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:

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.

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?

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.

“Access Isn’t Just a Ramp—It’s a Vibe”: Reflections from the DIAL Conference

Enoch Pratt Central Library in Baltimore, Maryland

There’s something quietly powerful about being invited into a space that’s not only ready to hear you—but ready to evolve.

Huge thanks to Erin Kelly, Alicemarie (AM) Dillon, Liz Sundermann-Zinger, LaShawn Myles, and the entire Enoch Pratt Free Library & Maryland State Library Resource Center team for making that kind of space real during today's DIAL Conference. You didn’t just host an event—you created an environment that invited candor, trust, and reflection. And that matters more than most people realize.

As a disability advocate and speaker, I’ve shared stages across the country—but rarely with a team as committed, prepared, and intentional as this one. From the AV folks to the captioners to the people behind the chat box making everything flow, your work didn’t go unnoticed. It made the keynote possible.

One of the things I said during our conversation was:
“Access isn’t just a ramp—it’s a vibe.”

What I meant is this: real accessibility shows up in the tone of the welcome, the thoughtfulness of the planning, and the way people respond when someone says, “Here’s what I need.”

When I was working with my former service dog, Canine Companions® Pico—and now with Lovey, my current partner—I’ve learned that access isn't just about logistics. It’s about feeling expected instead of inspected. It’s about being able to show up without having to justify your presence.

That’s the difference between a place that accommodates and a place that includes.

We covered a lot in our fireside chat: from ADA as the floor—not the ceiling—to the ways intersectionality demands we design for full, complex lives. We talked about emotional access, ally fatigue, and the quiet power of believing someone the first time they ask for support.

And the questions from the audience? Thoughtful, brave, and forward-thinking. That’s what gives me hope.

Thank you for showing up. Not just in the chat or in the session—but in the work.

Let’s keep pushing. Keep building. Keep asking:

➡️ Who’s not in the room, and why?
➡️ How do we make access cultural, not just procedural?
➡️ What does true welcome look and feel like?

If you joined the session, I’d love to hear: what are you taking back to your branch, your office, your community?

And if you didn’t catch it—don’t worry. This conversation is just getting started.

CAMA 2025: What I Shared, What I Felt, and What We All Need to Hear

Ryan Honick smiles beside his golden service dog, Lovey, who wears a blue Canine Companions vest. Conference branding and professional credentials appear beside them.

This morning, I had the joy of presenting at the 5th Annual Communication Always Matters Always (CAMA) Conference—and I’m still catching my breath from the energy in the (virtual) room.

Thank you to Alisha Magilei-Noterman, Lisa Sandoval, and the Dynamic Therapy Solutions team for the honor of speaking alongside such passionate, intentional leaders. Being invited to this community means the world—and being able to share my lived experience with a service dog by my side, once again, feels both deeply familiar and wildly new.

Canine Companions® Lovey and I have only been home for a week since our team training in Medford—but she’s already making waves. This is her legacy in motion. And it’s only just begun.

In the weeks leading up to my training, folks in my world were cheering me on—excited for this next chapter and all it represented. For many, it sounded like a much-deserved break—something akin to a working vacation. And in some ways, yes, it was a pause from my daily professional life. But what it really was? Two weeks of focused, intentional work—emotional, physical, and cognitive. The kind of work that builds trust, redefines access, and prepares two beings to move through a world that isn’t built with us in mind.

And when I returned, so many people offered kind words: “You’re so inspiring.”

I know the intent is kind. But here’s the thing: I’m not here to inspire you. I’m here to inform you.

Because inclusion isn’t admiration. It’s anticipation. It’s not “we installed the door button”—it’s “does the button work, and is anyone checking?” Inclusion is not a checklist. It’s culture. And culture is built in the micro-moments.

70% of disabilities are invisible. That means most access needs aren’t obvious—and yet still require support, flexibility, and understanding. Even as a wheelchair user with a service dog, I regularly advocate for the things you can’t see: fatigue, visual processing, coordination challenges, the need for breaks between back-to-back meetings to care for myself and my dog.

Inclusion must be proactive—not reactive. I didn’t start documenting my rideshare denials to become “the service dog guy.” I did it because it was the only way to get platforms to take accountability.

Lovey and I are continuing that legacy now—with presence, with persistence, and with joy.

And what hit me most today? That every single one of these stories—about team training, workplace access, invisible disability, and culture change—sparked real conversation. People asked questions. Shared reflections. Saw themselves in the stories.

That’s why I do this work. Not for applause, but for the dialogue that follows. For the shift it creates. And for the people who leave a little more ready to advocate—for themselves or someone else.

Change happens one conversation at a time.

If you're a leader: model inclusion.
If you're a coworker: ask questions.
If you're disabled: keep going.

“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.

DEI is Under Attack—But Inclusion Can’t Be Optional

A modern office features an illuminated sign reading "Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion: Strength in Unity" with a colorful gradient background. In the background, a diverse group of employees collaborates around a conference table in a well-lit space with large windows.

Every day, I watch as the policies meant to ensure my dignity, my inclusion, and frankly, my survival, get dismantled. It’s not hypothetical. It’s not a distant issue. It’s personal.

Like many disabled professionals, I see the writing on the wall—diversity, equity, and inclusion are under attack in ways that go beyond policy changes. These aren’t just bureaucratic shifts; they send a chilling message about whose existence is valued and whose is not. And for so many of us, that message is hitting hard.

But here’s what I also know: not everyone is backing down. Not every company, every leader, every organization is willing to let progress be erased. Some including Apple, Microsoft, Delta Air Lines, Johnson & Johnson , and JPMorganChase are doubling down, choosing to be louder, more intentional, more committed to inclusion than ever before. And if you’re one of those people—if you believe that workplaces should be places of opportunity for everyone, not just the most privileged—then now is the time to act.

I’ve spent my career navigating the intersections of disability, policy, and workplace equity. I don’t just speak about inclusion—I live it. And I know firsthand what it takes to create workplaces where disabled professionals don’t just survive but thrive.

If your company, conference, or organization is still committed to real DEI—not just as a buzzword, but as a practice—I want to talk. Hire disabled speakers. Bring in disabled consultants. Invest in perspectives that aren’t just theoretical but lived. Because right now, at a time when so many of us feel like our voices are being pushed aside, inclusion can’t just be a quiet value. It has to be a loud, unwavering action.

The Forgotten in the Flames: Why Emergency Planning Must Include Disabled People

A scene of intense wildfires, with palm trees and vegetation engulfed in flames, embers scattering through the air, and a vibrant orange hue dominating the environment.

Reading the recent story from Sonja Sharp at Los Angeles Times about Anthony Mitchell Sr. and his son Justin—a father and son who both had disabilities and died because of inadequate evacuation planning during the devastating LA wildfires—has left me angry and heartbroken. Their deaths were preventable, and yet they were left to wait, pray, and perish. This tragic event reflects systemic failures that disabled people, like me, fear every day.

I can’t ignore how often disabled people are overlooked in emergency planning.

Growing up, I was never truly part of evacuation plans. After 9/11, I remember my math teacher pointing to a football player and saying, “Ryan, that’s your escape plan.” That moment encapsulated the lack of planning, forethought, and value placed on the lives of disabled individuals. Now, as an adult living in a 25-story high-rise in D.C., those fears haven’t gone away. During fire drills or alarms, the elevator shuts down, the hallway doors automatically lock, and I’m left wondering: “Will anyone come?” I’m on supposed watch lists, but those plans are never practiced. The truth is, I don’t have faith that help will come when it matters most.

Anthony Mitchell Sr., an amputee who used a wheelchair, and Justin Mitchell, who had cerebral palsy, couldn’t escape on their own. Firefighters stopped family members from entering the evacuation zone to save them. As the flames closed in, they huddled together, waiting for a rescue that never came.

Officials have known for years that disabled individuals are disproportionately impacted by disasters. A 2019 state audit highlighted how emergency management agencies were woefully unprepared for this threat, despite California being home to 4 million disabled residents, including nearly a quarter-million in Los Angeles​

We can and must do better. Emergency response plans need to be inclusive, regularly practiced, and accessible to everyone. This means involving disabled individuals in planning processes, investing in assistive technology, and ensuring first responders are trained to address the needs of disabled people during disasters.

We’re one-fourth of the global population. Our lives are just as valuable, and our voices need to be heard. Let’s stop apologizing after the fact and start making proactive changes now. The cost of inaction is far too great.