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The federal government created ABLE accounts so disabled people could receive funds without losing benefits. No fundraising platform will deposit to them. That’s not how this is supposed to work.

NVDA doesn’t tell you whether a window is maximized when you query the title. JAWS does. I built a small add-on that adds this feature, with a dedicated command and an optional NVDA+T enhancement that matches the JAWS behavior.

I’ve been sitting with a vision for months. A learning program designed for multiply disabled people from the ground up. Not accommodations bolted onto a broken system, but something built for us as the default case. This isn’t a launch. It’s a ramp.

A reflection on seven months of loss, change, and becoming. How my plans fell away so something else could take shape, and how I found peace with who I’m becoming, even while some questions remain unanswered.

The existing word prediction tools don’t work with NVDA. So I built my own add-on that predicts words using n-gram analysis, announces them through NVDA’s speech engine, and works inside the screen reader instead of against it.

Steam added accessibility features in 2025, but the desktop experience with NVDA still has real barriers. Here’s what works, what doesn’t, and what Valve should fix next.

A lifetime of being talked down to, left out, and left behind by people who assumed I couldn’t rather than asking what I needed. This is what infantilization looks like from the inside, and what it costs the people it happens to.

The privacy community pushes self-hosting, de-Googling, and more private alternatives as universal goods. But for disabled users with multiple conditions, those solutions often cost more, work less, and break when we need them most. Privacy shouldn’t require giving up the tools that keep us functioning.

I built a screen-reader-first kingdom builder because I can’t play the games the audiogame community keeps making. The alpha is live, the feedback is coming in, and it works.

The care system measures whether you can walk, eat, and speak. It doesn’t measure the kitchen you can’t use, the routine you can’t control, or the relief of finally stopping the impossible job of being your own full-time caregiver while disabled.

My family built a vocabulary for what it’s actually like to live in my body. Systems have their own vocabulary, and none of it has room for mucus-y days, whooshy nights, or the dog who saw the version of me that was actually there.

Multiple disabilities don’t add up to twice the difficulty. They compound. And the hidden cost of producing “acceptable” output from a system with no reserve capacity is one that no assessment, no checklist, and no institution has ever known how to count.