Writing

Welcome to the Almost Accessible Series

This series isn’t an audit, and it isn’t a collection of isolated complaints. It’s an attempt to name a pattern that many disabled people recognize immediately, even if they haven’t always had language for it.

“Accessible” That Still Doesn’t Work

It wasn’t rage. It was annoyance. The kind that comes from encountering something that almost works and still doesn’t. The kind that makes you look around the room and think, someone stood here with a tape measure and believed this was finished.

I was working in an historic building that had just undergone an all-new buildout. New walls, fresh finishes, updated fixtures, carefully selected materials — the kind of renovation that makes everyone feel proud of having “done it right.” I was told more than once that it was fully ADA-compliant, and I have no doubt that it passed inspection.

The entry to the space that held my office, a half-dozen other offices, and a large lab had been fitted with a powered door with a push-button. Knowing myself and my cohort, I noticed it immediately. That detail matters. It signals intention. However, the button had been mounted at 48 inches off the ground. Forty-eight inches happens to be the maximum allowable forward reach height under federal accessibility guidelines. It passes. It is defensible. It meets the requirement.

It is also about a foot higher than most power wheelchair users can comfortably and repeatedly access without strain. I actually told the worker, “My service dog should be able to hit that button without standing on the back of another service dog.” He defended his actions by cited the requirements and said it would not be moved to satisfy me.

Could I could press it? Yes, but only by raising my power wheelchair’s seat to its full height and leaning in a way that was neither smooth nor stable. Once, that’s manageable. Over the course of a full workday, it becomes effort. By the end of the week, it becomes fatigue — the kind that doesn’t show up on a drawing set but absolutely shows up in a body.

The large multi-stall restrooms had clearly been designed with measurements in mind. In the ADA stall, there was turning radius and there were grab bars. The sink clearance appeared correct. Everything looked compliant. When I went to leave, I discovered that the door closer had been set so tight that I could not open it independently.

I repositioned. I braced. I tried again. The pull force required to open the door exceeded what I had available in my arms that day. Not theoretically. Not by interpretation. In my actual body, in that actual space, I could not get out.

I was able to leave after calling a friend who had an office on the other end of the hall. I heard him sprinting, as his footfalls landed on the polished concrete floor, and when he reached me he was winded. He said he was worried that I’d fallen. Thankfully I hadn’t.

But it emotionally jarring for both of us.

Think about this. I was working in the building, and I needed assistance to exit a restroom that had just been renovated to meet accessibility standards.

This wasn’t a historic structure with limitations. It wasn’t a retrofit compromised by old walls or narrow corridors. Every dimension had just been chosen. The height of the button was selected. The tension on the door closer was set. And each of those decisions landed precisely at the outer edge of what the law allows.

Minimums are not the same thing as usability.

When accessibility is treated as a checklist, the goal becomes passing inspection rather than inhabiting the space in a real body. You end up with environments that technically allow entry while quietly increasing effort — or, in moments like that one, temporarily removing independence altogether.

“ADA-compliant” is often said as reassurance. Sometimes it’s said as defense. As though meeting the letter of the law settles the matter. But the law establishes a floor. It does not guarantee ease. It does not guarantee independence. It certainly does not guarantee dignity.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need special treatment. I need a space that works without negotiation — a button placed where it can be used comfortably, a door closer’s tension set to allow it to be opened without requiring a second person.

If a brand-new buildout can meet every requirement and still leave someone stuck inside a restroom, then the conversation cannot end at compliance.

Because something can be technically accessible and still not function. And if we stop at “it passed,” we miss the whole point.

Almost accessible doesn’t look broken. It just works exactly as intended, and that’s the problem.

Accessibility That Requires Extra Labor

Every time we plan a trip, I open a hotel website with a familiar mix of hope and realism. Maybe this one will let me book a room the way everyone else does. Maybe I’ll be able to see what I need to see without picking up the phone.

Sometimes it almost works. A few chains now allow you to select an accessible room directly through the booking system. I can check the box. I can see that an accessible option exists. That’s progress. I don’t dismiss it.

But that’s rarely the end of the story.

The photos are glossy and incomplete. The bed looks inviting. The desk is well lit. The bathroom — which is the whole point for me — is either missing entirely or labeled “not representative.” The description says “roll-in shower,” which can mean a true zero-entry shower with proper clearance and grab bars and a built-in bench, or it can mean something that technically qualifies but doesn’t function the way I need it to.

Those differences aren’t cosmetic. They determine whether I can shower independently.

So I do what I’ve learned to do. I zoom into reflections in mirrors. I study the angle of a doorway and estimate clearance. I look at floor tiles to guess whether there’s a lip at the shower entrance. I read reviews and hope someone mentioned a wheelchair, or at least described the bathroom in enough detail to give me clues.

If I can’t confirm what I need, I call.

Sometimes I reach someone at the front desk who understands and says, “Give me a minute,” and actually goes to look. I appreciate that. I truly do. But it still means that what should have been a simple booking has turned into an extra layer of coordination in time and attention that other travelers aren’t asked to give.

Other times I’m transferred to central reservations, where the person on the line is kind but has never been inside the building. They read back the same vague description that’s already online. They don’t know the layout. They don’t know the clearance beside the bed. They don’t know whether the shower threshold is flat or raised. We do our best with limited information, and I hang up weighing whether I’m comfortable taking the risk.

On paper, the hotel offers accessible rooms. In some systems, I can even select one without speaking to anyone. From a distance, that looks like inclusion.

What isn’t visible is the extra labor woven into the process — the time, the follow-up, the quiet vulnerability of describing your needs to a stranger before you’ve even checked in. None of it is dramatic. No one is refusing me service. But the additional effort is real, and it’s consistent. And it takes a toll on both me and my husband.

Over time, that consistency shapes decisions. Some trips feel worth the extra work. Some don’t. That calculation becomes part of the planning, even if it never gets spoken aloud. It influences where we stay, how often we travel, and how much energy I’m willing to spend before I’ve even left home.

Real accessibility would mean I could see enough information upfront to make an informed decision without playing detective. It would mean the room was designed and documented with the assumption that someone like me might be booking it. It would mean access didn’t depend on how persistent I felt that afternoon.

The room exists. The question is whether the system makes it possible to trust that, without requiring me to prove it first. The door isn’t locked. It’s just heavier.

Almost accessible doesn’t look broken. It just works exactly as intended, and that’s the problem.

When Access Exists Only in Theory

My friend and her niece flew from Phoenix to Dallas for a K-pop concert. This wasn’t a casual night out. It was flights, a hotel, restaurant reservations, outfits chosen weeks in advance. Her niece is in her twenties and had loved this band for years, and she wanted to share that joy with her aunt who has profound hearing impairments in a way that felt equal — shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd.

So her niece did what the system tells you to do. She contacted the venue ahead of time. She requested an ASL interpreter. She confirmed the accommodation. She trusted that when a venue says it provides interpreters, someone behind the scenes understands what that actually requires.

For my friend, and others who rely on a cochlear implant and lip-reading, live music is complicated. Lyrics blur. Spoken transitions dissolve into noise. An interpreter isn’t decorative — they carry the narrative of the performance in real time. They make meaning possible.

The venue approved the request. The policy existed. The accommodation was documented. On paper, everything was in place — but there was one “tiny” hitch.

Somewhere between the request form and the performance, no one at the venue paused long enough to connect the obvious fact that the band would be singing in Korean. It was a K-pop concert. The venue had arranged for an ASL interpreter without ensuring that the interpreter could interpret the language being performed and then perform it in ASL. The accommodation moved through the administrative system just fine — reality did not.

So my friend stood in a packed arena, thousands of miles from home, next to her niece who speaks Korean fluently and had worked so carefully to make the evening accessible, and she watched a show she could not meaningfully understand.

No one refused her. No one denied the request. If you reviewed the process afterward, you would see evidence of inclusion. The venue has an accessibility policy. Requests are accepted. Procedures are in place. From the outside, it looks responsible.

But access isn’t proven in policy. It’s proven in the moment it’s needed.

When you’re asked to request accommodations in advance, to disclose your needs, and to trust the infrastructure behind the scenes, there’s an implicit promise that someone has thought it through. When that promise fails after flights have been booked and hotels paid for and anticipation carefully built, the damage isn’t just disappointment. It’s a subtle erosion of trust.

The next invitation carries a question mark. The next confirmation email doesn’t quite settle the nerves. Not because anyone wants to be skeptical, but because experience has taught them that approval is not the same thing as preparation.

Policy can say the right words. It can outline the process. It can log the request and send the confirmation.

But none of that translates a song.

Almost accessible doesn’t look broken. It just works exactly as intended, and that’s the problem.

Making Waves for Good

Based in Arizona wine country, working across the Verde Valley and surrounding communities.

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