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.

“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.

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.

Leaving Federal Service Isn’t Easy—Here’s How You Can Help

An older man in business attire walks through a glowing doorway into a bright, hopeful sky, as resumes and documents float around him, symbolizing a transition from federal service to civilian work.

After nearly 15 years in government, I’ve seen dysfunction. I’ve seen bureaucracy at its slowest. But I’ve never seen this: colleagues being let go without notice, badges deactivated while they’re out to lunch, entire teams gutted under the guise of “efficiency.”

This isn’t just workforce reduction. It’s displacement with a smile. It’s “nothing personal” emails at 10pm on a Saturday. It’s morale by demolition.

And here’s the thing—we didn’t come here for the paycheck. We came to serve. To help people. To make systems more human, more accessible, more just. And we’ve done it. Through budget freezes, shutdowns, and shifting political winds, we’ve shown up. Every day.

But now? Every time I mistype my password, I wonder if I’ve been locked out for real. Every time a colleague hangs up the phone, we say “See you tomorrow,” with the full knowledge that we might not.

And still—we stay. Not because we’re naïve, but because we believe. We believe in what public service can be, even when it’s breaking.

But belief alone doesn’t translate on a civilian resume.

So this is where you—our friends, colleagues, allies in the private sector—come in.

👉 If a federal employee reaches out for help transitioning into a civilian role, please understand:

• Our resumes are long—because they have to be. We’re trained to write for compliance, not for recruiters.
• Our job titles? Don’t map neatly to civilian roles. “Public Affairs Specialist” can mean ten different things.
• Our language is bureaucratic—but our skills are real. Communications, crisis response, policy analysis, program leadership. It’s all there. We just speak a different dialect.

So we need help translating.

Not because we’re unqualified—but because the systems are different.

And if you’re still in the private sector wondering how to help? Start here:

✅ Offer to review a federal friend’s resume
✅ Translate a job description or two
✅ Be a referral, a mentor, a second set of eyes
✅ Most of all: offer us grace

This isn’t just about finding new jobs.

It’s about finding our footing after watching institutions we served disassemble from the inside.

Federal employees are not okay. We’re working under stress that is systemic and, frankly, strategic.

But we’re still here. Still trying to make a difference.

So if we reach out, we’re not looking for pity.

We’re asking you to help us cross the bridge.

We helped you navigate government once.

We could use a hand now.

“See You Tomorrow—We Hope”: Inside the Collapse of Federal Morale

A lone federal worker sits at a cluttered desk piled high with paperwork, facing a cracked wall and a frosted window where four shadowy political figures loom. A note pinned nearby reads, “They showed up. Every day.” The scene is dimly lit, evoking fatigue, tension, and quiet resilience.

“See you tomorrow—we hope.”

That’s what we say now at the end of calls with colleagues. Not because it’s a cute sign-off. Because it’s a genuine question. Because tomorrow, we might not have a badge. Or a login. Or a job.

This isn’t just a bad work week. It’s a level-10 anxiety loop with no off switch. And it’s by design.

I’ve spent nearly 15 years in federal service. I took this path knowing the trade-offs—less pay, more purpose. I believed in helping people access Social Security, disability benefits, jobs, healthcare. I believed in being the bridge.

But belief doesn’t pay rent when your agency locks you out mid-shift and no one tells you why.

This administration has turned public service into public enemy. DEI offices are gutted. Reasonable accommodation requests now echo into a bureaucratic void. As one federal employee told WIRED: “With no car, I am walking a mile to the train... limping along... using elevators when I can.” Their chronic pain got worse. Their physical therapy restarted. Their access? Gone .

Meanwhile, disabled employees across agencies are quitting—or being pushed out. As The Arc of the United States' Katy Neas noted to Mashable, “Really good people—who are federal employees who have disabilities—are losing their job, not because of their performance, but because of something else.”

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just about remote work. This is about power, dignity, and being seen as expendable. It’s about watching accessibility gains get reversed overnight—despite disability employment hitting a historic 22.7% in 2024 .

It’s about morale bombs dropped intentionally: Friday night RIF emails, weekend chaos, uncertainty weaponized.

And yet—despite everything—I’m still here. So are many of us. Not because we’re fearless. But because we’re fed up. Because if they want us out, they’ll have to drag us out. We’re not resigning out of fear.

But we are exhausted. And scared. And angry.

If you’re in the private sector, check in on your federal friends. If you’ve never worked in government, I promise—nothing about this is normal. We’re all navigating this storm—heartbroken, defiant, and holding the line.

We shouldn't have to choose between public service and personal survival.

We’ve survived so much. But survival isn’t the goal. Dignity is.

“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 Night Democracy Didn’t Sleep: Lessons from Cory Booker’s 25-Hour Stand

What does it look like when one man decides that rolling over is not an option? When instead of sitting out the fight, he stands up—for 25 hours straight?

Let me paint the picture.

Senator Cory Booker, hoarse but unshaken, stood on the Senate floor and made history. Not just by breaking Strom Thurmond’s record—because let’s be honest, Thurmond fought against civil rights. Booker stood in spite of him.

He spoke with fire and fasting, quoting John Lewis, calling on us to “get in good trouble.” He did what so many of us dream of doing in moments of despair: he showed up with courage and conviction and refused to sit down.

“This is a moral moment. It’s not left or right. It’s right or wrong,” he said. And if that doesn't feel like a TED Conferences Talk for the soul, I don’t know what does.

He wasn’t just protesting policy—he was defending democracy in a courtroom where the judge is all of us. He called out plans to gut Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services. He grieved the loss of dignity as thousands of public servants were fired via broken badge readers. He named the absurdity, the cruelty, and the stakes.

“Please, God, don’t let them take Medicaid away from 10, 20, 30, or 40 million Americans,” he pleaded. And in the background, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) had just laid off workers administering Meals on Wheels and disability services. Entire federal divisions—just... gone.

But this post isn’t about despair. It’s a montage moment. A chance to lace up your sneakers, get your Kleenex, refill your water bottle, and say, “Let’s go.”

Because Senator Booker didn’t speak for 25 hours just to break a record. He spoke so we’d get off the sidelines and lead. So we’d bury apathy once and for all.

Let this be the eulogy:

“Here lies Apathy. It died when people remembered their power.”

So what are you willing to stand for? What issue makes you feel like you can’t sit down until something changes? What’s your version of a 25-hour stand?

This isn’t just about Booker. It’s about all of us.

The Cost of Silence: How DEI Rollbacks Are Erasing Disability from the Conversation

Person tied to a ship’s mast in stormy seas, surrounded by flying papers, rough waves, and glowing lights on rocky shores—symbolizing focus amid chaos and distraction.

I’ve been thinking a lot about sirens. Not the ones on ambulances—the other kind. The ones Chris Hayes describes in The Sirens’ Call: mythic, seductive, dangerous. They don’t just scream for your attention—they lure it, sing to it, steal it. And they drag you straight into the rocks.

What happens when an entire government starts operating like that?

Over the past few weeks, the Trump administration has turned civil rights enforcement into political theater. Agencies like the EEOC and Federal Communications Commission are being used not to protect marginalized groups—but to punish them. DEI programs that once opened doors for Black and Brown students, queer workers, and yes, disabled professionals, are being framed as threats. The EEOC has launched investigations into university internships and law firm diversity programs. The FCC is probing The Walt Disney Company over inclusive storytelling. The OFCCP, once a watchdog for federal contractor discrimination, is being gutted from the inside. And while that’s happening, the president is casually floating the idea of a third term—telling NBC News, “There are methods.”

It’s not just authoritarian. It’s a masterclass in distraction. And in that swirl of headlines and spectacle, something deeply dangerous is happening: disabled people are disappearing from the narrative. Again.

We are not just being excluded. We are being erased. DEI policies that included disability are being dismantled. Federal workers with disabilities—many who’ve built careers serving their country—are being laid off or pushed out, quietly and en masse. States like New York and Wisconsin are scrambling to rehire them, but the national spotlight is elsewhere. The sirens are too loud.

Chris Hayes writes, “Attention is the substance of life… Every moment we are awake, we are paying attention to something.” That means what we don’t pay attention to? It can be just as powerful. Just as dangerous. I’ll be honest—this isn’t theoretical for me. I’ve been in the rooms where disability was a box no one wanted to check. Where accessibility was always someone else’s job. Where inclusion didn’t extend to people like me. And now those gaps have become openings for erasure, policy by policy, silence by silence.

We’re watching a full-scale rollback of civil rights—framed as “equity” for those who already hold power—and it’s working because we’re not paying attention to who’s falling through the cracks. Especially disabled folks. Especially those at the intersection of race, gender, and disability.

So here’s my ask: Pay attention. Look past the spectacle. Follow the stories that aren’t being told. Because attention isn’t just a resource. It’s a form of protection. And when we withhold it, people get hurt.

The sirens are singing louder every day. Some of us are still tied to the mast. Don’t look away.

Rest as Resistance: How Disabled Advocates Fight for Change While Caring for Themselves

A digital illustration in a comic book style depicts a young person with curly hair resting on a cozy couch, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. Their eyes are closed, and they are holding a book in their lap, with a laptop open beside them. A service dog is curled up and sleeping next to them. The background features a bookshelf filled with advocacy and activism-related books and posters. bA speech bubble above the person reads, "You deserve rest too."

I’ve been absent from LinkedIn for a few weeks. Not because I wanted to be, but because chronic pain has completely sidelined me. And let’s be honest—the world isn’t exactly making it easy to step away. Every time I glance at the news, it feels like everything is on fire—politically, socially, literally. But here’s the thing: even in times like these, we have to put on our own oxygen masks first.

The reality of chronic pain (or any chronic condition) is that it doesn’t just ask for your attention—it demands it. It forces you to recalibrate, to step back, to turn down opportunities and outings that mean everything to you. And that’s been my reality lately. My pain levels have been high, my capacity has been low, and that means my public advocacy has slowed. But that doesn’t mean the work ever truly stops.

Because even when we aren’t writing, speaking, or showing up in visible ways, we are still advocating in our daily lives. We advocate in doctor’s offices. In the ways we navigate inaccessible systems. In the way we care for ourselves when society tells us to just push through. And yes, sometimes the most radical thing we can do is rest.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be “silent” in moments of crisis. How absence is often misread as disengagement when, in reality, it’s survival. My absence hasn’t been because I don’t care—it’s been because I’ve been managing my health. And right now, that balance between chronic pain, advocacy, and the rest of life feels like an endless, spinning carousel.

I don’t have an easy answer. But I do know this: rest is not a retreat. And we do not owe anyone our suffering to prove our commitment to justice. I’ll keep showing up the best I can, when I can. And if you’re in a season of needing rest too, know that you’re not alone.