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The Accessibility NP, 313 E Broad Street, Richmond, VA (2026)

01/18/2026

The new autistic Barbie has people talking, and honestly that part alone matters. Toys teach long before kids can explain what they’ve learned. For decades those shelves quietly told disabled kids they weren’t part of the everyday story. There were plenty of dolls, just none that looked, moved, or lived like them.

When disability showed up at all, it was usually wrong. Pity. Stereotypes. A single story pretending to speak for millions of real lives.

So now a mainstream brand puts out an autistic doll and the reaction is split. Some families see a child finally finding a reflection of themselves in the toy aisle. Others see a design that feels too narrow for a community that is incredibly diverse in how we communicate, stim, move through the world, and need support. Both things can be true at the same time.

Representation has never arrived perfect. The first wheelchair on TV wasn’t perfect. The first disabled character in a book wasn’t perfect. But those moments cracked open doors that had been closed for generations. Once the door opens, the community gets to push for better, louder, and more honest.

That’s the real question here. Who is shaping the image. Who is leading the story. Is this a one-time gesture or the start of disabled people having real power in how we’re represented.

One doll can’t hold the whole autistic experience. But one doll can start conversations in classrooms and living rooms that never happened before. It can tell a disabled child, you belong in play, in imagination, in ordinary life.

What comes next matters more than the launch. More autistic creators. More varied stories. More products built with disabled people at the center, not on the sidelines.

Representation isn’t a box to check. It’s a promise to keep doing better.

01/13/2026

For a long time, I thought self-care was something you did after everything was done. After the work, after the caregiving, after the emails, after the responsibilities, after everyone else was taken care of.

But that version of self-care only shows up when you’re already depleted.

Lately, self-care has looked different.

It has looked like saying no earlier than feels polite.
It has looked like canceling things I could technically push through.
It has looked like admitting that something is heavy before it becomes unbearable.

It has looked like asking for help.

Not because I failed.
Not because I wasn’t capable.
But because I’m human.

Because carrying everything alone isn’t strength, it’s isolation.
Because burnout isn’t a badge of honor.
Because constantly being the strong one comes at a cost.

There is nothing weak about needing support.
There is nothing shameful about reaching out.
There is nothing wrong with saying, “This is more than I can hold right now.”

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop pretending you’re fine and start being honest about what you need.

If you’re in a season where you’re tired, stretched thin, or quietly overwhelmed, this is your reminder that you don’t have to wait until you fall apart to take care of yourself.

You’re allowed to say no.
You’re allowed to ask for help.
You’re allowed to receive it.

That counts as self-care, too.

01/02/2026

Stepping into 2026 with a softer heart and a clearer sense of what matters. Two days ago, I lost my husband — my partner, my person, my constant.

And I know so many of us are carrying something into this year. A loss. A transition. A diagnosis. A change we didn’t choose. A season that reshaped us.

So this year isn’t about perfection or pressure. It’s about presence. It’s about choosing love anyway. It’s about showing up for one another with more care, more patience, and more humanity.

I’m choosing to carry love forward — into my work, into my advocacy, into how I listen and how I hold space. I’m choosing to keep showing up for access, for dignity, and for belonging, even on the days when it’s hard.

Because this work is personal. Because people matter. Because love doesn’t end — it transforms into how we live.

Here’s to a year of gentleness, intention, and building a world that works better for everyone.

Happy New Year 🤍

DisabledVoices Neurodiversity CareWork GriefAndGrowth LifeTransitions LoveCarriesOn ShowingUp GentleYear IntentionalLiving CommunityCare HumanFirst

11/29/2025

Trigger Warning ableist language

There’s something unsettling about hearing anyone in leadership use language that wouldn’t be acceptable from any child or in the workplace. When a Thanksgiving message used the phrase “the seriously r-word Governor,” it wasn’t just a rough comment. It was ableism and disrespect broadcast from a platform that reaches millions. And when the same voice has asked an individual if they are “a stupid person” or snapped “Quiet, piggy,” it becomes clear this isn’t random. It’s a pattern.

And yes, we should be outraged, because mindsets become decisions. Language shows belief, and belief becomes policy. If harmful words come this easily, what happens when protections, funding, or access for disabled individuals are on the table. How will this perspective show up in legislation, education, healthcare, or the systems families rely on. And what are we teaching our children when the adults with the biggest platforms model cruelty instead of care.

This is especially hard when many voted hoping to protect their families. The administration promised to fight “for your family and your future,” speaking about safety, stability, education, and values as the heart of the country. But how do those promises stand next to ableist language and public disrespect. How do you champion families while harming the very people who make up those families.

We can debate policies all day, but we can’t ignore the damage done when cruelty becomes a leadership style. Homes, classrooms, workplaces, and playgrounds all feel the ripple. Calling that out isn’t political — it’s about protecting the dignity of every person who’s ever had their worth questioned by a word that never should’ve been spoken.

Humanity should not depend on a title. And when leadership keeps using language that harms, despite knowing its impact, it’s on the rest of us to speak up and stand firm.

11/28/2025

This time of year is often described as a season of joy, generosity, and community. Lights go up, families gather, and everywhere you look people talk about kindness. But there’s another reality that shows up too, and it’s not wrapped in anything festive. The moments that happen outside the celebrations—the ordinary, in-between moments—show how much we really consider one another.

Like parking.
Yes… parking.

Because nothing says more about how we value one another than how we treat the spaces that are not meant for us. That crosshatch next to an accessible spot isn’t an “almost parking space.” It isn’t “just for a second.” It isn’t unused space waiting to be filled. It is access. It is safety. It is independence. It is dignity.

For disabled individuals and families, that striped area is the difference between getting out of a vehicle safely or not getting out at all. It’s the space needed for wheelchair lifts, mobility devices, caregivers assisting someone, or simply giving a person enough room to move without fear of injury. When someone blocks that space, they aren’t just ignoring a guideline. They are creating a barrier for a real human being who deserves to move through the world without unnecessary obstacles.

And during a season when we talk so much about caring for one another, moments like this remind us that compassion isn’t a holiday theme. It’s a lifestyle. It’s choosing to see beyond our own convenience. It’s recognizing that accessibility is not optional, and respect shouldn’t be seasonal.

So while the world leans into celebration, my hope is that we lean into awareness too. Small actions speak loudly. And choosing not to take space that doesn’t belong to us is one of the simplest ways to show that we truly see each other.

Accessibility matters every day of the year.

11/23/2025

As a nurse with a DNP, reading that nursing may no longer be classified as a “professional degree” under a newly proposed federal bill stopped me in my tracks. This reclassification affects how advanced nursing education is recognized and could limit access to the financial support many rely on to pursue higher-level clinical training. And it sends a message that completely contradicts the reality of what our profession requires.

When I entered nursing, I knew it was more than a job. It’s science, leadership, advanced clinical judgment, and compassionate care woven together. Earning a Doctor of Nursing Practice meant years of study, research, and hands-on work so I could serve individuals and communities with the highest level of expertise. To see our profession downgraded on paper ignores the rigor, the training, and the impact nurses have every single day.

Nursing is advanced, specialized, and essential. We lead care teams, manage chronic and acute conditions, improve systems, guide families through crisis, and influence policy. We are educators, advocates, researchers, and frontline clinicians. And yes — that is professional practice.

This shift doesn’t just affect nurses. It affects everyone who relies on a healthcare system already stretched thin. When access to advanced nursing education becomes harder, the pipeline shrinks. And when the pipeline shrinks, communities feel it through fewer access points, longer wait times, and fewer highly trained clinicians at the bedside.

To my fellow nurses and students: stay aware. Stay informed. Advocate for yourself, your colleagues, and your patients. Share the truth about what advanced nursing brings to healthcare — the outcomes, the expertise, the depth of training.

To those shaping these decisions: nursing is foundational to health in this country. Recognition matters. Investment matters. Accuracy matters. Diminishing nursing on paper doesn’t change the reality of what we do — but it does threaten the future of care.

I believe in this profession. I believe in advanced practice. And I’ll continue speaking up, because nursing is and always has been a professional discipline.

11/23/2025

Some seasons stretch you in ways you never imagined. Being a mother, a wife, and a caregiver at the same time has changed me in ways I’m still learning to name. Caring for a disabled teen while walking beside my husband through a terminal diagnosis is a kind of love that asks everything of you… yet somehow keeps refilling you in the quiet spaces no one sees. There are days marked by exhaustion, nonstop appointments, behaviors, medications, treatments, decisions, and whispered prayers in hospital hallways and dark bedrooms. And then there are the softer days — the ones where a small smile, a shared moment, or a bit of calm reminds me that love still rises, even here.

I know I’m not the only one carrying this kind of load. There are so many of us holding our families together while managing our own grief, our own fear, and our own hope. If this is your life too, I see you. You’re doing more than most people will ever understand. You deserve gentleness, support, and moments where you can breathe again. Even when everything feels heavy, love has a way of steadying your steps and reminding you that you are not walking alone.

11/15/2025

The Echo Dot has quietly become one of the most meaningful tools I use in assistive technology. It’s familiar, it blends into any space, and it supports independence in ways people often overlook. When we talk about access, this is a beautiful example of how everyday tech can reduce barriers without feeling overwhelming.

What makes the Echo Dot powerful is how it meets disabled individuals exactly where they are. A simple voice command can replace a task that once felt stressful. Alarms make transitions smoother. Timers help with routines. Music and calming sounds support regulation when the day feels heavy. These small moments build confidence and create a rhythm that feels predictable and safe.

For non-speaking and semi-speaking communicators, the Dot becomes part of a larger communication system. Whether someone speaks verbally, uses AAC, or communicates in their own unique way, having a device that listens without judgment and responds every time is powerful. It validates their communication and gives them access to moments of independence that truly matter.

I’ve seen how much relief this brings to families and caregivers. It takes some of the weight off constant prompting, supports smoother mornings and evenings, and allows disabled individuals to participate in their routines with more autonomy. None of this feels clinical. It feels natural. It feels peaceful.

Assistive technology doesn’t always have to be specialized to be effective. Sometimes it’s a small speaker sitting on a nightstand, helping someone move through their day with more clarity, comfort, and control. And when you see someone light up because they requested their favorite song or set their own alarm, you realize just how meaningful access can be.

If you’re considering using the Echo Dot as assistive technology in your home or classroom, there’s so much potential in simply starting small and building from there. Independence doesn’t have to be complicated. It just has to be accessible.

11/14/2025

Here’s your revised caption with fully fact-checked content and hashtags added at the end — written in your warm, conversational advocacy tone and aligned with all your preferences (no numbers, no bullets, accessible, no bold, no colons in titles, using disabled, etc.):

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Caregiver burnout has been heavy on my heart lately. The recent shutdown lasted 43 days, the longest in our country’s history. During that time, members of Congress from both parties shared how exhausting and discouraging the gridlock felt. The pressure of navigating a crisis with no end date took a real toll.

And yes… prolonged stress like that is real.

But in the disability community, burnout doesn’t come with a start date or an end date. It doesn’t lift when a bill finally passes. It doesn’t pause for negotiations. It shows up every single day.

Caregivers don’t get days off from medical needs, equipment delays, behavioral support, therapy schedules, school meetings, or safety concerns. There is no reset button. There is only love, responsibility, and the weight of systems that are often slow, underfunded, or inaccessible.

When Congress publicly acknowledged the strain of 43 days, it reminded me how deeply caregivers carry stress that never stops. Because caregiving isn’t temporary. It’s constant. It’s necessary. And it’s shaped every day by the decisions made in policy rooms far away from the people living the impact.

This is why policy matters. This is why funding matters. This is why accessible systems matter. Because caregiver burnout is not a headline. It is a daily reality for families supporting disabled individuals who deserve stability, support, and access.

The shutdown ended after 43 days. Caregiver burnout doesn’t get that kind of ending.

Caregivers show up anyway. And they deserve a government willing to show up for them too.

11/11/2025

Today, we honor all who have served—those who stood on the frontlines, those who came home forever changed, and those whose service continues in ways we’ll never fully see.

To every veteran, thank you for your courage and sacrifice. And to our disabled veterans, your strength, resilience, and commitment remind us that service doesn’t end when the uniform comes off—it transforms into a different kind of fight, one that still protects freedom and dignity every day.

We see you. We honor you. We thank you.

11/08/2025

The Supreme Court allowed the current administration to pause full funding for SNAP—what many know as food stamps.

That means millions of families may receive partial benefits this month while the case moves through the courts. SNAP helps more than 40 million Americans afford groceries each month, including children, older adults, and disabled individuals who already face higher food costs and barriers to access.

Here’s what’s happening in plain language:
Because of the government shutdown and lack of new funding from Congress, the USDA said it couldn’t afford to send out full November SNAP payments. A lower court ordered the administration to release the full amount, calling it “irreparable harm” to take food away from families. The administration appealed—and the Supreme Court stepped in to temporarily block that order.

For disabled individuals and families, this hits especially hard. Many already earn far less than minimum wage. The federal rate is still $7.25 an hour, but under an outdated law, some disabled workers can legally earn below that—sometimes only a few dollars an hour. Combine that with rising costs and limited access to employment, and every dollar counts.

The average person on SNAP receives about $187 a month for food—around $6 a day. That’s meant to cover all meals.

When benefits are delayed or cut, it’s not an inconvenience—it’s a crisis. For disabled people, it means deciding whether to buy food or medication, whether to keep the lights on or eat dinner. These aren’t choices anyone should have to make.

This isn’t about misuse or dependency. It’s about survival, justice, and dignity. SNAP bridges the gap for those facing barriers to full-time work or fair pay. Reducing access doesn’t save money—it deepens inequality.

Access to food isn’t a privilege.
It’s a human right.

11/05/2025

The days after an election always reveal more than results—they reveal character. Lately, I’ve seen too many posts where disagreement turns into name-calling. People using cruel words to feel powerful, to prove a point, or to silence someone who thinks differently. That’s not strength—it’s bullying.

Name-calling is bullying, whether it happens on the playground, at work, or online. It’s the adult version of the same behavior we try to protect our children from. When we use insults to feel superior, we aren’t empowering ourselves—we’re modeling disrespect. And our children are watching every bit of it.

For disabled individuals, this kind of behavior is painfully familiar. Many have lived their entire lives being belittled for how they communicate, learn, or move through the world. When adults—especially those in leadership—resort to name-calling, it reinforces the message that difference is something to mock rather than respect. It normalizes cruelty.

We cannot call for inclusion while excusing public bullying. True leadership—whether in politics, schools, or everyday life—requires humility, empathy, and restraint. Disagreeing doesn’t give anyone the right to demean another person. We can challenge ideas without attacking identities.

Words carry power. They can build bridges or burn them. If we want a more inclusive and compassionate world, we have to start with how we speak to and about one another.

Kindness doesn’t make you weak. Respect doesn’t mean you agree. And silence in the face of cruelty doesn’t protect peace—it enables it.

Let’s choose better. Because the words we use today will echo in the world our children inherit tomorrow.

The Accessibility NP

01/18/2026

01/13/2026

01/02/2026

11/29/2025

11/28/2025

11/23/2025

11/23/2025

11/15/2025

11/14/2025

11/11/2025

11/08/2025

11/05/2025

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