AI insights
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How did a temporary disability change the author's perspective on accessibility?
The author experienced a temporary disability by losing the use of their right hand, which transformed accessibility from a theoretical concept into a daily necessity. This experience highlighted the challenges of performing simple tasks and the importance of accessible tools and technologies.
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What is the core value of accessibility in design leadership?
Accessibility in design leadership is a core value that reflects a commitment to inclusivity and empathy. It involves creating products that serve a wider audience, enhancing user satisfaction and loyalty.
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Why is relying on color alone in design considered a flaw?
Relying on color alone in design is a flaw because it can exclude individuals who cannot perceive certain colors, leading to accessibility failures. Practical design fixes are needed to make interfaces smarter and more inclusive for everyone.
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What impact does lip-reading technology have on accessibility?
Lip-reading technology significantly enhances accessibility by breaking down communication barriers for individuals with hearing impairments. It allows for better real-world interactions, especially in noisy or challenging environments.
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What practical benefits come from prioritizing accessibility in design?
Prioritizing accessibility in design leads to products that serve a wider audience, which enhances user satisfaction and loyalty. It also acknowledges the inherent dignity and worth of all users.
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How does sci-fi highlight real-world accessibility issues?
Sci-fi often mirrors our blind spots in accessibility rather than our ideals, highlighting design flaws such as relying solely on color for important information. These narratives can reveal what is still missing in inclusive design.
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How does lip-reading technology redefine inclusivity?
Lip-reading technology redefines inclusivity by providing innovative tools that go beyond traditional aids, allowing individuals with hearing impairments to communicate more effectively in diverse settings.
For years, I’ve been advocating for accessibility, helping companies design inclusive tools. It was a passion rooted in theory until I lost the use of my right hand. Suddenly, accessibility became my daily reality. Tasks like typing and designing turned challenging, and I had to rely on tools I once promoted. Some worked well, like Google's dictation, while others, like Apple's, struggled with my accent. Adobe’s flexible design software was a lifesaver, but I realized how vital it is for people to know about these tools. Accessibility isn’t just about design; it requires education and awareness. When life changes, everyone deserves tools to help them thrive.
For years, I’ve been championing accessibility—helping companies design tools and systems to include everyone. It’s been more than a professional passion; it’s a belief I’ve held deeply. But, truthfully, my understanding of accessibility had always been theoretical.
Then life happened.
I lost the use of my right hand for a few months. Suddenly, accessibility wasn’t just a principle I advocated for—it became something I had to rely on every single day.
Navigating life with one hand has been humbling. Simple tasks—typing, designing, or even using my phone—turned into frustrating challenges. The tools and technologies I had once promoted in theory became my lifeline.
Some worked beautifully. Others reminded me how far we still have to go.
For instance, I’ve had to depend on dictation tools, which I’d only used sparingly before. Apple’s built-in dictation struggles with my multilingual accent, often misinterpreting words. By contrast, Google’s Android ecosystem handles accents far better. My workaround has been dictating on my phone, syncing the text into shared documents, and continuing from there on my computer. It’s not seamless, but it gets the job done.
Then there’s Adobe. I’ve worked in Illustrator, Photoshop and InDesign for decades, relying heavily on hotkeys to speed through tasks. With one hand, hotkeys are out of reach. I had to relearn how to use these programs, exploring tools and workflows I’d never noticed before. I’m grateful to the engineers at Adobe who made these systems flexible enough to adapt to my new needs.
But here’s the thing: I was lucky.
I’ve spent years learning and teaching accessibility. That gave me a head start—I knew what tools existed, where to find them, and how to use them.
Most people don’t.
When I was discharged from the hospital, no one told me about the tools or technologies that could help me adapt to life with one hand. No one handed me a guide, a resource, or even a suggestion. That silence was deafening.
And it’s a problem we need to fix.
It’s not enough to build accessible tools. People need to know they exist, how to access them, and how to use them. Without education and awareness, even the most thoughtfully designed systems can’t fulfill their potential.
This experience has reinforced what I’ve always believed: accessibility is essential. Whether temporary or permanent, disability can affect anyone, at any time. Inclusive tools and systems aren’t luxuries—they’re lifelines.
To those who’ve made accessibility a priority: thank you. Your work matters, and it’s changing lives—including mine. But there’s more to do. Accessibility must extend beyond design and development. We need education, advocacy, and awareness to make these tools truly useful.
Because when life happens—and it happens to all of us—everyone deserves tools that help them thrive.
