Somewhere I belong...

There are certain things in life that most people don’t question. Like being able to check the train times without thinking, read a menu without help, walk into a shop and know where the tills are, or open an app and trust that it will simply work. These things don’t register as luxuries for many — they’re just part of modern day  life.

But for me, as a blind person, those everyday interactions sit on a very different foundation — one held up by technology. Without it, my world would be smaller. Not less worthy. Not less valuable. But undeniably more restricted.

Technology, when it is accessible, gives me freedom. It gives me the ability to manage my life independently. It’s how I bank, how I shop, how I book appointments, cook dinner, communicate with friends, access education, listen to books, travel alone, and understand the world around me. It’s not just a convenience. It’s not a bonus feature. It’s a lifeline.

And I treasure it.

But I’ve learned — often the hard way — that lifelines can fray. That freedom, for someone like me, is conditional. Because as much as technology gives, it can just as quickly take away.

A single update to an app. A website redesign. An unlabeled button that was once readable, now vanished in function. What worked yesterday no longer does. And I’m back to square one, navigating in the dark — quite literally — trying to piece together workarounds, hunting through forums, contacting customer support, hoping that someone, somewhere, sees the problem and decides it matters enough to fix.

And that’s the heart of it: whether or not something matters enough to be fixed. Whether accessibility is seen as a core principle — or a courtesy.

I would like to believe it matters.

Because what I face in those moments is more than inconvenience. It’s more than annoyance. It’s the sudden and jarring feeling of being shut out. Of being reminded — not by words, but by silence, inaction, and exclusion — that I was not considered.

And that feeling doesn’t just sting. It stays.

But let me be clear: I am not anti-technology. Far from it. I love what it enables. I embrace progress. I adapt quickly. I learn constantly. I evolve with the world as it moves forward. I’m not standing still. But I do believe that in our excitement to move fast, we must not leave people behind. Because when accessibility isn’t part of the blueprint, it becomes a battle. And I would like to live in a world where I don’t have to constantly fight to be included.

What I would like — more than anything — is choice.

That word sits at the centre of this whole conversation. Choice.

When I speak about inclusion, about the value of both technology and human connection, I’m not suggesting everyone should prefer one over the other. I understand that not everybody wants face-to-face interaction. I understand that for some people — neurodivergent individuals, those with social anxiety, those who simply prefer minimal interaction — a self-service checkout or an online form offers comfort, ease, and peace of mind. That’s entirely valid. That’s their experience.

And I would never try to take that away from anyone.

But what I’m saying is: let that be a choice. Let us all have the ability to choose.

I may not see the expression on a cashier’s face, but I feel the warmth in a voice, the rhythm of a kind moment. I value those interactions. Not because I can’t do things for myself — but because human contact means something to me. It reminds me I exist in a shared world. That I’m not navigating it alone.

The rise in automation — in AI replacing human roles, in self-checkout machines replacing people — worries me. Not because I’m against change, but because I see how it’s narrowing the options for everyone. Not just for me, not just for blind people, but for society as a whole. And once again, I come back to choice. That’s what’s being lost when every checkout becomes a screen. When every service becomes digital-only. When human interaction becomes a rarity instead of a possibility.

It’s not about resisting progress. It’s about insisting that progress includes everyone.

And inclusion is not just about empathy — though empathy is a powerful start. It’s also about economics. The Purple Pound — the spending power of disabled people and our households — is worth billions. And yet, time and time again, we’re excluded. Our needs are deprioritized. We’re seen as too complicated, too few, too expensive to build for.

But we’re here. In numbers. In every industry. In every market. We’re already trying to engage. We just need to be let in.

And so I would like to say — gently, but firmly — please consider us. Please build with us in mind. Please don’t make us fight just to access what others receive without question.

Because this isn’t just about tools. It’s about identity. It’s about dignity. It’s about being able to participate in life with the same confidence, speed, and ease as everyone else. It’s about recognising that when accessibility is done right, it disappears. It becomes seamless. It becomes normal.

And that’s all we’re asking for — to be treated as part of the norm.

I don’t write this for pity. I’m not asking for applause for navigating a world that wasn’t designed for me. I do it because I have to. And I do it well. But I would like to reach a point where I don’t have to explain, justify, or workaround just to be part of daily life.

I’m not speaking for every blind person. I can’t. I’m not speaking for every disabled person. Their stories, their struggles, their triumphs — they are their own. But I am speaking from my own life. And in that life, I have faced more barriers than I care to count. Some I’ve overcome. Others I’m still chipping away at. And some — the worst ones — are the ones I’m told don’t exist at all, because someone who’s never experienced them decided they weren’t worth addressing.

But I am still here.

I am still showing up. Still adapting. Still learning. Still finding joy. Still pushing forward with resilience, with humour, and with hope.

And I will keep going — not because it’s easy, but because I deserve to be here.

We all do.

So let’s build a world where access is standard. Where inclusion is intentional. Where dignity isn’t conditional.

Because the most powerful kind of progress is the kind that brings everyone with it.

And if you’re designing the future, I ask — with every ounce of grace I can offer — please make sure we’re in it.

Not on the edges. In it!

Because if technology is the door — then accessibility is the key.

And none of us should have to live on the doorstep of a world we have every right to enter.

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