More People Are Asking For Accommodations—That's A Good Thing

Female college student sits in a library composing a paper. She appears tired with her hand on her forehead.

I’m bone tired. Tired in a way that comes from realizing the fight for access never actually ends. It just changes locations.

It starts in school, when you learn that if your disability isn’t obvious, you have to document every inch of it, defend it to people who aren’t medical professionals, and then brace yourself for the moment you’re approved but quietly judged anyway. I learned early that asking for what I was legally entitled to somehow made my education “less fair,” as if my access diluted the value of the degree instead of making it possible for me to earn it in the first place.

You carry it into adulthood, into workplaces where you are expected to be calm, articulate, strategic, and endlessly patient while proving you deserve the same tools everyone else takes for granted. If you’re competent, people assume you don’t really need accommodations. If you ask for them anyway, the narrative shifts to unfair advantage. You’re working twice as hard with fewer margins, and still managing other people’s comfort.

Today, two headlines landed at the same time. Keely Cat-Wells, founder of Making Space wrote in Forbes that disabled talent is one of the largest untapped workforces in the country, and that leaving us out is no longer just an equity issue but an economic one. We’re used to surviving and thriving in spaces that aren’t built for us, and so we bring unique solutions to the table. Preston Fore at Fortune meanwhile, focused on the rise in college students seeking disability accommodations, calling it a "phenomenon."

These stories are connected in a way many may not see.

More people asking for accommodations does not mean the system is being abused. It means stigma is finally loosening its grip. It means people are learning the language of their rights and realizing they don’t have to suffer quietly to belong. Accommodations are the difference between access and exclusion.

The real problem is not that too many people need accommodations. The problem is that we still treat access like a moral test instead of a design decision.

If we actually care about the future of work, we need to stop asking whether access is fair and start asking why it was ever optional in the first place. Accommodations are not burdens and they are not unfair advantages. They are lifelines that ensure equity and access.

Remote Work Is a Lifeline for Disabled Workers. Why Are Leaders Still Ignoring That?

A person types on a laptop at an outdoor table. Only their hands and forearms are visible. A takeaway coffee cup sits nearby, and sunlight casts strong shadows across the green tabletop.

I’ve always said remote work kept my career sustainable long before COVID made it acceptable. That part gets lost. Remote work didn’t appear in 2020. It only became socially acceptable when everyone needed it.

That says something about disability.

When disabled people ask for something, it becomes a special exception.
When the majority needs the same thing, it becomes innovative and essential.

Now here we are in 2025, watching companies announce return-to-office requirements in the guise of “team spirit” and culture. The Wall Street Journal points to concerns about learning, innovation, and collaboration slipping in hybrid environments. A recent article from YourTango noted a worker quitting in the middle of a meeting when HR told them that rising commuting costs were simply the price of being a team player.

Let me tell you what team spirit looks like from my reality.

It is pouring rain. My wheelchair has powered components that cannot get soaked. Canine Companions® Lovey is with me and I am responsible for her safety. The “just grab an umbrella” solution that non-disabled people rely on is not an option. Something as routine as weather can dismantle an entire workday before it starts.

Or I’m relying on the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority (WMATA). One broken elevator is enough to shut down my commute completely. That happened often when I lived in DC. None of this is about drama, it’s the reality of disability few recognize.

Remote work gives me the ability to spend my energy on the job you hired me to do. Without it, I burn through that energy just getting to the building. At home, I can manage chronic pain, sensory triggers, migraines, ADHD, and all the other invisible mechanics of disability without performing them in front of coworkers who don’t know how to respond.

People tell me disability makes them uncomfortable when it is visible. The same people often insist that remote work does not count as real work. That contradiction is impossible to ignore.

If you want genuine team spirit, here is where it starts:

1. Believe disabled employees when we tell you what we need.
2. Treat accommodations as responsibilities rather than obstacles.
3. Write policies that include disabled voices from the beginning.

Disabled employees are putting in extraordinary effort every single day. We are often working three times as hard for half the credit within systems that were not built to include us. And we still deliver.

So the question I keep coming back to is simple:
Why are we still having this conversation in 2025?

Not All Disabled Leaders Are Allies, And That’s the Conversation We Need to Have

A man in a wheelchair sits in a doorway high on a dark glass skyscraper, kicking away a golden ladder as pieces fall toward a crowd of people reaching upward beneath stormy skies.

As October wraps up, I keep circling back to something we rarely say out loud: not all disabled people are allies.

John Oliver once joked on HBO Last Week Tonight about former Rep. Madison Cawthorn that “being an asshole is truly accessible to everyone.” He wasn’t wrong. We like to assume disabled leaders automatically champion the disability community, that lived experience guarantees empathy.

But it doesn’t.

Governor Greg Abbott, a wheelchair user, has consistently pushed policies that harm disabled Texans. Senator John Fetterman, once celebrated for normalizing assistive technology and comfortable clothing on the Senate floor, now carries the label “Trump’s favorite Democrat.” Representation does not always translate to advocacy. Sometimes it just makes the betrayal sting more.

And I have seen that same pattern play out closer to home. Early in my federal career, when I first needed a telework accommodation, I turned to a senior colleague who was a respected disability advocate. I expected empathy. Instead, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Keep your head down. Don’t fight this.”

That moment never left me. It might have been practical advice, but it was not allyship.

It taught me that proximity to power is not the same as solidarity, and that some of the hardest lessons come from people who should have known better.

We love to talk about inclusion in the workplace. The posters. The hashtags. The polished commitments to mental health and belonging. But the moment someone actually uses those systems, asks for flexibility, PTO, or an accommodation, the tone shifts. Suddenly inclusion has an asterisk. Suddenly the same people preaching wellness start whispering about fairness and team morale.

Genuine allyship is not about the company newsletter or the press release in October or the panel during Disability Pride Month. It is about the quiet, consistent work of believing people when they tell you what they need, without making them prove it. It is about creating systems where asking for help does not feel like a liability.

There is a hierarchy in disability culture we do not talk about enough. The visible versus the invisible. The acceptable versus the difficult. The wheelchair user makes a great photo op. The employee with PTSD, chronic pain, or neurodivergence gets side-eyed for needing too much. Passing privilege is real, and too many use it to climb the ladder only to kick it down behind them.

Having a disability does not make someone an ally. It does not even make them kind. Sometimes it just makes them powerful enough to prove they are not.

If allyship means anything, it is how we act when no one is watching, especially toward each other.

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

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?

The Real Cost of Doubting Disabled Students

A dark-themed infographic titled "What Accommodations Actually Do." At the center is a circular diagram divided into four segments, each with an icon and a label. Starting from the top and moving clockwise:

"Remove unnecessary barriers" with the subtext "Address structural obstacles" and an icon of a hurdle.

"Provide equal opportunity" with the subtext "Not an unfair advantage" and an icon of a person.

"Give a fighting chance" with the subtext "Fair shot at success" and an icon of dice.

"Level the playing field" with the subtext "Create equitable conditions" and an icon of balanced scales.

I remember the hours I poured into LSAT prep—practice exams, flashcards, the quiet resolve of Saturday mornings spent chasing a dream. I took the test twice, both times with extended time, not because I wanted an edge, but because I needed it. My disability meant I processed information differently, and those accommodations didn’t make the test easier—they made it possible.

So when I read recent pieces by Jillian Lederman in The Wall Street Journal and Dennis Beaver in Kiplinger suggesting that disability accommodations are being widely abused in law schools, I wasn’t just disappointed. I was angry.

Lederman’s article asks readers to consider whether the rise in accommodations reflects dishonesty rather than need. Beaver goes further, labeling it a “dirty, well-kept secret” that some students are “dishonor students” gaming the system. That rhetoric isn’t just damaging—it’s dangerous.

Yes, fraud exists. But “1 in 4 adults may exaggerate ADHD symptoms” ≠ everyone is cheating. That kind of math erases real people—people like me—who need accommodations just to compete on equal footing.

According to Lederman, over a third of Pepperdine Caruso Law students now receive accommodations. Instead of asking why more students are seeking support, these articles cast suspicion. One Pepperdine student who circulated a petition was accused of bullying for questioning the process, highlighting just how fraught this conversation has become.

I’ve lived that tension. I’ve had professors doubt me. I’ve heard administrators say accommodations like colored charts “compromised academic standards.” And I’ve watched students and professionals with legitimate needs stop asking—because the process of justifying your existence is too exhausting.

Here’s the truth: 1 in 5 Americans has a disability. We’re finally seeing more people understand their rights. That’s not a scandal—it’s progress. But that progress is under threat when headlines frame inclusion as cheating.

In the workplace, I’ve rarely asked for “extra time” on a deadline. That's not practical in many fast-paced workplaces. I use tools—screen readers, flexible arrangements—to do the job well. Regardless of what accommodations are leveraged, they aren’t a cheat code. They’re a lifeline.

So here’s my ask:

✅ If someone says they need an accommodation—believe them.
✅ If you don’t understand—ask, don’t accuse.

And if you’ve ever had to justify your disability to someone who didn’t want to believe you—I see you.

We can’t keep mistaking access for advantage. If we want equity to mean something, it starts by choosing to believe people the first time they tell us what they need.

“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.

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.

Disability Accommodations at Work: Why Employees Fear Speaking Up

A diverse group of professionals, including wheelchair users and employees with headphones, collaborate in a modern office, promoting workplace inclusion and accessibility.

Who gets to be "disabled enough"?

That’s the uncomfortable debate unfolding in workplaces across the country—and one I recently discussed in The Wall Street Journal alongside Justina Plowden and Keely Cat-Wells.

As more employees request accommodations, some worry we’re stretching the definition of disability too far. But here’s the real question: Are we diluting the meaning of disability, or are we finally acknowledging the full spectrum of barriers people face?

Here’s where I stand: Pitting disabilities against each other is dangerous. It’s not up to me, an employer, or anyone else to decide whose disability is “valid enough” to deserve support. If someone says they need an accommodation, believe them. Full stop.

And yet, many disabled employees don’t feel safe disclosing their disability at all. Why? Because they know what happens next:

🚫 They’re seen as less competent.
🚫 They’re overlooked for promotions.
🚫 They’re often the first to go in layoffs.

This is why so many people don’t ask for accommodations, even when they’re legally entitled to them. It’s not simply that remote work itself makes disabled employees more vulnerable—it’s that stigma and workplace bias make disclosing a disability a risk.

I appreciate WSJ and Callum Borchers for giving space to this conversation, and I hope it pushes more employers to rethink how they support disabled workers—both those who disclose and those who don’t.

Disabled Workers Debate Who Is Really One of Us

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.