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.
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