In the Planning or the Pause: Reflections on Disability and the Shape of Inclusion

Exclusion doesn’t always come as a slammed door. Sometimes it slips in quietly—tucked into rushed decisions, or meetings where a single, unspoken perspective quietly shapes the room.

It lingers in small signals, the unspoken hints about who was counted on and who was overlooked. Sometimes, it’s in the seat left unreserved, the agenda item skipped, or the silence that follows when a voice asks, “Will this work for everyone?” and no one answers. When inclusion comes last—when captions are added late, or when participation is possible only after a barrier is named and navigated—it reshapes the invitation.

It tells the person arriving that they were not part of the original plan. When this happens often enough, it does more than complicate entry—it begins to reshape the experience of belonging itself. Over time, what may have started as a workaround begins to take on the weight of a message: you are welcome, but only if you ask. Only if you wait. Only if you adjust.

Exclusion isn’t always intentional. Sometimes it happens as a result of what gets prioritized first. When accessibility is considered only after everything else—or only when someone brings it up—it can send the message that it wasn’t meant to be included from the start. In those moments, what should be a standard begins to feel optional—like a courtesy extended rather than an expected part of how things are done. When something is treated as optional, it often becomes vulnerable to delay, compromise, or omission.

If inclusion feels uneven, it can slowly form a subtle but persistent pattern. While not always immediately noticeable, it becomes harder to overlook as time goes on. It resides in the margins, in the unspoken silences, and in the moments when someone questions whether their needs are unreasonable, just because they aren’t shared by all.

Earlier reflections on Wiley’s Walk have highlighted how architecture, tone, and timing reflect values and priorities. However, inclusion extends beyond presence—it’s about whether individuals are intentionally considered from the start. It hinges on whether communication, flexibility, and difference are built into the design and function of a space. Even when a space is physically open, it can still feel unwelcoming, and even when the words are right, the feeling may fall short—because something crucial was overlooked when it mattered most.

True inclusion begins with attentiveness from the start. It does not wait for a request to surface. It shapes plans with foresight and recognizes that equity is not achieved by having everyone follow the same path but by honoring diverse experiences.

It moves beyond simply addressing needs to creating spaces where no one is required to validate their right to belong. It notices absences and omissions without being prompted. It invites participation in a way that doesn’t depend on someone’s willingness to explain why they need a different way in.

In the end, what matters most isn’t just that someone arrives—but how they are received once they do. Whether their presence feels expected, whether their needs are anticipated, and whether the space expands around them rather than contracts. True inclusion is never just logistical. It reflects what is built in from the start—what is assumed, prepared for, and made standard. It shows up in what no one has to request. Inclusion holds when belonging isn’t an exception or an afterthought, but a given. Inclusion is strongest when it is part of the foundation, not a later fix.