Uber’s Service Dog Policy Update: Progress or Just PR?

Uber logo displayed on a modern, abstract background featuring curved shapes in black, blue, and mint green.

I’ve spent a lifetime advocating for disability rights, fighting for equity, and pushing companies to make accessibility a reality—I’ve seen firsthand how corporations talk a big game about inclusion but fail in practice. That’s why Uber’s recent policy update on service dogs caught my attention.

Uber has always been required by law to allow service dogs, yet enforcement has been inconsistent at best. While matched with Canine Companions® Pico, I documented hundreds of refusals on Twitter/X, confronted drivers, filed complaints—and all too often, the most Uber would do was ensure I wasn’t matched with that driver again. Consequences were minimal, and riders like me bore the burden of proving discrimination over and over again.

Now, Uber is rolling out a feature that allows riders to self-identify as service dog handlers. If a driver cancels after being notified, they receive a warning reminding them that refusal is illegal. “Any driver who violates this policy may permanently lose access to the platform,” says Uber’s Chris Yoon, as quoted in The Verge. That sounds good, right? Except I’ve been here before. The key word is 'may'. Will drivers actually be held accountable, or will this be another slap on the wrist?

Uber’s history gives me reason to doubt. The system still leaves room for discrimination. Drivers can cancel rides under false pretenses—claiming they couldn’t find the rider, going offline, or making other excuses to avoid accountability. I and many others have seen this playbook. Meanwhile, service dog handlers are forced to navigate awkward confrontations and potential ride denials just to get from Point A to Point B. It get's exhausting. No handler should be forced to leave their medical equipment at home to make it on time to their destination.

This new feature seems helpful, but it places even more responsibility on disabled riders to preemptively disclose our status, creating a record of our attempts to comply. But why should it be on us to reduce the risk of discrimination? Why aren’t drivers trained, vetted, and monitored more closely to prevent these issues in the first place?

To be clear, I want to believe this marks a real shift. Uber claims this feature was developed “in collaboration with leading advocacy organizations and service dog handlers.” Organizations including National Federation of the Blind, The Seeing Eye, and American Council of the Blind. That’s a step in the right direction. But my optimism is cautious. Until we see consistent enforcement—until drivers who break the law actually face removal—this is just another policy on paper, not a lived reality.

So I ask: What would true accountability look like to you? Have you faced service dog refusals in rideshare services? What changes would make a real impact?

Uber wants to make riding with a service animal easier

“Did You Do Anything Related to DEI?”—The Question That’s Destroying Federal Careers

The Education Department headquarters in Washington on Jan. 15.

I’ve spent over a decade in federal service, working across multiple administrations. I’ve proudly served my country, navigating shifting policies, political climates, and leadership changes. But what’s happening now? It’s not just a shift. It’s an erasure—one that’s putting careers, rights, and fundamental American values on the line.

If you’ve ever attended a DEI training, served on an affinity group, or simply advocated for fairness, you might be next.

This administration isn’t just eliminating DEI programs—it’s purging people. At least 50 Department for Education employees have been placed on leave, yet “almost none of them worked in jobs directly related to DEI,” according to The Washington Post. Their crime? Being associated with diversity efforts in any way.

That’s the threshold for being removed from service.

This isn’t just about diversity training—it’s about who belongs in the federal workforce at all. The U.S. Office of Personnel Management (OPM) sent a mass email giving employees a “choice”: resign now with a deferred resignation package or risk losing your job without guarantees.

A U.S. Department of Justice worker summed it up perfectly to POLITICO “It felt like we were being asked to swear allegiance to a new form of government.”

DEI isn’t a radical concept—it’s the very promise of this country.

We have fought, legally and morally, to build a system where opportunity isn’t dictated by race, gender, ability, or background. And yet, this administration is doing everything it can to undo that progress.

They aren’t just removing DEI from federal offices—they’re erasing it from history. Government websites with EEOC information were taken down for days, making it harder for employees to even report discrimination .

For those of us with disabilities, this isn’t theoretical. I’ve advocated for policies that make federal spaces more accessible—not just for myself, but for millions of Americans who need those same protections.

So when people say “DEI is dead”, as Trump recently did , I hear something else: “People like you don’t belong.”

But here’s the thing: we’re still here. And we are not going quietly.

Federal employees—especially those of us from historically excluded backgrounds—are exhausted. We’re being pushed out, threatened, and told we don’t matter. But the truth is, we are the backbone of this government. Career staff keep the country running regardless of who is in office. We have institutional knowledge that no executive order can erase.

So if you’re reading this, check on your friends in government. We are holding on by a thread. We need allies. We need people to speak out. We need each other.

And if you’re in the private sector thinking, “This won’t affect me”? Think again. Because when DEI disappears from government, it emboldens companies to follow suit. And when institutional knowledge is lost, we all pay the price.

Trump’s DEI purge targets federal workers who did not work in DEI

Trump Blamed DEI for a Plane Crash. Here’s Why That’s Dangerous.

Emergency response units assess airplane wreckage in the Potomac River near Ronald Reagan Washington Airport on January 30, 2025 in Arlington, Virginia.

I wish I could say I was surprised. But I’m not.

A tragic plane crash happens at Ronald Reagan National Airport, and instead of waiting for the facts, instead of mourning the lives lost, Trump rushes to the mic with an all-too-familiar playbook: Blame Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. No evidence, no logic—just another reckless attempt to weaponize tragedy to attack marginalized communities.

And this time? He went straight for disabled professionals.

In his press conference, Trump suggested that DEI efforts were responsible for putting “unqualified” people in roles like air traffic control, even going so far as to claim that under Biden, the Federal Aviation Administration was hiring people with “severe intellectual disabilities and psychiatric problems” as part of diversity initiatives. He made it sound as if DEI is about lowering the bar, as if safety has taken a backseat to inclusion .

Let’s set the record straight.

DEI doesn’t weaken standards—it strengthens them. It ensures that highly qualified individuals—people who have always had the skills but have historically been shut out due to bias—get a fair shot. The FAA’s hiring requirements haven’t changed. Air traffic controllers still go through the same intense screening, the same rigorous testing, the same high-pressure training. Nobody gets a free pass. The idea that disabled people are handed these jobs without meeting the same standards as everyone else is not just false—it’s insulting.

Maria Town, President of the American Association of People with Disabilities said it best, “Preventing the FAA from hiring people with disabilities does not make planes more safe, It just removes opportunities for disabled people."

And yet, here we are again.

For those of us in the disability community, these kinds of attacks aren’t new. We’re used to people questioning our qualifications, assuming we’re only here because of some imaginary quota. It doesn’t matter how hard we work, how much we achieve—someone, somewhere, will always suggest we don’t belong.

Trump’s words don’t just spread misinformation. They do real harm. They give people permission to question whether disabled professionals should be allowed in the workforce at all. They fuel narratives that say our presence in critical jobs is a “risk” rather than an asset.

Here’s the truth: Disability doesn’t make a person unqualified. It doesn’t make them less capable, less intelligent, or less deserving of responsibility. I know this firsthand. I have spent my career proving what I—and countless others—already knew: We belong.

Trump didn’t just attack DEI. He attacked the very idea that people like me, people like us, deserve to be here.

And we cannot let that stand. The only way to drown out falsehoods is with truth. And the truth is, DEI isn’t the problem—it’s the solution.

Trump Blames DEI, Democrats for Deadly Plane Crash

The War on DEI: What It Means for Disability Advocacy in the Federal Workforce

The image shows a close-up of a document titled "Termination of Employment" placed on a wooden desk. To the side, there is a partial view of a keyboard and a yellow-tinted pair of eyeglasses resting on a closed book.

The federal government is currently experiencing a period of significant change in areas such as Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, return-to-office mandates, and executive orders that directly affect federal policies. As a long-time federal employee, I find myself closely observing these developments and working to adapt—just like many of you. This is undoubtedly a time of uncertainty for federal workers, and understandably so. Recent rollbacks in DEI programming, elimination of related roles, and the enforcement of RTO mandates are reshaping the workplace landscape at a rapid pace.

For me, these changes feel personal. As someone with a disability—navigating chronic pain, a visual impairment, and reliance on assistive technology—this shifting landscape poses significant challenges. The pace of change is unsettling, but it’s important to acknowledge that much remains unknown. While the push for these policy changes is concerning, full implementation will take time. Many of the fears we face today may not materialize immediately.

Despite the uncertainties, one thing remains clear: we all share a responsibility to uphold the humanity of our workplaces. Whether as colleagues or leaders, it’s on us to ensure that everyone—regardless of ability—can succeed in the roles they were hired to fulfill. While DEI initiatives and remote work policies are evolving, some measures remain stable for now.

The current RTO memo includes language that supports remote work as a reasonable accommodation for employees with disabilities. This provision is a step in the right direction. However, the future of Schedule A—a hiring authority designed to bring individuals with disabilities into federal service—is less certain. While Schedule A has its limitations, it has served as a vital pathway into federal employment for many. For now, it remains intact, offering a glimmer of stability amidst the changes.

As federal employees, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by the uncertainty and rapid shifts happening around us. But it’s important to take a moment to reflect and breathe. We are still in the early days of this administration, and much of what is being proposed will require time to take shape. The federal government’s processes are famously slow-moving, and significant changes often face bureaucratic resistance and legal challenges before they can be fully implemented.

This doesn’t diminish the real fears and concerns many of us are feeling. The anxiety around job security, workplace accessibility, and the future of DEI initiatives is valid and deeply felt. However, it’s also important to recognize that the laws protecting disabled workers have been hard-won and will not be easily undone. Legal safeguards and advocacy efforts remain powerful tools in preserving workplace equity.

As we navigate these turbulent times, let us move forward with care, grace, and resilience.

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.

Red Flags in Job Descriptions: What Disabled Applicants Notice

A digital illustration of the Washington Nationals logo prominently displayed in the center, surrounded by vibrant red, white, and blue accents. The background features a baseball diamond with dramatic lighting, creating a sense of energy and pride. The design emphasizes the team's colors and tradition in a bold and professional style

Today, I find myself reflecting on a troubling trend in job postings that claim inclusivity while subtly discouraging applicants with disabilities. A perfect example comes from a job description for a Communications Manager with the Washington Nationals. The LinkedIn algorithm suggested I'd be a top applicant. A chance to blend my love of communication and baseball? My interest was piqued. On the surface, it outlines standard communication responsibilities—drafting press releases, coordinating interviews, and managing media relations. All of these align perfectly with the skills expected of a professional communicator.

But then comes the Physical/Environmental Requirements section, which demands:

• Standing for long periods.
• Walking long distances.
• Climbing up and down stairs.
• Lifting up to 45 pounds.

For a role focused on media relations, where exactly does lifting 45 pounds come into play? These physical requirements raise serious questions.

Let’s unpack this: The job description explicitly states that the Washington Nationals are "dedicated to offering equal opportunity employment and advancement…including disability." Yet, these physical demands feel like unnecessary hurdles, particularly for disabled professionals. This disconnect is more than an oversight—it's a systemic issue. Arbitrary physical requirements often serve as a quiet signal that disabled applicants may not be fully welcome.

Job descriptions like this one, with their misaligned physical requirements, highlight a glaring gap between intention and execution. They inadvertently screen out highly qualified candidates, not because they lack the skills, but because the posting assumes physical ability is synonymous with competence.

Nowhere in my 15 years as a communications professional have I been asked to lift 45 pounds.

Employers must evaluate if physical demands are truly essential. Is there a genuine reason for a communications manager to climb stairs or carry heavy loads? If not, these requirements should be removed.

Companies claiming to value inclusivity need to ensure their job postings reflect that ethos. Accessibility isn’t just about wheelchairs and ramps—it’s about eliminating unnecessary barriers in hiring.

Postings should explicitly encourage applicants to discuss accommodations. A simple line—“We are happy to accommodate your needs to perform essential job functions”—can make a world of difference.

Language matters. If a company’s goal is true inclusivity, they must start by removing arbitrary barriers from their job descriptions. Let’s make sure equal opportunity is more than just a tagline.

We're clearly in the off-season and the Washington Nationals latest job posting is a strikeout. Hopefully their next Communications Manager can encourage the use of inclusive language.

Accessibility at Disney: A Conversation We Need to Have

Cinderella Castle at Walt Disney World in Florida, a majestic and iconic fairytale castle with blue rooftops, golden spires, and pink and gray walls. The setting includes a clear sky and a few decorations in the foreground, emphasizing the grandeur and magical atmosphere of the castle.

Growing up in Los Angeles, some of my best childhood memories were at The Walt Disney Company parks with friends. For a little while, the challenges of living with a disability seemed to fade away. I felt free, just another kid thrilled by the magic of Disney. Sure, entering rides through the exit to skip the long lines wasn’t a perfect system—it drew attention to my differences—but it made those moments possible. I used to joke with my friends: “Want to trade disabilities for this perk?” Unsurprisingly, no one ever did. Guess the FastPass for chronic pain wasn’t worth it.

Decades later, Disney’s recent changes to its Disability Access Service and the growing shortage of Electric Conveyance Vehicles have created significant barriers, leaving many wondering if inclusivity still has a place in the magic.

For years, DAS offered a lifeline, providing virtual queues that allowed disabled guests to avoid physically taxing lines. But in 2024, new restrictions left many who had relied on the service feeling excluded. Black Enterprise Magazine reports a recent study shared with the IAAPA found nearly half of those denied DAS said they’d visit Disney parks less often; over a third said they wouldn’t return at all. A spokesperson for DAS Defenders summed it up perfectly: “The changes to DAS and the ECV shortage are creating barriers for disabled guests who simply want to enjoy the parks.”

The ECV shortage has only made things worse. Disney positioned these vehicles as an alternative to DAS, yet supply can’t keep up with demand. A photo that went viral of a sign at Magic Kingdom announcing all ECVs were sold out for the day struck a nerve. For those of us who rely on mobility aids, this isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a dealbreaker. Imagine being told “the most magical place on Earth” has everything but a seat for you. These changes appear driven by cost-cutting rather than a genuine commitment to inclusivity.

Accessibility isn’t a bonus feature. It’s the foundation for creating spaces where everyone can participate fully. Disney has made strides in other areas, but these recent decisions cast doubt on whether they’re truly listening to their disabled guests. For a company built on the promise of magic for all, this feels like a step backward.

Still, I believe change is possible. Disney can revisit its DAS policies, ensure adequate ECV availability, and engage with disability advocates to craft a more inclusive strategy. After all, a more inclusive Disney isn’t just better for disabled guests; it’s better for everyone.

This isn’t just about Disney, though. It’s a reminder that accessibility is a collective responsibility. Whether at work, in public spaces, or at amusement parks, we all have a role to play in building a world where inclusion isn’t an afterthought but a given.

The Two Faces of Language: Empowerment vs. Weaponization

A playground featuring a row of swing sets, with one adaptive swing in the foreground designed for children with disabilities. The swing is green with a yellow harness, contrasting with the standard black swings in the background. The scene includes a climbing structure, benches, and a large tree providing shade. A brick school building is visible in the background, and the area is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The muted lighting suggests an overcast or hazy day.

Yesterday I wrote about how reclaiming slurs like “cripple” or “spaz” has been a method for me of retaking control — words that once pierced can become emblems of resistance and empowerment. But today, I’m thinking about an uglier side of language: when those very words are intentionally used as weapons.

What we’re experiencing is a revival of slurs like the R-word not as ignorant throwbacks to a bygone era, but as instruments of malice. This is not the relaxed slip of someone who doesn’t know; this is on purpose. Public figures like Elon Musk have tossed the R-word into online exchanges as if it were nothing, fully aware of the reaction it inspires. It is part of a broader trend in which words are wielded to demean and dehumanize, particularly in digital spaces. As Miles Klee writes for Rolling Stone, "Today’s trolls use it because it crosses a contested boundary, as a deliberate (if uninspired) provocation." Trolls don’t use these words because they don’t know what harm they might do — they use them because of what threat they pose.

Here’s the thing: Intent and context matter. I reclaim a word within trusted circles, where it is understood as a shared joke, a way to turn pain into power. But when one person throws the R-word at another person, it’s intended as a hurtful attack. It’s not reclaiming; it’s entrenching ableist stereotypes, used mainly against oppressed classes to shut them up and push them aside. The contrast couldn’t be sharper.

This goes beyond words. It’s about the degradation of empathy. When words like the R-word are used, they don’t just hurt people in the moment — they remind people with disabilities that society still considers them “less than.” That isolation can become a far deeper wound.

But this is where we can change the narrative. Reclaiming words is one way to resist, but it’s not the only way. When we see hate speech, we need to call it out; we need to hold the platforms accountable; and we need to create environments where we can all feel safe to participate. This isn’t about being politically correct — it’s about human decency.

I still believe in the power of words to connect and to heal. I’ve witnessed it in my own journey, reframing constructive criticism into something enlightening. But I’ve also seen the destruction they can cause when they are used maliciously. So how do we know where the line is? How do we take back language while resisting weaponization of language? I’d really like to hear what you think. Have you felt the sting of hurtful words? Or how they managed to turn them into something meaningful? Let's continue the conversation.

The R-Word’s Comeback Is a Grim Sign of Our Political Moment

Reclaiming Disability Language: Empowerment, Humor, and Advocacy

A conceptual image of a large pane of shattered glass with the words "spaz," "special," and "dumb" etched into its surface. A bold red prohibition circle with a diagonal line crosses over the words, symbolizing rejection of harmful language. Cracks radiate outward from the center of the glass, emphasizing the fragility and breaking of outdated, offensive terms. The background is a gradient of teal and blue, adding depth and contrast to the image.

Words. They’re sharp, heavy, and at times, loaded. But they’re also fluid, malleable, and, most importantly, ours to shape. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the language surrounding disability and how it’s evolved—how words that once stung can now feel like a badge of defiant pride when reclaimed.

A recent TIME piece by Angela Haupt explored how to respond when someone says something offensive about disability, emphasizing the importance of educating others without assuming malice. This idea resonated with me deeply, but I kept circling back to a less discussed angle: reclaiming the very words that have historically marginalized us.

I’ve heard my fair share of slurs: cripple, spaz, retard. As a kid, these words cut deep. But as an adult, I’ve found joy—and, dare I say, humor—in reclaiming them. These words only hold the power we assign them, and I choose to wield that power on my terms.

For example, my close friends often call me “Broken Kid” or “Spaz” endearingly. It's not mockery; it’s camaraderie. “Don’t forget your broken kid card for parking,” they’ll say with a laugh. And yes, it’s hilarious to watch well-meaning bystanders recoil in horror: “You shouldn’t say that!” or “You shouldn’t refer to yourself that way.” Their shock, while understandable, underscores the power of reclaiming language. For me, humor is not only healing—it’s a form of activism.

It’s crucial to acknowledge that not every disabled person feels the same. As Katy Neas of The Arc of the United States pointed out, “So much of what we’re seeing is behavior grounded in either fear, ignorance, or the normalization of incivility.” Some prefer to challenge offensive language directly, turning these moments into educational opportunities. Others disengage entirely, protecting their peace.

Both approaches are valid. Disability is not a monolith. But for those like me, reclaiming words is about taking back agency. It’s about laughing in the face of stigma. And sometimes, it’s about asking the cheeky, yet pointed question:
“Can I ask why you think that’s funny?” (Thanks for the tip, Jennifer Gasner!)

That said, humor doesn’t erase the very real battles we face for access, opportunity, and equity. I don’t overlook the damage careless language can do, especially when wielded maliciously. But I choose to find the humor where I can, saving my energy for bigger fights. As Lachi ♫, a legally blind performer and advocate, wisely said, “We win when we include.” I’d add: We win when we laugh—on our terms.

This approach won’t resonate with everyone, and that’s okay. Reclaiming language is deeply personal. But for me, it’s a way to strip harmful words of their venom and inject them with power, resilience, and a healthy dose of comedy.

Do you find empowerment in reclaiming words, or do you see language differently?

Sebastian Stan’s Call to Normalize Disability: Hollywood’ Role in Cultural Change

Last night, Sebastian Stan stood on the Golden Globes stage and delivered an acceptance speech that was equal parts gratitude and a societal call for more disability inclusion in storytelling saying, “Our ignorance and discomfort around disability and disfigurement has to end. We have to normalize it and continue to expose ourselves and our children to it. [We should] encourage acceptance.”

We’ve come a long way in some ways, but the reality is that we still have miles to go. Disability is often treated as "other," whether it’s the barriers we face in accessing physical spaces, the battles we fight for workplace accommodations, or the simple dignity of being included in the stories society chooses to tell.

A Different Man brings that reality to life. It’s not just a film about disability—it’s a film with disabled voices at its core. This matters. Representation is the difference between being seen and being invisible.

And yet, disability remains woefully underrepresented. According to a 2022 GLAAD report, less than 4% of major studio films included disabled characters—and even fewer were played by actors with disabilities. Meanwhile, 20% of the population in the U.S. identifies as disabled. That disconnect doesn’t just hurt those of us in the disability community; it limits society as a whole. When stories exclude disability, they fail to reflect the full spectrum of human experience.

This isn’t just about Hollywood. It’s about workplaces that still treat accommodations like favors instead of rights. It’s about public spaces designed without us in mind. It’s about a culture that sees disability as something to overcome, rather than simply as part of life. As Stan put it, “These films are real and they’re necessary, and we can’t be afraid and look away.” That sentiment doesn’t just apply to film—it’s a challenge to all of us.

Disability will likely touch each of us, directly or indirectly, at some point in our lives. But we shouldn’t care about disability only because it might one day be our story. We should care because these stories are real, human, and powerful. They deserve to be told—not to inspire, but to be part of the fabric of who we are as a society.