Yesterday I joined CBS News to talk about a new Lyft settlement after Tori Andres was repeatedly denied rides because of her service dog, Alfred.
If I ever get the chance to meet her, the first thing I’d say is thank you.
Speaking up about discrimination takes courage, and it helps highlight a pattern that service dog teams have been documenting for years.
Service dogs like Alfred and Canine Companions® Lovey are our medical equipment with a heartbeat and our access partners in a world still too often built without us in mind.
Accountability like this is how change starts.
Thank you to Jennifer Williams and the entire CBS team for amplifying disabled voices and helping move the conversation toward real access and equity.
Don't Push My Wheelchair: Unsolicited "Help" At The Airport Isn't Help
Close-up of Lovey, a yellow Labrador service dog sitting calmly in an airport terminal, looking directly at the camera; a blue Canine Companions service vest and purple leash are visible, with the background softly blurred
A stranger grabbed my wheelchair at LAX.
And started pushing me.
No “Do you want help?”
No “Hey, can I give you a hand?”
Just hands on my chair. And suddenly I’m moving.
Last week, I was in LA for my best friend’s 40th.
Early. Loud. Crowded. Lines are long and everyone wants to get to their gate.
I’m in my chair. My girlfriend’s with me. Canine Companions® Lovey, is working. We have a rhythm, a pace that’s ours. I know her speed. She knows mine.
And then, it happened.
A stranger saw me pushing up an incline and decided, without asking, that they were going to “help.”
My chair isn’t a shopping cart. It’s not luggage. It’s not a stroller you can grab when you’re feeling helpful.
It’s an extension of my body.
So when you grab my chair without consent, you’re not “assisting.” You’re touching me. You’re moving me. You’re taking control of my body in public.
My body knows it before my brain finishes the sentence.
There’s this sensory shock the second someone touches my chair, especially from behind, because suddenly I’m moving at a pace I didn’t choose.
Which means Lovey is suddenly moving at a pace I didn’t choose.
Which means the most trained, steady, brilliant dog on the planet has to recalibrate in real time because a stranger decided they know better than her handler.
It’s disorienting. It’s dangerous. And yeah, it makes my blood boil.
On top of the violation, there’s the performance.
Because in that moment, I’m not just thinking:
• Stop this now
• Keep Lovey safe
• Keep myself stable
• Keep my girlfriend safe
• Don’t get clipped by the river of people rushing past
• Don’t escalate in a public space at 6 a.m.
• Don’t become “the angry disabled guy” in somebody’s little morality play about “helping”
So what did I want to say? Honestly?
What the f— are you doing? Get your hands off me.
But I don’t have the social luxury to say it the way my nervous system wants to say it. The second you push back, it becomes:
“Wow. I was just trying to help.”
And now I’m the problem.
People can mean well and still do harm. Good intentions don’t grant permission. Kindness doesn’t override consent. “Help” that takes autonomy is a takeover.
For the record, I bought my chair without handles on purpose. Years ago. Intentionally. Because I’ve lived this before. I tried to build boundaries into the design.
And still, people find a way.
The issue isn’t the handles. It’s the assumption. The entitlement that says, “I get to decide what you need.”
Here’s my ask:
If you see a disabled person struggling, ask. If you want to help, ask.
And if you don’t get a yes?
Don’t touch. Don’t push. Don’t grab. Don’t steer.
Autonomy isn’t a nice-to-have. It’s the whole point.
Not Just a Glitch: Why Uber’s Discrimination Against Service Dog Teams Matters
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
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.
What Two Weeks in Medford Taught Me About Leadership, Loss, and Love
A montage of photos featuring Ryan with successor service dog, Lovey
I just got back from two of the most intense weeks I’ve had in years—at the Northeast Region training facility for Canine Companions® in Medford, NY. That’s where I met Lovey. She's my new service dog. Pico's successor. And already, I can tell she’s going to change my life.
Here’s the thing: matching with a service dog isn’t just about pairing human and canine—it’s about rewriting the rules of trust, communication, and interdependence. The organization spends 6–9 months training the dogs, and then two weeks training us, the handlers. It's a crash course in humility, patience, and partnership. They joke about it, but it's true: we’re the ones in boot camp.
Every day was 9-to-5 class time, followed by evening bonding sessions, homework, lecture notes, a written final, and a real-world practicum. It was camp, sure—but with a side of exhaustion. I told people it wasn’t a vacation. I meant it. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
On day one, we worked with multiple dogs in what’s called “rotation.” By Tuesday morning—yes, just day two—the trainers had watched enough to say, “We think we’ve found your match.” That was Lovey.
She’s smart, quirky, and has already challenged me in ways that make me want to be a better human. She knows about 50 commands—from turning off lights to opening drawers to providing deep pressure support during moments of anxiety. But what struck me most wasn’t just her training—it was how quickly she read me. Understood me. Maybe even before I understood myself.
I’ve done this before. Pico and I met back in 2014. But everything’s changed. The training has evolved. I’ve evolved. And now, so much of what I learned with Pico is shaping how I show up for Lovey. She’s not filling his shoes—she’s blazing her own trail. And I’m walking beside her.
We ended our training with a Zoom call with Lovey’s puppy raiser. It felt sacred—this moment of connection between the people who start these dogs on their journey and those of us lucky enough to walk with them through the next chapter.
I wish more people understood the transformative power of these dogs—not just in what they do, but in what they mean. This isn’t just about a leash and a command—it’s about access, autonomy, and dignity. About redefining independence on our own terms.
So here we are. Back home. Training camp is over, and Lovey and I are already in sync in small but meaningful ways. I slept in my own bed last night for the first time in two weeks—and it was glorious. Tomorrow, we go back to work. But now I’ve got Lovey. And the journey ahead is full of purpose.
To my fellow handlers, puppy raisers, trainers, and supporters—thank you. To those unfamiliar with this world, I invite you in.
Why Lying About Disability Hurts Everyone
Silhouetted wheelchair user navigating through a bustling airport terminal during sunrise or sunset, with warm golden light streaming in from large windows ahead. The reflection of the light creates a glowing effect on the polished floor. Other travelers with luggage are blurred in the background, adding a sense of motion and activity to the scene.
Thanksgiving this year marked a bittersweet milestone for me: my first flight since the passing of my service dog, Canine Companions® Pico. Navigating air travel without his steadying presence was an emotional adjustment, but it also brought a new set of challenges to the forefront—ones I hadn’t anticipated as a wheelchair user.
Picture this: It’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m at DCA, waiting to board my flight to Seattle. Between navigating Transportation Security Administration (TSA) Pre-check, managing my luggage, and coordinating the safe onboarding of my wheelchair, I was already juggling more than most travelers might consider. And then came the questions.
The heightened interest in the mechanics of my Alber GmbH power-assist wheels meant fielding inquiries from airline staff who were understandably curious about the technology I rely on for mobility. Half-asleep and longing for coffee, I found myself explaining the specs of my chair like I was pitching a new gadget on Shark Tank ABC.
The lesson I learned? Preparation is survival. Much like I once traveled with paperwork to verify Pico’s working status, I now carry a one-page cheat sheet detailing everything about my wheelchair frame and wheels. It’s a necessity for safety reasons, and because of the pervasive scrutiny many disabled travelers face—scrutiny amplified by dishonest actions like those described in a recent viral story.
A passenger on a United Airlines flight tried to exploit early boarding by claiming he had a disability due to recent knee surgery. However, his actions unraveled when he requested a seat in the exit row, where passengers must confirm their ability to assist in emergencies—something Federal Aviation Administration regulations prohibit for people with certain disabilities. Faced with the choice of admitting he lied or forfeiting the coveted exit row seat, he indignantly claimed he was suddenly "fine" to sit there after all.
When individuals fake disabilities, it undermines the trust needed for systems like pre-boarding to work. Those of us with legitimate needs find ourselves subjected to greater scrutiny. Additionally, exploiting accommodations reinforces the false idea that they’re perks instead of rights—conveniences to be gamed rather than tools for equity. This attitude chips away at the dignity of those who rely on these systems. Disability is not a monolith, but one thing unites us: the barriers we face are real. Every "clever hack" or deception makes the rest of us pay a higher price, emotionally, physically, and logistically.
We, as a society, must do better. We must normalize empathy over suspicion and remember that accessibility isn’t just a checkbox on a corporate DEIA plan—it’s a commitment to dignity, inclusion, and equity for all.
Planning to lie about a disability to get early boarding? Read this
Rest Easy, Pico
A montage grid of photos featuring Ryan and Pico
Many of you know me for my advocacy work around disability rights, accessibility, and inclusion. Those who have followed my journey also know what an integral part of that advocacy my service dog, Canine Companions® Pico, has been. He was not just my companion but a key part of my mission to break down barriers and create a more inclusive world.
Last night, I had to say goodbye to my best friend, my partner, and my loyal service dog, Pico. Nearly 13 years of unwavering loyalty, love, and trust — Pico was more than a service dog. He made me a better human, a better advocate, and someone who could navigate the challenges of the world with confidence.
Waking up to the quiet today hits hard. It’s a silence I wasn’t ready for. Pico not only helped me navigate the world physically, but he also helped me grow as a person and reminded me every day of the power of loyalty, patience, and love.
Rest easy, Pico. You’ve earned your peace. Thank you for being the most amazing boy. I’ll carry your lessons and your love with me always.
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