The Unsung Heroes of Accessibility: Noticing the Wins

As someone who navigates the world with a visual impairment, my radar is almost permanently tuned to find accessibility gaps. It’s a necessary survival skill, but it also means I sometimes get so caught up in looking for what's wrong that I miss the brilliance that’s right under my nose—or, in this case, literally clamped to my ears.

I'm talking about my trusty over-the-ear headphones. They've been my constant companions for what feels like a geological epoch. Through thousands of hours of podcasts, music, and audiobooks, my thumb has probably traced over a tiny bump on the left earcup a million times. I always wrote it off as a meaningless bit of plastic texture, a harmless artifact from the design mold. Just another random set of dots. Lots of products have them, and most of the time, they are definitely not Braille.

Then, the other day, during a quiet moment, I paused and really felt it. Dot 1, Dot 2, Dot 3. A perfect, unmistakable Braille "l". The realization hit me like a misplaced piece of furniture. For years, I'd been wearing this brilliantly simple accessibility feature without even acknowledging it was there! The irony was so thick you could spread it on toast. Here I am, a blogger who writes about accessibility, who works on accessibility, completely oblivious to a feature designed specifically for me on a device I use daily. It was a hilarious and humbling reminder that while I'm out scanning the world for failures, sometimes the victories are sitting right there, waiting to be noticed.

Beyond the Braille "L": Other Accessibility Superstars

This "aha!" moment sent me on a quest to notice other unsung heroes of built-in accessibility. And let me tell you, once you start looking, you see them everywhere! Here are just a few examples.

Remember that shampoo bottle with the raised "S" that I wrote about a while back? No more guessing games in the shower, blindly fumbling to distinguish between shampoo and conditioner. It's a simple, elegant solution that prevents daily frustration for countless individuals.

Think about the little raised dot on the number 5 key of phones with tactile buttons, or on some letters on the keyboard. It's not just for aesthetics; it's a tactile anchor that helps you orient your fingers without having to look, a massive benefit for touch typists and those with visual impairments.

Even something as seemingly mundane as the tactile bumps on sidewalk corners or on train platforms are accessibility wins! Many people think they're there to guide you across the street, but their primary job is even more critical: they're a warning sign. Those truncated domes under your feet or at the tip of your cane shout, "Stop! You've reached the edge of the sidewalk or platform and are about to put yourself in danger." It’s a deliberately designed feature that provides a crucial safety alert, preventing people from unknowingly stepping into the path of traffic, or falling on the tracks.

And what about the raised arrows on some medicine and vitamin bottles. They aren’t there for decoration, they help a person like me get the same information about how to align the cap to open that bottle.

These examples, big and small, demonstrate that accessibility doesn't always have to be a grand, revolutionary overhaul. Sometimes, it's about thoughtful, deliberate design choices that are seamlessly integrated into everyday products and environments, making life a little easier, a little more intuitive, and a lot more inclusive for everyone.

A Call to Action: Celebrate the Wins!

Yes, it's vital to continue advocating for a more accessible world and to highlight the areas where we fall short. But let's also make a conscious effort to notice and celebrate the accessibility wins. When you spot a clever design that makes a difference, share it! Tweet about it, post it on your blog, tell your friends. By acknowledging these successes, we not only show appreciation for the designers and manufacturers who prioritize inclusion, but we also inspire others to think more accessibly in their own work.

Let's make a habit of looking for those deliberate, often subtle, features that enhance our experience. Because sometimes, the most impactful changes are hiding in plain sight, waiting to be appreciated.

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All views expressed in this post are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer.

This post was written with the help of Google's Gemini, for better readability, clarity, and brevity.

Be More Like a Five-Year-Old: A Pickleball Parable About True Inclusion

I was at the grocery store a few weeks ago, navigating the aisle to the meat counter with my white cane, when I heard the unmistakable, high-pitched stage whisper of a small child.

"Mommy, why is that man poking the floor with that stick?"

I could feel the parent's immediate mortification. There was a frantic "Shhh! Don't be rude!" followed by the sound of a shopping cart being hastily wheeled away. I smiled. The parent thought they were teaching their child politeness. What they were actually teaching them is that disability is a topic too scary, too awkward, or too taboo to talk about. They were teaching the child to replace curiosity with silence.

And frankly, we could all use a lot less silence and a lot more of that five-year-old’s curiosity.

The Unfiltered Lens of Childhood

Children are, in many ways, the ultimate agents of inclusion. They operate from a place of pure curiosity. Their world is a canvas of unanswered questions, and they haven't yet learned the complex social rules that tell adults to look away, to not stare, and to definitely not ask direct questions.

A child might ask:

• "Can you see my bright red shirt?"

• "How do you read with your fingers?"

• "Does it hurt to be blind?"

An adult, on the other hand, will often perform a masterclass in awkward avoidance. They’ll speak to the person I’m with instead of me, or they'll grab my arm to "help" me without asking. They operate on a thick layer of assumptions, believing they know what is best, what is polite, and what I need, all without uttering a single question. This well-intentioned silence is infinitely more isolating than a child’s blunt inquiry.

When we shush a child for asking about a disability, we’re not just deflecting an awkward moment. We are teaching them that difference is something to be ignored, not understood. We are building the foundation for a future adult who will make decisions based on assumptions, because they were taught that asking is rude.

The Danger of Designing for a Ghost

This learned behavior of not asking questions carries directly into the professional and social worlds. It’s how we end up with inaccessible websites, buildings with "accessible" entrances that lead to a flight of stairs, and products designed without consulting the very people who will use them.

So often, decisions are made in a boardroom by people who think they know what a specific community needs. They might even engage in the "one and done" consultation: they ask one person with a disability for their opinion and consider their due diligence complete. They checked the box. But my experience as a blind person is not a monolith. It doesn't represent the needs, desires, and opinions of every other person who is blind. Assuming so is like asking one person from Texas what the entire United States thinks about barbecue. You’ll get an answer, sure, but it won’t be the whole story.

Kids, on the other hand, don’t have this filter yet. While their assumptions are based on their own lived experiences—thinking every dog is a "doggie" or that all grown-ups love broccoli—they are incredibly willing to have those assumptions corrected. They’ll ask their parents, or better yet, they’ll ask the person directly. Their curiosity is a tool for learning, not a prelude to judgment. It’s a trait we should be nurturing, not extinguishing.

A Pickleball Parable

I want to share a story that shows what happens when people choose curiosity over assumptions. Recently, a team event was planned at work: Pickleball.

My heart sank just a little when I first heard. This was an automatic response, not one grounded in any reality based on my experiences with my team members, but I know how interactions like this have gone in past experiences. It’s a common experience for people with disabilities. A fun, physical activity is planned, and you’re immediately doing the mental calculus: "How will I participate? Will they just stick me on the sidelines? Will it be more awkward if I go or if I don't?"

But then something amazing happened. A team member reached out. "Hey," they said, "we're planning this Pickleball day. We'd love for you to be there. What can we do to make it work for you?"

They didn't assume I couldn't or wouldn't want to play. They opened a dialogue. But they didn't stop there. They went and did their own research. A few days later, they followed up. "We've ordered some pickleballs with bells inside so they'll be audible."

When I showed up, the audible balls were waiting, and my teammates had a great time bonding and playing the game with varying levels of skill and success. The coaches at the place were delightful as well. At no point did I question whether I was intended to be there, nor did I feel not included. They had also, in a hilarious and heartwarming display of knowing me as a person and not just as a disability, made sure the cooler was stocked with my favorite Cokes.

They didn't treat me as a problem to be solved. They saw me as a team member to be included. They chose curiosity and action over assumption and avoidance. That, right there, is the difference between token accessibility and true, heartfelt inclusion.

Your Call to Action: Ask the Question

We can all do better. The next time you encounter someone whose experience is different from your own, resist the urge to assume. Fight the voice in your head that was conditioned by a well-meaning adult telling you it's "rude" to ask.

Channel that inner five-year-old. Be curious. Be respectful. Open a dialogue. Ask the question. You might just be surprised by how much you learn and how much more inclusive our world can become when we’re all brave enough to stop guessing.

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A Few Final Notes:

• The views and opinions expressed in this article are entirely my own and do not necessarily represent the views of all blind people. We are not a monolith!

• Furthermore, these views do not reflect the opinions or policies of my employer.

• This article was crafted with the assistance of Google's Gemini to help with clarity, readability, and brevity.

Seeing with Sound: My Adventures in Echolocation and The vOICe

Life as a blind person is a bit like playing a perpetual game of Marco Polo, except the world rarely shouts "Polo!" back. In a landscape built for vision, you learn to navigate with a blend of careful cane work, educated guesswork, and—when you misjudge a doorway—a surprising amount of upper-body strength. But what if I told you there are ways to "see" that have nothing to do with eyes? Welcome to my world, where I mix the ancient human skill of echolocation with the cutting-edge tech of The vOICe app to paint a vivid, if unconventional, picture of my surroundings.

The Symphony of Echolocation: Passive vs. Active

Echolocation is nature’s original sonar, used by pros like bats and dolphins. They emit sounds and listen for the echoes. I do the same, though I’m probably less graceful than a dolphin (but I do have an uncanny ability to find the last Coke bottle in the fridge).

Passive echolocation is my background app, always running. It’s the subtle shift in ambient noise as I approach a building, the way the air itself feels different near an open doorway, or the faint echo of my footsteps off a wall. It’s a built-in sonar that provides a constant, low-res stream of data about the space around me. I often know I'm approaching a tree or a wall long before my cane gets a chance to introduce it to  me. It’s like having a blurry, black-and-white sketch of the world that warns me, "Hey, big thing ahead!"

Active echolocation is me switching to high-def. By intentionally making a sound—a sharp tongue click, a tap of my cane, or even just talking—I send out a sonic ping. Listening to how that sound bounces back gives me incredibly detailed information about an object's shape, size, and even texture. It’s the difference between knowing something is there and knowing it's a metal pole you're about to walk into. This "HD" sense is so versatile I use it for everything from navigating hiking trails and riding a scooter to something as mundane as finding the entrance to a building across a vast parking lot.

The vOICe: Turning Pixels into a Symphony

If echolocation is my sketchpad, The vOICe app is my vibrant set of watercolors. This ingenious app uses my phone’s camera to translate visual information into soundscapes in real time. The rules are simple:

• Pitch = Height: The higher an object, the higher the pitch.

• Loudness = Brightness: Brighter objects are louder.

• Stereo Pan = Left/Right: An object on the left is heard in my left ear, and vice-versa.

Imagine standing at a bustling crosswalk. While not essential for crossing a road, The vOICe turns the chaos into a symphony of orientation. The parallel flow of cars creates a steady sonic "shoreline," while the app paints an audible picture of the crosswalk lines and the curb on the other side. This layering of information gives me a powerful confidence that I'm walking a straight line. It also allows me to perceive things my cane could never hope to reach: an overhanging branch, the height of a street sign, or the general shape of a building. It's a powerful tool that enhances my coordination and spatial awareness in countless daily tasks.

The Learning Curve: It’s a Mountain, Not a Molehill

I won’t sugarcoat it: mastering these skills is not a weekend project. The learning curve is a majestic Mount Everest of auditory processing. For a long time, there was no mainstream training; most of us were self-taught pioneers, learning through trial, error, and a few too many close encounters with inanimate objects. It’s like learning to ride a unicycle while juggling flaming torches—exhilarating, but with a high potential for bumps and bruises.

This is where recent updates to The vOICe truly shine. The inclusion of AI-powered descriptions acts like a seasoned guide on your Everest climb. It helps you connect the complex soundscapes with what they actually represent, drastically shortening the time it takes to go from "What is that noise?" to "Oh, that's a bicycle leaning against a tree."

Not for Everyone: The Beautiful Diversity of Choice

As much as I love my sonic toolkit, it's crucial to understand that these methods aren't for everyone. The cognitive load of constantly interpreting sound can be intense, and some people may find it more distracting than helpful. Others have phenomenal cane skills or guide dogs and simply don’t need it.

Accessibility isn't about finding one perfect solution; it's about having a rich variety of choices. What works for me is just that—what works for me. And let's be honest, sometimes it's just easier to ask a talking GPS, whether that be another person or an actual GPS app, for directions than to compose a sonic symphony of my surroundings.

Your Turn to See with Sound

Intrigued by the idea of painting pictures with sound? You can start your own journey of discovery. To learn more about the incredible technology behind The vOICe and to download the app, I highly recommend visiting the official website at seeingwithsound.com. There, you’ll find tutorials, training resources, and a community of fellow sonic explorers. Dive in and start listening—you might be amazed at what you see.

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All views expressed in this article are my own and may not reflect those of my employer. This piece was written with the aid of Google's Gemini, which helped with clarity, readability, and brevity.