the chaos; it’s about rewriting the rules that made survival so hard in the first place.
And yet, advocacy isn’t solely struggle. That’s the trap, isn’t it? To define our lives by hardship alone. Wong challenges this, insisting that the disabled experience is nuanced—full of abundance, love, and joy. “One principle of disability justice,” she reminds us, “is recognizing the inherent value and wholeness of people regardless of their ability to produce.”
Pause for a moment. Let that sink in. A world that values you—not for what you can give, but simply because you exist. It’s a radical notion in a society obsessed with output and efficiency. But that’s the heart of disability justice. It’s about dismantling systems that devalue lives and building frameworks that affirm them.
Of course, it’s not easy. Advocacy is never linear. There are setbacks and moments when the weight feels unbearable. But even then, there’s power in reframing the narrative. Wong’s love of science fiction offers a powerful metaphor: infinite possibilities. Speculative fiction invites us to dream boldly, to imagine futures where inclusion isn’t aspirational—it’s foundational.
So, here we are. 2025. The world may still feel bleak, but our voices—your voice—matter. They ripple outward, shifting conversations, policies, and perceptions. Advocacy isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon. And while the finish line feels far off, every step matters.
Take your frustration. Take your anger. Take your hope. Turn them into fuel. Together, we’re building something extraordinary: a future where our community doesn’t just survive, but thrives.