Designing Mobile Solutions That Work for Every Ability

The morning was all Portland – that flat gray light, the smell of rain and coffee, the quiet. I was sitting at my usual café on Division St., with my laptop open, trying out the accessibility features on a city navigation app we’ve been building for the past few months.

The design that’s read by a tinny screen reader isn’t what the human sees That’s Button, unlabeled. Image, decorative. Map view, zoom level 2.” The guy next to me at the table looks over, confused. I smile, shrug slightly, and go back to work. This is the part of design people don’t see- the invisible stuff that makes everything else possible.

I work in mobile app development in Portland, at a tiny studio building software for nonprofits and civic projects. And most of these organizations, as it turns out, are trying to make life a little easier for people who all too often get left out of the tech “disruption”: seniors; the disabled; those reliant on public transit or an army of assistive tools. Glamorous? No, but there’s that kind of work.

Moment That Changed Everything

That was a few years ago when I developed an elegant fitness app during an internship. Good typography, fluid transitions, minimal color palette—basically everything design “internet” would classify as modern.

My boss, who was blind, took it upon herself to test it with her screen reader. I remember standing behind her, swagger ready to show off. But as soon as she began using it, everything began falling apart. The reader could find no labels; buttons were out of reach; images had no alt text. The app was just mute.

She stopped half-way, smiled very gently and said “Looks nice tho.”

That line still echoes in my head sometimes. It was polite, but devastating. That day, I learned something design school never really taught me: beauty doesn’t matter if it leaves people out.

Accessibility Isn’t an Add-On

We tend to treat accessibility like a checklist. Add captions. Modify contrast. Test for screen readers. Real accessibility isn’t just for compliance but is for empathy. Who does not attend because of what I built?

Design I’ve started to view through an entirely different perspective technique: testing an application now provides images of how the screen could be experienced by someone who cannot really see, or attempting to tap on tiny buttons like threading a needle, or reading through tight blocks of text like walking up dark stairs.

Every so often I’ll close my eyes and follow my prototypes by sound alone. Sometimes I’ll hand them to my neighbor, who grapples with arthritis, and just watch where her fingers hesitate.

That’s when it dawns on me: most of us design for people who move, see, and think exactly like we do. That’s the real world, however.

The Myth of “Normal”

‘User’ is used as though it refers to something universal. Like there’s a single ‘normal,’ one reference body, an average brain.

I was building a journaling app for neurodivergent teens. And the first draft was way too structured —– dropdown menus, rating systems, flows that just made sense. And then we tested one of the teens with it. “It feels like homework,” he said.

The interface was scrapped, and built to echo the rhythm of thought—open text boxes, color-coded moods, short sound cues for feedback. It was becoming something closer to feeling than typing.

That experience taught me something big: inclusivity isn’t just about features of accessibility—it’s an emotional access. Making technology feel like it belongs to everyone, not just the people it was “created for.”

Tangent—But Bear With Me

There’s that moment I perform when deep in testing mode. Toggling color filters, switching contrast modes, adjusting font size sliders – and then – my grandmother pops into my head.

She’s 76. Lives outside of the city. Probably uses her phone to send emojis and play solitaire. Smart. Curious. Stubborn. Always saying, “These apps aren’t made for me.”

It breaks my heart a little. Because she’s right. They weren’t.

Once, I redesigned a grocery delivery app for her to be able to use it Bigger text, clearer instructions, fewer screens. She cried when she realized that she could order her own groceries. No one had to help. It was the induction not the convenience.

That's what this work is really all about. Not features, not awards. Dignity.

The Invisible Design Wins

There’s a quote I have stuck up on my monitor: “Good design is when you don’t notice it working.”

And accessibility, at its best, vanishes. It does not announce itself. It does not feel special. It just…works.

Like a ramp that seamlessly merges with the sidewalk. Or a caption that flows without the slightest jerk of delay. It’s invisible until it’s not there — and then you realize how much you depended on it.

We discuss tech innovation as if it’s exclusively the shiny new thing at times when the most disruptive thing is ensuring universal access to what already exists.

Slowing Down

Designing for all abilities takes time. Actual time. And that’s tricky in an industry hooked on velocity.

There’s always pressure to get it out early, move fast, fix later. But “fix later” doesn’t work when “later” means people are excluded today. So I’ve started pushing back more. Adding time for inclusive testing, for real-user interviews, for pauses between builds. It’s not popular. It slows everything down. But slowing down is kind of the point.

Since when you slow down, you notice things — the pause before a touch, the split second someone’s expression lights up when an app just gets them. You notice who’s not in the room. And maybe that’s true inclusive design: Noticing what the speed of tech makes us forget.

Portland Way

Being in Portland makes this mindset easier somehow. The city moves at its own rhythm. Bike lanes, murals, constant rain. People here talk about community in a way that feels tangible.

Sometimes, when I’m testing accessibility features I’m thinking about the city itself as an interface. It’s got ramps and curbs and public buses that announce stops out loud. Someone designed that. Someone decided access mattered.

If cities can cater to everyone, why not apps?

Unnoticed Labor’s Still, Heady Pride

I usually try a last test of the build with all the accessibility modes on. Lights in my apartment dimmed, I’ll put my headphones on and sit listening to the robotic voice try and find its way through the app.

“Button labeled Submit. Success. Message sent.”

It stands for so much invisible work, all of it monotonous, mechanical, total lack of feeling, and how can I not be so madly in love with that?

Nobody will ever write that perfect headline of a well-tagged label or fixed contrast ratio. There is no glory in it. But there is a quiet kind of pride in knowing that out there, for someone who may have been shut out before, to be able to use something freely.

It’s not trending kind of success. It just matters.

The Future Is Human

I sometimes wonder if at some point, we won’t call it accessible design. Maybe it will be Design. Maybe we finally stop treating inclusion as a niche.

Until then, I’ll be the lone designer in a café, rain drumming on the windows, tweaking colors and trying to get screen reader tests to run. Because every time I hear that robotic voice flow smoothly through my work, I feel like I’m that much closer to the brand of tech I want out there- not one that just ‘works’ for most people but for everyone.

Maybe the future of design isn't just about being faster or sleeker or even smarter. Could it be more about being kinder?