The Somebody, Nobody, Anybody & Everybody Blog!

Dear Readers, Stop! Before you type another word in the comment section of The Somebody, Nobody, Anybody & Everybody Blog!, you need to read this. Have you ever left a heartfelt comment or a burning technical question, only to feel like you’ve been "ghosted" by yours truly? I promise you, that isn't the case. I’m replying to every single one of you, but there is a massive technical hurdle standing between my words and your inbox. It turns out, the platform we call home has a bit of a "notification amnesia" problem, and I’m currently taking the tech giants to task to get it fixed for all of us! As many of you know, I take user experience and digital inclusion very personally. Lately, I’ve been in a heated back-and-forth with the Google Disability Support team regarding a major flaw in the Blogger comment layout. For those of us using screen readers—and even for those who aren't—the current workflow is, quite frankly, a mess. The issue is simple but devast...

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Imagine you are standing on the edge of a sidewalk that hasn't been "level" since the mid-nineties. Ahead of you lies a treacherous landscape of dug-up asphalt, a gaping manhole that looks like a portal to another dimension, and enough construction debris to build a small villa. You’ve got your cane, you’ve got your orientation, and you’re ready to tackle the obstacle course. Then, someone nearby—with the best of intentions and the least amount of situational awareness—leans in and whispers the most useless four words in the English language: “Just watch your step.” It’s a fascinating phrase, isn't it? It’s the verbal equivalent of telling someone in a monsoon to "try not to get wet." I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. It’s born out of a genuine, panicky desire to see me reach the other side of the street without becoming a permanent fixture of the city’s sewage system. But there is a fundamental mechanical flaw in the logic. I want to turn around and ...

You’ve spent weeks trading sharp, professional emails. You’ve held your own in high-stakes conference calls, dropping technical jargon like a pro and maybe even cracking a joke that actually landed. You’re a peer, a collaborator, a voice of authority. Then, the elevator doors open, you step out with your cane, and within three seconds, you watch—or rather, hear—the entire social fabric of the room unravel into a mess of frantic, unearned kindness.

It starts with a notification—a subtle ping that holds the power to bridge the distance between two souls, reminding us that being present is a choice we must make every single day. We often pride ourselves on our independence, on the mastery of our own internal worlds. Yet, we exist in a web of relationships—friends, family, and colleagues—who serve as the mirrors in which we see ourselves. To forget a milestone in their lives is not merely a lapse in memory; it is a quiet admission that we have lost sight of the threads connecting us. I have spent much of my life reflecting on these unseen forces, and I’ve realized that intentionality requires the right tools to navigate the noise.