There are moments in life that become part of who you are.
For me, many of those moments began with my sister, Paula.
Paula used a wheelchair. Long before the Americans with Disabilities Act became law, our family experienced what inaccessibility looked like—not as an idea, but as everyday life.
It wasn't unusual to arrive somewhere only to discover there were steps leading to the entrance.
No ramp.
No elevator.
No accessible doorway.
Sometimes that meant turning around and going home.
Other times, it meant finding a way.
I remember helping pull Paula's wheelchair up steps because there simply wasn't another option. Looking back, I don't remember thinking we were doing anything extraordinary. We were simply trying to participate in life together.
But now I realize something.
We shouldn't have had to.
The barriers weren't created by Paula's disability.
The barriers were created by the environment around her.
When the Americans with Disabilities Act became law in 1990, it changed far more than building codes.
It changed expectations.
Little by little, communities began to ask a different question.
Instead of asking,
"Can this person fit into our space?"
We began asking,
"How do we make our spaces welcoming for everyone?"
That shift mattered.
Not only for Paula.
For millions of people.
As an occupational therapist, I have now spent more than forty years working alongside adults with developmental disabilities.
During those years, I've watched accessibility grow in ways that many people now take for granted.
Accessible parking spaces.
Automatic doors.
Ramps.
Elevators.
Communication supports.
Inclusive schools.
Adaptive technology.
These aren't conveniences.
They are opportunities.
They allow people to learn, work, create, worship, volunteer, visit family, enjoy a meal with friends, and become active members of their communities.
They allow participation.
And participation changes everything.
Recently, I read about changes in how the Department of Justice views certain long-standing ADA guidance.
Before forming an opinion, I wanted to understand the legal reasoning behind those decisions.
I still do.
I believe thoughtful questions deserve thoughtful answers.
But as I read, something else happened.
I found myself remembering.
Remembering the stairs.
Remembering the buildings we couldn't enter.
Remembering the places where my sister's wheelchair quietly communicated that she wasn't expected there.
Those memories remind me why accessibility matters.
Not because it is convenient.
Because it is about dignity.
Because it is about belonging.
Because every person deserves the opportunity to participate in community life.
I don't know where this conversation will lead over the coming months.
But I do know this.
I remember what life looked like before accessibility became part of the conversation.
I have also spent my career seeing what becomes possible when barriers are removed instead of accepted.
That is why I will continue to advocate.
Not for special treatment.
For equal opportunity.
For participation.
For communities that make room for everyone.
Because every person deserves to be seen.
To be heard.
And to belong.
As I continue to seek understanding about recent discussions surrounding accessibility and disability rights, I hope we never lose sight of what accessibility has made possible for millions of people.
For me, this has never been about buildings alone.
It has always been about people.
Because every person deserves the opportunity to participate.
And participation changes everything.
This is the first in a series of reflections on accessibility, inclusion, and what I've learned from a lifetime spent alongside people who have taught me that participation changes everything.