Walk A Mile in my Shoes

“Walk a mile in my shoes, see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel. Then maybe you'll understand why I do what I do.”

This quote has always resonated with me. But after attending a recent national conference with nearly 800 participants packed into a sprawling, noisy hotel, it’s been echoing in my mind louder than ever. I was there to co-present a session and represent the organization I serve as board chair of. Professionally, I was proud. Personally, I came away exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and physically.

From the moment I walked into the hotel with my CEO and another colleague, the environment posed challenges. The hotel’s towering ceilings and cavernous lobby amplified every sound and voice into a wall of noise.

As someone who’s blind, I rely on auditory cues to orient myself and connect with others—but in that chaotic space, I could barely hear someone unless they were directly beside me. It was disorienting and unnerving. Then came registration. Like everyone else, I approached the check-in table—only to find the process required using an iPad, which wasn’t accessible to me. Our CEO quickly stepped in to assist, but what lingered with me wasn’t the technology.

It was the woman’s response when my CEO—who ironically was also presenting a session on accessibility and universal design—explained I was blind and the registration process wasn’t very accessible. Her response? “Aaaaw.” Not, “How can I help?” Not, “Let me find a workaround.” Just that one small word, with the unmistakable tone of empty pity. In that moment, it wasn’t the device that made me feel excluded. It was her indifference—her inability, or perhaps unwillingness, to even imagine what it might be like to walk a single step in my shoes.

To be clear: I don’t share this story to call out the conference organizers or that woman. I don’t believe there was ill intent. I’m writing this to create awareness—not blame. These moments matter. Because they reflect how easily we overlook the experiences of others, and how much power we have, in small moments, to either include or isolate.

The rest of the conference brought more of the same. The hotel was a labyrinth. Without help, I’d have been completely lost. The constant din made it hard to track where I was or who was nearby.

And that’s part of what people don’t often realize: it’s not that I don’t want to mingle. I do—I’m an extrovert by nature and love meeting and talking to people. But mingling depends on seeing someone across a room, catching someone’s eye, hearing your name in a crowd and turning toward a familiar voice.

None of that is accessible to me.

There were likely people I knew standing right next to me. But I didn’t know, and I couldn’t know. So, I often stood still and quiet, unsure if I was surrounded by strangers or friends. I worried I seemed cold or standoffish. But more than that, I felt invisible. Not metaphorically—in a very real, palpable way. It’s a strange and isolating thing to exist in a space so bustling with people and still feel unseen. Not because people ignored me, but because they didn’t understand what I was navigating. They didn’t realize how hard I was working just to stay grounded, how disoriented and overwhelmed I felt in the noise and chaos. That lack of awareness—the gap between what others perceive and what I experience—can feel just as isolating as the inaccessibility itself.

The truth? I was trying—hard—to be present, professional, and engaged in a setting that made that nearly impossible. And through all of it, I was not alone. I’m profoundly grateful to my colleagues who were with me every step of the way—from the airport to the hotel, through every session, and finally back home.

They helped me get from my room in the morning and back again at the end of each day. They guided me through crowds, brought me food from the buffet, helped me find meeting rooms, and even helped me get to the bathroom—something that, I’ll admit, happens a bit more frequently than it did when I was twenty years younger.

Their support meant the world to me. But if I’m being perfectly honest, it also weighs on me.

I often carry an internal dialogue—one that tells me I’m a burden, an obligation, that things would be so much easier for them if I weren’t there. I want to be clear: they don’t make me feel that way. That’s my own inner voice, the one that speaks from the tired places inside me, the one that forgets I have value simply by showing up and being part of this work.

It’s the subtle but constant negotiation between being grateful for help and yearning for autonomy. The world doesn’t often make room for both at once, and navigating that tension can be quietly exhausting.

This is what it means to walk in my shoes at a conference. To not only face the logistical hurdles of physical inaccessibility, but also to carry the emotional load of wondering whether your presence is a disruption. To be highly capable, highly prepared, and still dependent. To be aware of how much harder it is to feel central when the space—both physical and social—pushes you to the margins.

And still, I showed up. I co-presented. I fulfilled my role. And I came home proud—but also reminded of how far we still have to go.

Inclusion isn’t just about ramps and screen readers. It’s about human connection.

It’s about replacing reflexive pity with thoughtful curiosity.

It’s about noticing who might be standing quietly at the edge of the room—and asking, “How can I help?” So before you assume someone is unfriendly or disengaged, pause. Consider that they might be navigating a reality you can’t see.

Better yet—walk beside them. You might learn more than you expected.

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.