I walked in a proud voter and walked out feeling like an afterthought

I went to vote this week. That sentence should feel simple, ordinary, almost boring. It should not come with a story. But here we are.

And if I’m being honest, this wasn’t the first time.

The last time I voted, I ran into issues too-different details, same outcome. Lack of access. Lack of understanding. The quiet shift from independence to dependence. I remember leaving frustrated, but also telling myself it was probably a one-off. A bad day. An anomaly.

So I walked into my polling place this time feeling… optimistic. Like maybe things would be different.

They weren’t.

My husband and I showed up at our polling place for the primary, ready to do what millions of people across the United States do without a second thought. I gave the poll worker my name and address and told her, clearly, that I am blind and would need the assistive voting device so I could hear the screen and cast my ballot independently. To her credit, she knew what I was talking about. She said okay. Then, almost as an aside, she added that I could bring someone into the booth with me to help or have a polling judge help.

I said thank you, but no. I wanted the assistive device. I wanted to do it myself.

Because that’s the whole point.

What followed set the tone. She asked, “Is this information correct?” I had no idea what information she meant. I couldn’t see a screen. I didn’t even know there was a screen. My husband had to step in and say, “She can’t read that, she’s blind. But yes, it’s accurate.”

And just like that, I was no longer an independent voter.

She handed me the device, walked both of us into the booth, plugged it in, and told me that when I turned it on, it would give instructions. Simple enough.

Except—it didn’t.

I turned it on. Nothing.

I tried again. Nothing.

My husband tried. Still nothing.

So he went to get help. The first woman was busy, so another worker came over, looked at the machine, and said, “I’m not familiar with this,” and left to find someone else.

Let that sink in.

We are required to have accessible voting equipment. But the people running the polling place didn’t know how to use it.

Eventually, the first woman came back, pressed a few things, and finally, finally, we got audio. A voice began giving instructions on how to vote using the device. Relief, right?

Not quite.

At the end of the instructions, it said: to begin voting, press the X in the middle of the box.

I pressed it.

The instructions started over.

I pressed it again.

The instructions started over.

My husband tried.

The instructions. Started. Over.

Over and over again, the same loop. Instructions with no way forward. A perfect metaphor, honestly. He went back out-again-to get help. She came back in, tried again, couldn’t get it to work, and… that was it. No backup plan. No escalation. No “let me find someone who does know this.” Just a quiet, unspoken shrug.

So I gave up.

And I hate that part the most.

I said we’d just do it the “old-fashioned way,” and my husband helped me vote.

Now let me be very clear: I trust my husband. Completely. Even when we don’t agree politically, I trust him to respect my choices.

But that is not the point.

The point is that I shouldn’t have needed him.

Voting is not just about the outcome, it’s about the act. It’s about autonomy. Privacy. Dignity. It’s about being able to stand, independently and say: this is my voice.

And this week, I didn’t get that.

What if I had come alone?

What if I didn’t have someone I trusted?

What if I were in a relationship where I couldn’t trust the person standing next to me?

What if I simply didn’t want to share my choices with anyone, because voting is supposed to be private?

These aren’t hypothetical questions. They are real scenarios for real people.

Accessible voting isn’t a bonus feature. It’s not a “nice to have.” It is a fundamental part of participating in a democracy. My right to vote is not just the right to have a ballot filled out, it is the right to do so independently and privately, just like everyone else.

And yet, the system that is supposed to guarantee that right failed me: lack of awareness, lack of training, broken equipment, and no meaningful backup when things went wrong.

I walked into that polling place as a voter.

I walked out feeling like an afterthought.

And that’s not okay.

Written By Michelle Friedman

Michelle Friedman is the board chair of Keshet in Chicago, a member of Disability Lead and has been a disability advocate for 40 years. She has written two children’s books and is a frequent speaker for elementary and high school-age students. #AllInForAllAbilities