The morning something felt very wrong
It was a Saturday in July 2018, the morning after a very stressful 12-hour work day. I woke up ready to start my day when my legs started trembling. Suddenly, I couldn’t walk without holding on to the wall. Then my legs just gave out beneath me.
That moment changed everything.
Doctors confirmed I had a full ischemic stroke.
When words stopped behaving
One of the hardest things was how words seemed to jumble themselves when I tried to read. Sentences that made perfect sense the day before suddenly looked like scrambled puzzles. Letters would shift places or disappear. It felt like the words were moving around on the page, and I had to chase them down just to make sense of a simple sentence.
That confusion was frustrating and scary. It wasn’t just physical; it was like my brain was fogged, scrambling the building blocks of language itself.
Signing forms became a struggle
I couldn’t hold a pen steadily. Typing felt like a toddler pounding keys. My right side was running on half power. I am right-handed. Or at least, I used to be right-handed.
Six months later, most movement came back. But my view on design shifted forever.
From ticking boxes to truly understanding
Lesson 1: Remember that not all disabilities are visible
Weeks after my stroke, a bus driver instructed me to give up my seat for women and children on a packed bus. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t verbalize in high-pressure situations. My legs were still weak and I couldn’t stand safely while the bus was moving. I was able to tell those around me that I had a stroke and wasn’t trying to be a jerk.
This moment taught me that disabilities don’t always show on the surface. People can struggle in ways you might not see. Designing for accessibility means building experiences that work for everyone, including those whose challenges aren’t obvious.
Lesson 2: Avoid designs that limit how people use them
If a single way to interact fails, the whole experience shouldn’t collapse. Designs need to flex and adapt to any way someone can use them.
The unseen cognitive challenges
Exercise and stretches worked on my muscles. But mental clarity took longer. I forgot simple things: names, syntax, the quick jump from idea to prototype, core memories. I wondered if I had lost critical thinking for good.
Relearning meant breaking tasks into small, manageable pieces: find the problem, ask who cares, list limits, sketch one low-risk idea. It was humbling. But it was also the same method we recommend to users who face focus challenges every day.
Lesson 3: Build tasks that hold up when attention drifts
Use short paragraphs, single-purpose screens, and autosave so users can safely come back later without losing progress.
A harsh but honest empathy lesson
Many teams run empathy exercises: one-handed phone use, goggles that simulate vision loss, or timed form completion with eyes closed. My stroke was the full, longer version of those exercises. I couldn’t clock out. Every struggle was a real report from the front lines.
From that came a new way to measure accessibility. I call it grace distance: the number of mistakes, pauses, or hesitations a product lets slide before someone gives up. The bigger the grace distance, the less likely someone is to abandon the task.
Building back stronger
My graphic design skills came back first. Critical thinking returned slower, in small steps. But when it did, I saw things differently:
- Sharper language. I cut jargon because it felt like noise.
- Modular flows. If I couldn’t finish a task in one go, neither could some users. I began designing easy exits and safe return points.
- Ruthless prioritization. Energy was limited, so every pixel had to earn its place.
What felt like lost ground gave me a new perspective. I stopped chasing wow moments and focused on widening the ramps.
Four ways to raise your product’s grace distance
- Offer many ways in. Touch, keyboard, voice, and assistive tech should all lead to key actions.
- Save early and often. Autosave every meaningful step so no one fears losing work if they need to pause.
- Let components adapt. Buttons that grow on hover, text that flows at 200 percent zoom, panels that collapse for focus.
- Narrate progress. Clear focus outlines, live updates, and progress indicators reassure users who need extra time to process.
The bigger picture
One in six people worldwide lives with a significant disability (source). That number grows when you add temporary or situational challenges, like a broken wrist, recovering from surgery, or caring for a baby at 1am. Designing only for the ideal user ignores both the math and the reality.
Looking ahead
I wouldn’t wish a stroke on anyone, but it changed how I see design. Accessibility is no longer a checklist or a side project. It’s the road we build on.
If your roadmap lists accessibility as phase two, think about making it phase zero. You might find, as I did, that a solid inclusive foundation makes everything smoother for everyone who comes after.
