I recently read an article in The New Yorker that has stayed with me. It told the story of Sara Fernandez, a lawyer and federal employee with dwarfism who built her career in the Department of Homeland Security’s Office for Civil Rights and Civil Liberties (CRCL). Her work was straightforward but vital: making sure employees and members of the public were treated fairly, and that the department itself followed the law.
Earlier this year, Fernandez received word that her office was being dissolved. Declared “non-essential,” CRCL was shut down, and she was placed on leave before being terminated. The article described how this decision fit into a broader trend: programs and offices that supported people with disabilities across government have been scaled back, grants cancelled, staff cut, and even basic accommodations for federal employees delayed or denied.
A Fragile Foundation
Reading Fernandez’s story, I kept thinking about how uncertain protections can be. We often assume that once a law is passed—whether it’s the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 or the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990—the matter is settled. The reality is more complicated. These laws are only as effective as the offices, staff, and budgets assigned to carry them out.
Fernandez’s experience showed how quickly that foundation can shift. She did everything right: studied, worked hard, dedicated herself to public service. Yet the very institution that supported fairness was removed from under her. It made me wonder how many others quietly find themselves in the same position, with their access to fair treatment thinning not because the law changed but because the means to enforce it was taken away.
This is the essence of vulnerability. For those who do not currently identify as having a disability, it is easy to overlook. Yet disability is not a fixed category; it is part of the human condition that most of us will encounter, whether temporarily or permanently. That means the weakening of protections is not about “them.” It is about all of us, sooner or later.
The Long Road to Inclusion
Support for people with disabilities has never come automatically. For much of our history, they were excluded—kept in institutions, denied employment, or left out of public life altogether. It took decades of advocacy to secure even basic protections. The Rehabilitation Act was the first step, prohibiting discrimination in federal employment. The Americans with Disabilities Act expanded those protections into workplaces, schools, and public spaces.
These laws were never the end of the story. They created obligations that demanded monitoring, enforcement, and a cultural shift in how disability is understood. Offices like CRCL were built to carry out that work, and they often made the difference between fairness that was theoretical and fairness that was real.
When those offices shrink or vanish, people are left without a place to turn. That can mean a worker waiting months for a simple accommodation like a standing desk, a student whose complaint about exclusion in school is never investigated, or a family who suddenly has to navigate long-term care without the support they expected.
Lives Behind the Policies
What I carried away from Fernandez’s story was not just the loss of her position but the uncertainty it created for her family. Her salary and health insurance were a lifeline. Her husband, a green card holder working freelance jobs, and her children relied on that stability. Without it, their footing became less secure.
Her story mirrors what many families face. When oversight and support recede, it isn’t felt in newspaper or digital headlines. It shows up in smaller but deeply personal ways: a medication schedule that can’t be accommodated, a job interview that never happens because bias goes unchecked, a child who feels left out because resources were cut. These are the everyday consequences of what can look, from the outside, like abstract budget decisions.
Holding the Line
What stayed with me in the article was not only the loss but also the determination to continue. Fernandez has spoken out, challenged her dismissal, and shared her story publicly. Others are doing the same—through lawsuits, whistleblower letters, and advocacy campaigns. That response matters. It shows that even when structures weaken, people still find ways to press forward.
It reminded me that progress is not self-sustaining. Just as roads, bridges, and public buildings need upkeep, so do the systems that ensure fairness. Offices must be staffed, policies reviewed, and complaints taken seriously. Without that work, access erodes quietly, even if the law remains unchanged.
Fernandez’s story is less about one person’s career than about the fragility of a larger promise: that people with disabilities will have a fair chance to participate fully in public life. That promise does not keep itself. It requires attention—from government, from institutions, and from us as individuals.
What We Choose to Value
What lies ahead is more than preservation; it is about reinforcement. The way we support people with disabilities is not secondary. It reveals whether fairness and inclusion are values we intend to uphold for everyone.
The work now is not only to keep what is in place, but to deepen and expand it. The degree to which people with disabilities are supported signals how much we value fairness and inclusion across all walks of life. Fernandez’s story is a reminder: progress is fragile, but it is also renewable. The responsibility to renew it belongs to all of us.
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