Why Universal Design Mattered to Me Before I Was Disabled

In the last two posts, I wrote about seeing disability from three perspectives: caregiver, designer, and disabled person.

The caregiver perspective came first. Working as a CNA showed me how physically demanding movement can be and how much environments shape what bodies are able to do.

But long before disability became part of my own medical reality, accessibility already mattered to me as a designer.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand why.

Now I do.

Accessibility in the Design World

When you work in architecture or interior design, accessibility is part of the conversation.

There are codes.

Door clearances.
Ramp slopes.
Turning radii.
Reach ranges.

Design teams often ask straightforward questions:

Does it meet ADA requirements?
Will it pass inspection?

Those questions matter. Accessibility laws exist because people fought hard for them.

But building codes represent minimum standards, not ideal solutions.

Universal design asks a different question.

Instead of asking, “Does this technically pass?”

It asks:

“Does this space actually work well for the widest range of people?”

That difference may sound small, but it changes how a space functions in real life.

Minimum Code vs. Real Usability

Take ramps as an example.

The ADA allows ramps to be built at a 1:12 slope, meaning for every inch of vertical rise, the ramp extends twelve inches horizontally.

Technically, that meets accessibility standards.

But anyone who has pushed a wheelchair — or tried to use one independently — knows that a 1:12 ramp can be extremely difficult.

For someone using a manual wheelchair, it requires significant strength.

For a caregiver pushing someone up the ramp, it can be physically exhausting.

For people with chronic fatigue, heart conditions, joint instability, or balance issues, that slope may simply be too steep.

And in northern climates like Michigan, weather makes the situation worse.

Ice or snow can turn a 1:12 ramp into something that is effectively unusable.

A ramp can meet code and still be inaccessible in everyday conditions.

Shallower slopes like 1:16 or 1:20 are far easier for many people to navigate, though they require more space to build.

Doorways reveal similar gaps between code and reality.

Accessibility standards often require 36 inches of clear width for a doorway.

On paper, that allows most wheelchairs to pass through.

But maneuvering through a 36-inch doorway often leaves almost no room for hands or turning angles.

I experience this regularly in my own home.

I use a standard-sized wheelchair in a trailer house, and the doorways are tight enough that I have smashed my hands on the door frames more times than I can count.

Technically, the wheelchair fits.

Functionally, it’s frustrating and sometimes painful.

Wider doorways — 42 inches or more — dramatically improve usability.

Manufactured and mobile homes often still rely on narrow interior door frames, which can create barriers even for people using standard mobility equipment.

A space can pass inspection and still be difficult to navigate.

That gap between compliance and usability is something designers don’t always experience firsthand.

Why I Notice These Things

Part of the reason these issues stood out to me long before disability entered my own life has to do with autism.

I was diagnosed with autism as an adult, and suddenly many of my lifelong reactions to environments — light, sound, and spatial layout — made much more sense.

It isn’t that other people can’t notice environmental details.

Many people do.

But for me, those details aren’t just observations.

I feel them.

Lighting doesn’t just look bright.

It can feel sharp and draining.

Noise isn’t just background sound.

It can make concentration physically difficult.

Crowded layouts don’t just look busy.

They can create a sense of pressure in my nervous system.

These sensory experiences make the environment impossible to ignore.

Because of that, I was always paying attention to how spaces affected people.

Where someone could sit.

Whether movement through a room felt smooth or awkward.

How sound, lighting, and layout influenced the way people behaved.

Universal design resonated with me because it acknowledged something I was already experiencing: spaces shape how bodies and nervous systems function.

Some environments support regulation and ease.

Others quietly create stress and fatigue.

That awareness shaped how I thought about design long before disability became part of my own life.

The Perspective I Had Then

At the time I was advocating for accessibility as a designer, I didn’t know that disability would eventually become part of my own life.

And I didn’t yet understand how much autism influenced the way I perceived environments.

But the awareness was already there.

Caregiving had shown me how much effort movement can require.

Autistic sensory awareness made environmental stress difficult to ignore.

Universal design gave language to something I had already been noticing.

The Perspective I Have Now

Today my perspective includes lived disability.

Chronic illness has changed how my body moves through space.

Fatigue, pain, and mobility changes make environmental design much more noticeable.

The same questions I once asked as a caregiver and designer now show up in everyday life.

Is the ramp manageable?

Is there room to turn?

Is there somewhere to sit?

Does this space support my body, or does it drain it?

These questions shape whether people can participate fully in the spaces around them.

The Thread That Was Always There

Looking back now, the pattern is obvious.

Caregiving showed me how much effort movement requires.

Design taught me how environments shape what bodies can do.

Autistic sensory awareness made environmental stress impossible to ignore.

Living with disability now brings those perspectives together.

What once felt like separate chapters are really different ways of learning the same lesson.

Bodies exist inside environments.

And the environments we build either support those bodies — or make life harder than it needs to be.

Looking Ahead

In the next post in this series, I’ll explore the difference between accessible and actually usable spaces.

Because many environments technically meet accessibility standards while still creating barriers in everyday life.

And understanding that difference is where real accessibility work begins.

If you’d like to read more reflections like this, you can explore the rest of the blog here:

www.restorativehealinghaven.com/the-restorative-blog