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.
