My Accessibility Journey, Part 3: Accessibility Is About People, Not Checklists
Author: Gabrielle Likavec, Teaching & Learning Consultant, Office of Curriculum & Instructional Support
When I first began learning about digital accessibility, I was focused on the wrong questions. Like many educators, I wanted to know whether I was doing it correctly.
Was I using the right heading structures?
Had I written sufficient alternative text?
Were my documents accessible?
Did my course materials meet the necessary standards?
These questions were not unimportant. Standards and guidelines matter, as do technical skills. They provide a framework for creating learning environments that are more accessible to all students.
But over time, I realized that these questions were not the most important questions. The more meaningful question was much simpler: Who might encounter a barrier here?
That shift may sound subtle, but it fundamentally changed the way I think about accessibility. In many ways, it changed the way I think about teaching.
From compliance to curiosity
I have noticed that conversations about accessibility often begin with compliance. This is understandable. Accessibility standards exist for important reasons. Institutions have legal responsibilities. Faculty have obligations to provide equitable access to learning opportunities. These conversations matter and should continue.
At the same time, I have found that when accessibility is framed exclusively as a compliance issue, something important can be lost.
Compliance asks whether materials meet a standard. Curiosity asks how students experience it.
Compliance asks whether a document passes inspection. Curiosity asks whether a student can use it effectively.
Compliance asks whether a video contains captions. Curiosity asks whether those captions help students engage with the content.
The longer I work in higher education, the more I appreciate the value of curiosity. As educators, we routinely ask questions about student learning. We wonder why students struggle with particular concepts. We examine course outcomes and revise assignments. We reflect on our teaching practices.
Accessibility, I have come to believe, benefits from the same mindset. Rather than asking whether we have completed an accessibility checklist, we can ask how students are experiencing our learning environments. That question opens the door to deeper reflection.
The students we do not see
One of the most significant lessons accessibility has taught me is how much of the student experience remains invisible to us. As instructors, we often see only a small portion of our students' lives.
We see them during class discussions, office hours, online conversations, or through the assignments they submit. What we do not always see are the circumstances under which they engage with our courses. We do not always know who is reviewing lecture slides from a mobile device while commuting to work or who is watching course videos after putting children to bed.
We do not always know who is learning in a second language, navigating chronic health concerns, managing anxiety, or balancing coursework with significant family responsibilities. Nor do we always know who may be using assistive technologies to access course materials.
Accessibility has reminded me that good teaching requires a certain degree of humility. We cannot fully know every student's circumstances. What we can do is design with the expectation that students will bring different experiences, needs, strengths, and challenges into our learning environments.
In many ways, accessibility is simply the practice of taking that reality seriously.
Accessibility and the myth of the "typical" student
For much of higher education's history, many educational systems were built around assumptions about what a "typical" student looked like and how a "typical" student learned. Yet the longer I have worked with students, the more convinced I have become that there is no such thing as a typical student.
Students arrive with different educational backgrounds. Different cultural experiences. Different levels of familiarity with technology. Different learning preferences. Different strengths. Different challenges. Different goals.
The diversity of our students is one of the greatest strengths of higher education. It is also a reminder that learning environments designed around a single assumed experience will inevitably create barriers for some learners.
Accessibility challenged me to stop asking whether students could adapt to my course design and start asking whether my course design could better support my students. That shift has implications far beyond accessibility. It influences how I think about communication, assessment, flexibility, and course organization. It influences how I think about teaching itself.
The connection between accessibility and belonging
As my understanding of accessibility evolved, I began to notice its relationship to another concept that has become increasingly important to me: belonging. When students encounter unnecessary barriers, they often receive an unintended message. The message may not be explicit, but it is there nonetheless: This learning environment was not designed with you in mind.
Conversely, when students encounter materials that are organized, navigable, and intentionally designed to support diverse learners, they receive a different message: You belong here. Your participation matters. Your success has been considered.
Of course, accessibility alone cannot create belonging. Belonging is shaped by relationships, classroom climate, institutional culture, and countless other factors. Yet accessibility contributes to belonging because it reflects a commitment to designing learning environments where students can participate fully.
In that sense, accessibility is not merely a technical issue. It is a human one.
Accessibility as an expression of care
Perhaps the most profound realization of my accessibility journey is that accessibility is ultimately an expression of care. When we create accessible documents, we are communicating that students' ability to access information matters. When we caption videos, we are communicating that students deserve multiple pathways to engage with content. When we organize our Blackboard courses thoughtfully, we are communicating that students' time and cognitive energy are valuable.
None of these actions requires perfection. They simply require intentionality. The educators I admire most are rarely the ones who have flawless courses or perfectly designed materials. They are the ones who continually reflect, revise, and seek ways to better support student learning.
Accessibility, at its best, is part of that same process.
What I know now that I wish I knew then
I wish I had known that accessibility is really about all students
Early in my career, I viewed accessibility primarily through the lens of standards, documents, and technical requirements. While those elements remain important, I now understand that accessibility begins and ends with people. Every guideline, recommendation, and design choice ultimately exists because real students are trying to engage with our learning environments. Keeping students at the center of the conversation makes accessibility feel both more meaningful and more manageable.
I wish I had known that inclusive design benefits everyone
Over time, I stopped thinking about accessibility as a specialized set of practices intended for a small subset of students. Instead, I began seeing it as part of a broader commitment to inclusive design. The same choices that help students using assistive technologies often help them navigate busy schedules, learn in unfamiliar environments, balance multiple responsibilities, or simply locate information efficiently. Accessibility is not about designing for the margins. It is about recognizing the diversity that already exists within every classroom.
I wish I had known that accessibility would change how I think about teaching
Perhaps the greatest surprise of my accessibility journey is that it ultimately taught me less about technology and more about teaching. Accessibility encouraged me to think more carefully about how students encounter course materials, how barriers emerge, and how design choices influence learning experiences. In doing so, it strengthened my commitment to creating learning environments that are not only accessible but also welcoming, inclusive, and supportive.
A journey that continues
As I reflect on this journey, I realize that accessibility no longer occupies a separate category in my mind. I do not think about it only when I create a document, build a Blackboard course, or upload a video.
Instead, it has become part of how I think about educational design more broadly. I still make mistakes. I still encounter new challenges. I still have much to learn.
But I no longer see accessibility as a checklist waiting to be completed. I see it as an ongoing practice of noticing barriers, reducing them where I can, and remaining open to learning from the students and colleagues around me.
When I think back over my accessibility journey, I realize that the most important lesson I learned was not about heading structures, captions, or compliance standards.
It was about people. It was about recognizing that every student deserves the opportunity to engage in the learning experience fully. And it was about understanding that accessibility is one of the many ways we communicate a simple but powerful message:
You belong here.
You matter.
And your success is worth designing for.