I wrote this for my son's first birthday.
Today you turn one.
You have no idea what that means yet. You don't know what a birthday is or why the people around you keep smiling so wide when they see you. You don't know what a cake is, but that's about to change.
What you do know is people. You know when someone is happy to see you. You know when a room feels safe. You know when you belong somewhere and when you don't.
You figured that out all on your own.
I work in accessibility. And I know it sounds like a dry corporate thing. But it's not at all. Not really.
Accessibility is the belief that the things we build, be it a website, an app, a building or any experience really, should work for everyone who needs it. Not just the people we thought of when we were building it or those who look like us or understand the world the way we do.
Everyone.
I didn't stumble into this work by accident. I came to it because I started paying attention to those around me. I noticed the person who couldn't read small text that I thought looked elegant. And the person tabbing around my webpage without a mouse.
I never meant to not think about them when I built the things I did. I never decided to exclude anyone. But exclusion is never loud. I realise that now.
So here's what I want to teach you, kid.
I want to teach you that the world is built by people who make decisions. Sometimes those decisions are careful and thoughtful and generous. And sometimes they just build the thing that works for them and don't look around when they do.
You're going to find both kinds of people in this world. You'll walk into rooms that feel like they were made for you. And you'll walk into rooms where that is very clearly not the case.
What I hope is that you notice that and, more than anything, don't go around blaming anyone for it, because there's no one really to blame.
Instead, try to do better.
There will come a time when you will have a say in how rooms are built. When you do, think beyond those around you. Think of the person who can't see as well as you or read annoying complicated words like you can. Think of those that want to work differently than you and of those that have access to different things than you do.
Just by doing that, you'll do better. You'll make things better for everybody.
You're going to grow up in a world that is building itself faster than I can keep up. Every day, I see new tools, new platforms and new ways of connecting and communicating. And somewhere in all this building, someone is getting left out. Maybe a lot of someones.
I'm not going to lie to you and say that's going to stop. But I do believe it can get better when more people care.
You've been in my life for one year and you've already made me a better person at this job. Not because of any specific thing that happened. But because watching you experience the world for the first time reminded me what it feels like to need things to be clear.
You needed me to slow down, to be patient and to meet you where you were, not where it was convenient for me. And damn did I screw that up so many times these past 12 months. But every time I didn't, you lit up, smiled and laughed!
That's what accessibility feels like when it works.
So happy birthday, little one.
I'm going to keep doing this work. And someday, when you're old enough to understand it, I'm going to tell you it's because you deserve to grow up in a world that makes room for everyone.