Jessica Collette

Imagine walking down a hallway toward a room you have every reason to enter. You can see the people inside. You can hear the conversation. You reach the door, turn the handle, and nothing happens.

It is locked. What do you do?

Maybe you look around for someone who can tell you why. Maybe you search for another way in. Maybe you stand there for a moment, hoping someone will notice that you are waiting. But what if no one does? What if everyone inside continues with their day, never realizing that you are standing just outside the door?

For many people with disabilities, this is not a moment. It is an experience.

The doors are not always made of wood and hinges. Sometimes they look like a document that cannot be read by a screen reader. A meeting where no one thought about communication needs. Information provided in a format that does not work for the person receiving it. A physical space that was designed with access in mind, but not for everyone. And sometimes, the hardest part is that the people inside the room do not even realize there is a door.

That is why inclusion isn't simply about knowing everything.

We will never know everything about every disability. We cannot possibly understand every barrier another person may encounter. And we should not assume that knowing someone's disability means we automatically know what that person needs.

Instead, we can ask.

What works best for you? How would you prefer to receive this information? Is there anything you need before the meeting?

Then we can do something that may be even more important than asking. We can listen. Because a person who is blind may prefer Braille. Another person who is blind may prefer an electronic document they can access with a screen reader. One person may want assistance navigating a space. Another may simply want you to ask before offering it. There is no single answer because there is no single experience.

A disability may be something people share, but the person living with it is still an individual. They have preferences. They have experiences. They know what works for them.

And sometimes, they know something we do not. That should not make us uncomfortable. It should make us curious.

Perhaps inclusion is less about having all the answers and more about being humble enough to say, "I don't know. Can you tell me what you need?" There is something beautiful about that kind of question.

It leaves room for another person to be the expert in their own life. It gives us the chance to learn instead of assume. To listen instead of decide. To open a door instead of standing on the other side wondering why someone has not walked through it.

We will not always see the locked doors. We may not recognize every barrier. We may make mistakes. We may discover that something we thought was helpful was not helpful at all.

That is okay. What matters is what we do next. We can ask again. We can listen. We can learn. And when someone shows us a door we could not see before, perhaps the most inclusive thing we can do is not tell them how they should walk through it. Perhaps we simply need to ask, "How can I help open it?"

There Are Some Lessons That Do Not Arrive Until We Lose Someone We Love

There are some lessons that do not arrive until we lose someone we love. I was reminded of that at my Great Aunt Joyce's funeral.

As family and friends gathered to celebrate her life, stories began to unfold. Stories of kindness, resilience, quiet generosity, and moments that many of us had never heard before. As I listened, I realized I was not only hearing memories of her life. I was also discovering how much of her story I had never known.

How often do we do that?

We wait until someone's funeral or celebration of life to discover who they truly were. We learn about their greatest adventures, their hardest seasons, the lives they quietly impacted, and the lessons they carried through life. By then, all we can do is listen.

What if we listened sooner?

Every person we meet has a story worth hearing. Behind every title, every first impression, and every ordinary conversation is a lifetime of experiences that shaped who they are. When we take the time to listen, we do not just honor someone else's life. We grow through it. We gain perspective. We become more compassionate. We learn resilience from someone else's challenges and gratitude from someone else's victories.

The next time you are sitting with a parent, grandparent, friend, or neighbor, ask one more question. Stay at the table a little longer. Invite them to tell you about the moments that changed them, the dreams they chased, the obstacles they overcame, or the people they loved most.

Do not wait until someone else's memories become your only way of knowing them.

At Aunt Joyce's funeral, a poem was read aloud. As I listened, I realized it was not just about remembering someone after they were gone. It was a reminder to celebrate people while they are still here.

Celebrate My Life

Remember me with love and joy,
Let gratitude fill your heart.
Thankful for the time we had,
Gone... yet not apart.
If we measured life in moments,
Not in months or years,
I lived a hundred lifetimes,
Loved by all who hold me dear.
I hope you'll find your smile,
And generously speak my name.
Share stories and my heart,
Your love for life unchanged.
Celebrate the life I lived,
I will be watching from above.
I am always with you,
Sending you my light and love.

Today, choose curiosity over assumption. Ask one more question. Listen a little longer. Celebrate the people in your life now, not someday.

Because the greatest gift we can give someone isn't waiting until they're gone to tell their story. It's taking the time to hear it while they can still tell it.

My First Teacher

There are some lessons that are never spoken aloud. They are placed gently into your hands through the ordinary moments of childhood, and only years later do you realize they have shaped the person you have become.

My first teacher was my father. I grew up learning that vision isn't just what you see; it's how you choose to show up for others.

My First Teacher

My dad lost his sight as a teenager, but I never knew him as someone who had lost anything. To me, he was simply my dad: steady, capable, and quietly courageous. Blindness was not the thing that defined him. It was simply one way he moved through the world.

Because of him, I grew up believing that trust was stronger than fear, that independence was not measured by eyesight, and that every person deserved the dignity of being seen for who they are rather than for what others assumed they could not do.

One spring Saturday, when I was no more than three years old, my parents stopped at a neighborhood garage sale. While they looked around, I wandered just far enough to discover what seemed to be the greatest treasure a child had ever known: a giant blue teddy bear. To an adult, it may have stood only four feet tall. To me, it reached the sky.

I hurried back to my father, slipped my tiny hand into his, and asked him to come with me. Without question, he followed. Together, we crossed that yard, not because he could see where we were going, but because he trusted that I could.

That bear, forever known in our family as Bluey, became much more than a childhood keepsake. It became my first lesson in partnership. The world often imagined my father needed someone to lead him. What I learned instead was that strength sometimes looks like trusting another person's gifts while never surrendering your own.

What I Began to Understand

As I grew older, I began to understand the world in ways I hadn't before. I watched people speak to me instead of my father, even though he was standing right beside me. I watched voices grow louder, as if blindness somehow affected hearing.

Those moments stung, but over time I came to understand something important. Most people weren't trying to be hurtful. They were acting from uncertainty. They simply had never been taught another way.

That realization changed me.

Walking Toward My Purpose

Years later, when I joined the Virginia Department for the Blind and Vision Impaired, I believed I was accepting an administrative position. What I did not know was that I was walking toward my purpose.

One conversation changed everything.

Someone who should have known about our services didn't. I remember leaving that conversation with one overwhelming thought: If people don't know we exist, how many are living without the help that could change their lives?

I couldn't let that question go.

Within weeks, I found myself sitting across from our Commissioner, explaining why our story mattered and why it needed to be told differently. He listened. Then he handed me an opportunity.

For years, I carried two jobs because I believed in one mission. I learned. I built. I listened. I found stories waiting to be told.

Eventually, communications became my full-time work. In truth, it had become my calling long before it became my title.

Accessibility Is an Invitation

Today, every message I write begins with one simple belief: accessibility is not an accommodation. It is an invitation.

It is choosing words that welcome instead of exclude. It is speaking directly to the person who is blind instead of to the person standing beside them. It is asking, rather than assuming, what someone needs.

These may seem like small decisions. Yet small acts of inclusion have always been the seeds from which belonging grows.

Every day, I have the privilege of telling stories that remind people what is possible. I tell parents that blindness does not place limits on their child's future. I tell adults adjusting to vision loss that independence has not abandoned them. I tell families they are not alone. And I tell communities that people with disabilities are not defined by what they cannot do, but by the gifts, talents, wisdom, and strength they bring to all of us.

He Was Showing Me Mine

When I think about why this work matters, my mind always returns to that little girl leading her father across a yard toward a blue bear. At the time, I thought I was showing him the way. Now I understand that he was showing me mine.

His resilience became the foundation beneath my own. His life taught me that the greatest barriers are often not physical but the limits we place on one another through misunderstanding.

Every project I lead, every story I tell, and every effort I make to expand access is, in some small way, an extension of the lessons he gave me.

Some people spend a lifetime searching for their purpose. I was fortunate. Mine was quietly waiting for me, holding my hand long before I ever knew its name.