The Unspoken Power of Normalcy: Why a Governor's Tweet is a Masterclass in Inclusion

I recently came across a social media post from Minnesota Governor Tim Walz that, on the surface, seemed like a standard piece of political communication. He was congratulating four young Minnesotans on their advancement to the National Braille Challenge finals. For many, it was likely a quick "like" and a scroll onward. But for me, as a person with a disability, it was a profound moment of feeling seen and, more importantly, of feeling normal.

Here's the post that stopped me in my tracks:

"Wishing our four Minnesota students - Colton, Elizabeth, Mila, and Sloan - the best of luck as they represent Minnesota for the first time in history at the Braille Challenge Finals national competition. You all make Minnesota proud!" (Link to post)

This seemingly simple message is a shining example of genuine inclusion. It celebrated the achievements of these students in the same way a governor would congratulate a state championship basketball team or the winner of a prestigious spelling bee. The focus was squarely on their hard work, dedication, and success.

What was so striking was not what the post said, but what it didn't say. It didn't mention how "inspirational" they were for overcoming their blindness. It didn't marvel at their ability to compete despite their disability. It didn't use them as a feel-good story to tug at the heartstrings. It simply and powerfully acknowledged their accomplishment.

This is the kind of inclusion that resonates most deeply with me. It’s the absence of the "othering" that so often accompanies discussions about disability. When the focus shifts from the disability to the achievement, it sends a powerful message: your success is what matters, and your disability is just a part of who you are, not the defining characteristic of your existence.

The fact that this message came from an influential public figure like a governor amplifies its impact. It sets a tone for how we, as a society, should view and talk about the accomplishments of people with disabilities. It moves the conversation from one of pity or awe to one of respect and recognition.

What is the National Braille Challenge?

For those unfamiliar, the National Braille Challenge, sponsored by the Braille Institute, is the only academic competition of its kind in North America for students in grades 1-12 who are blind or visually impaired. Much like a spelling bee, it is designed to motivate students and emphasize their study of braille. As a student, I had the honor of participating in this national competition twice. The competition tests fundamental braille skills including reading comprehension, spelling, speed and accuracy, proofreading, and chart and graph reading. Students from across the United States and Canada compete in regional events, with the top-scoring students advancing to the national finals. It's a rigorous competition that celebrates braille literacy, a critical skill for academic and future employment success.

What Real Inclusivity Looks Like: Points to Remember

Governor Walz's post offers a valuable lesson in what authentic inclusivity looks like in practice. Here are a few key takeaways to remember in your own interactions:

• Focus on the Achievement, Not the "Obstacle": When congratulating someone with a disability, celebrate their success on its own merits. They won the competition, got the promotion, or created a beautiful piece of art because they are talented and hardworking, not because they are "inspirational" for doing it with a disability.

• Avoid "Inspiration Porn": This term, coined by disability activist Stella Young, refers to the objectification of people with disabilities for the benefit of non-disabled people. Resist the urge to frame their stories as heartwarming tales of overcoming adversity. This can be demeaning and reduces individuals to objects of inspiration.

• Normalize, Don't Patronize: Treat the accomplishments of people with disabilities with the same level of respect and excitement as you would anyone else's. Their success is not a surprise or a special feat; it's the result of their efforts and skills.

• Listen and Learn: The best way to be inclusive is to listen to people with disabilities. Pay attention to the language they use and how they talk about their own experiences. Everyone's experience is different, and being open to learning is key.

• Advocate for Accessibility: True inclusion goes beyond words. It's about creating environments where everyone can participate. This can mean advocating for physical accessibility, like ramps and accessible restrooms, as well as digital accessibility, like websites that work with screen readers and videos that have captions and audio descriptions.

A Call to Action: The Power of Your Words

I urge you to take a moment to reflect on your own language and reactions when you encounter stories of achievement by people with disabilities. Do you find yourself focusing on their disability? Do you use words like "inspiring" or "special" in a way that might inadvertently diminish their accomplishment?

The next time you have the opportunity to congratulate someone, whether in person or online, remember the power of normalcy. A simple, direct message that celebrates their success can be the most inclusive and empowering thing you can say. Let's work together to create a world where achievements are celebrated for what they are, and where everyone has the chance to be recognized for their talents and hard work.

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Disclaimer: This blog post is intended to highlight the inclusivity of Governor Tim Walz's message and is not a reflection of the author's political views or an endorsement of any political figure. The opinions expressed in this post are the author's own and do not necessarily represent the views of their employer. This post was edited by Gemini for legibility and brevity; however, all views expressed are those of the author.

 

Duct Tape on a Tsunami: Peeling Back the Sticky Truth About Accessibility

Have you ever tried to fix a leaky faucet with duct tape? For a glorious, fleeting moment, you are a DIY superhero. The drip is silenced. You've conquered plumbing with the sheer power of adhesive. You might even do a little victory dance… until the tape inevitably sags, the water pressure scoffs at your feeble attempt, and the drip-drip-drip returns, now mocking you with its persistence.

In the world of accessibility, we see a lot of "duct tape" solutions. These well-intentioned, quick fixes can feel like a win, bridging an immediate gap. But let's be honest: they are temporary, flimsy, and often create bigger messes down the line. True, lasting accessibility isn't about patching holes; it's about building a vessel that was never leaky to begin with.

We've all seen these accessibility band-aids in the wild. The website alt-text that helpfully reads "image.jpg," which is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. The single, begrudgingly placed automatic door button hidden behind a potted plant. These measures offer a glimmer of access, and for that small mercy, we can be grateful. But here’s the crucial point: they are not enough. True accessibility needs to be baked into the foundation, not sprinkled on top like forgotten birthday cake sprinkles that just roll onto the floor.

Let’s dive into a real-life scenario that hit close to home. Imagine relying on an app to control your home security system because the “physical” keypad with touch-sensitive buttons and touchscreen were designed with the dexterity of a concert pianist in mind – and no real accessibility features to speak of, rendering both  completely inaccessible, if it wasn’t for the app. This was the initial "band-aid" – an app providing a digital workaround for a fundamentally inaccessible piece of hardware. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

Then came the update. The one that was supposed to bring "minor bug fixes and performance improvements." Instead, it performed a digital rug-pull, shattering the app's screen reader compatibility. The very tool that provided a sense of security became a digital brick wall. The "band-aid" had not only fallen off; it had ripped off, taking skin with it. The result? I was forced to pay a hefty fee to break my contract, a sort of "inaccessibility tax," all to switch to another provider that, you guessed it, offered its own shiny new "band-aid" solution. The expensive, frustrating cycle continued.

This isn't just a one-off tech nightmare. It's a preview of a world built on temporary fixes. Consider these entirely plausible, slightly sweaty-palmed situations:

• The Culinary Catastrophe: You are channeling your inner celebrity chef. The smart oven is preheating for a magnificent lasagna. Suddenly, the app—your only way to control the oven—updates. The beautiful new interface is now a minefield for your screen reader. The buttons have vanished into a visual-only void. Your lasagna's future is looking dark and crispy, and you're contemplating how to unplug an appliance that's smarter, but not wiser, than you are.
  
  

• The Stranded Commuter: You're trying to catch a bus. The transit app is your lifeline for knowing when the next accessible ride is due. But a new update has rolled out, complete with snazzy, battery-draining animations, and in the process, has completely broken the accessibility features. The information is technically there, but it's locked behind a fortress of uncooperative code, leaving you stranded and playing a fun game of "Guess the Arrival Time."
  
  

• The Telehealth Tumble: You need to see a doctor via a telehealth app. The latest version, however, decided to get a hip new makeover with a complex, gesture-based interface. Now, trying to book an appointment feels like you're trying to beat the final boss in a video game you've never played. What was meant to be convenient healthcare access has become an insurmountable barrier to it.
  
  

Enter the Time Machine: The Magic of "Shifting Left"

So how do we escape this endless cycle of patching, praying, and paying? We need to stop showing up to the fire with a water pistol and instead prevent the fire from starting. In the tech world, there's a brilliant concept for this: shifting left.

No, it’s not a new dance move (though feel free to create one). "Shifting left" means tackling accessibility from the absolute beginning of a project's timeline (the "left" side) instead of treating it as a last-minute problem to be dealt with at the end (the "right" side).

Trying to add accessibility after a product is built is like trying to add eggs to a cake after it's been baked. It’s messy, it doesn't work, and nobody is happy with the lumpy, raw-egg-on-top result. Shifting left means recognizing that accessibility is a core ingredient, like flour or sugar. It has to be in the recipe from the start.

When you shift left, you obviate the need for "band-aids." The security system would have had a tactile, usable keypad. The smart oven app would have been tested with screen readers before its catastrophic update. It’s about being proactive, not reactive. It’s the difference between building a house with a solid foundation and building it on a sinkhole and then wondering why the walls are cracking.

So, What Can We Do?

This isn't about pointing fingers. It's about raising our collective awareness and encouraging a fundamental shift in how we build things.

• Educate ourselves: Get curious! Learn about different disabilities and the tools people use to navigate the digital and physical world.

• Demand more (politely, of course): When you choose products and services, ask about their accessibility features. Let companies know with your wallet that inclusive design isn't just a "nice-to-have," but a must-have.

• Advocate for inclusive design: Whether you're a designer, developer, manager, or user, champion the "shift left" mentality. Be the person in the room who asks, "But have we thought about how everyone will use this?"

• Listen and learn: Actively seek out and amplify the voices of people with disabilities. They are the experts in their own experience.

And finally, a massive, heartfelt thank you to the accessibility professionals, the advocates, and the allies who are already in the trenches doing this vital work. Your efforts are the load-bearing walls in the fight for a more inclusive world. We see you, and we are grateful.

The journey to true accessibility is a marathon, not a sprint. Let's trade in our flimsy duct tape for a proper set of blueprints and build a world where the welcome mat is out for everyone, no assembly required.

What small step can you take today to help bake accessibility in from the start? Take a moment to reflect. Even the smallest ingredient can change the entire recipe for the better.

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A quick note: The thoughts and opinions shared here are entirely my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. While the original ideas and experiences are mine, this content was modified with the assistance of Google's Gemini to improve the flow and readability.

 

More Than a Line Item: A Grateful, Yet Exhausted, Plea for Real Accessibility

To everyone who works in accessibility (a11y): thank you. From the developers painstakingly implementing ARIA attributes to the designers championing inclusive color palettes and design choices; from the UX researchers advocating for users with disabilities to the product managers, program managers, and executives fighting for resources—your work is seen, it is valued, and it is profoundly important. I am deeply and genuinely grateful for every single one of you.

But I have to be honest. I’m also exhausted.

I’m exhausted by the persistent, insidious narrative that permeates our industry. It’s a narrative that whispers, “We’ve done enough.” It’s a story that laments the difficulty of securing resources for a11y, treating it as a charitable donation rather than a core business requirement. It’s a mindset that chases flashy PR announcements, devaluing accessibility unless it can be touted in a press release.

This narrative is propped up by a flawed feedback loop. We are told, "We ran a survey with a few users, and they gave us high marks!" Of course, they did. When the bar is set so breathtakingly low across the digital landscape, any effort can feel like a monumental achievement. When users with disabilities are so accustomed to being an afterthought, the simple act of being asked for their opinion can feel like a victory. But high marks born from low expectations are not a true measure of success. They are a reflection of a systemic problem.

This reliance on limited feedback often leads to another frustrating conclusion: "Except for a few small bugs, we’re doing great." This misses the entire point. The goal isn't just basic functionality; it's parity. A person with a disability should be able to use all features with the same efficiency, ease, and even delight as a non-disabled person. Instead, the focus remains on "good enough," accompanied by an implicit expectation that disabled people should be grateful for baseline access.

This is where the concept of "digital papercuts" becomes so critical. A single, seemingly minor issue is easy to dismiss: a button without a label, an image missing alt text, excessive screen reader verbosity, a slight increase in latency, a form field that’s tricky to navigate. Individually, they are papercuts—annoying, but manageable.

But what happens when your entire digital life is a series of a thousand papercuts, every single day?

These small frustrations accumulate. They build upon one another, creating a significant and exhausting barrier to participation in modern life. That "small bug" prevents someone from ordering groceries, booking a doctor's appointment, or connecting with their community. When combined, these papercuts are as debilitating as a single, major blocker. They are a constant, draining reminder that the digital world was not built with you in mind—that it was not built with me in mind.

These papercuts are often dismissed because fixing them doesn't lead to a promotion or a press release in the same way a major feature launch does. We're even fed a new narrative: that we'll eventually reach a "good enough" endgame where we can stop worrying about these details, or perhaps that AI will magically solve everything for us. This is a dangerous fantasy.

The dismissal of these "minor" issues is a symptom of a larger disease: a fundamental failure to truly "shift left." I hear the term constantly, but it's usually relegated to a quote for Global Accessibility Awareness Day. Shifting left isn't a PR stunt. It means people with disabilities have a voice throughout a product's entire lifecycle. We shouldn't have to beg for a seat at the table; we should be at the table, in roles from quality assurance and engineering to UX, leadership, and management.

Shifting left means rigorously evaluating every component for accessibility barriers. It means considering the usability impact of a shiny new design, not just its aesthetics. It means the question of whether to release a feature in an inaccessible state should never even come up. An exception for a major accessibility blocker should be weighed with the same gravity as a major security or privacy violation.

The daily reality for many is a frustrating journey from one workaround to the next, a digital landscape full of small snags and outright walls. This is not "doing a great job." It is maintaining a status quo that is fundamentally unequal.

We must shift our perspective. Accessibility is not a project to be completed or a box to be checked. It is a continuous practice, woven into the very fabric of how we build. It’s not about grand gestures; it's about the quiet, consistent, and often unglamorous work of making things that simply work for everyone.

True accessibility isn’t about doing just enough to get by, avoid a lawsuit, or garner positive press. It’s about recognizing the inherent right of all people to have equal access and opportunity. It’s about understanding that a better experience for people with disabilities creates a better experience for all users.

To my fellow advocates and allies: I see you, and I thank you for your tireless efforts. Let’s continue to champion this cause, to push back against the narratives that hold us back, and to build a digital world that is truly inclusive by design. Let's move beyond the papercuts and platitudes and demand real, meaningful accessibility for all.