When people hear the words "assistive technology," they often picture specialized equipment, adapted devices, or software designed specifically for people with disabilities. I know that world well. I've used assistive technology for most of my life, and I also spent much of my career working in the assistive technology field. I remember when tools that helped with typing, communication, or computer access often involved evaluations, specialized software, training, and sometimes a fair amount of effort to get funded.
Today, some of the assistive technology I rely on the most looks completely different. It's my phone. My laptop. The camera in my pocket. The app I use to order lunch. The technology that helps me pay at a store or control something in my house without physically going across the room. Most people would call those things conveniences. I call many of them assistive technology. Living with cerebral palsy has taught me that the difference between convenience and accessibility often depends less on the technology itself and more on the person using it.
Capturing the moments that don't wait
One of the places I notice this the most is the camera on my iPhone. My hands shake – some days more than others. On particularly good days, I prefer to call it "natural image animation" because that sounds much more artistic than saying I can't hold a camera steady. Unfortunately, natural image animation doesn't produce a lot of frame-worthy family photography.
Years ago, taking a picture could mean several attempts, blurry images, or asking someone else to take it. Video could be even more difficult. The problem wasn't simply getting a bad picture; it was missing moments that weren't coming back. I've probably felt that most at the baseball field. When my son is playing, everything happens quickly. A pitch, a throw, a play behind the plate – nobody stops the action so Dad can steady his camera and request another take.
Image stabilization and increasingly capable smartphone cameras changed that for me. I can pull out my phone, start recording, and let the technology compensate for some of what my hands can't control. There's something important in being able to do that myself. I'm not handing my phone to another parent or asking somebody else to record the moment for me. I'm simply another dad along the fence with his phone out, probably recording considerably more baseball than anyone else will ever want to watch. For most people, image stabilization is a camera feature. For me, it's accessibility.
When my voice does the typing
Writing is another area where mainstream technology has quietly become assistive technology for me. Some days, my hands cooperate reasonably well. Other days, typing feels a little like trying to text while driving over railroad tracks. Those are dictation days. I use voice dictation for emails, notes, messages, and even parts of articles like this one. Instead of forcing my hands to keep up with what I want to say, I can speak and continue working. Dictation isn't perfect, but it doesn't need to be. It simply needs to remove enough physical effort that I can keep going.
Siri has been equally useful, although for a different reason. Because cerebral palsy affects my speech, I assumed voice assistants and I would spend most of our relationship arguing over what I had actually said. Instead, Siri understands me more often than not. I use it to send quick messages, check the weather, set reminders, and handle other small tasks without navigating through several screens or typing everything manually.
None of those interactions sounds life-changing on its own. Accessibility often works that way. Save a little effort here, avoid several taps there, remove one frustrating interaction, and eventually all of those small improvements add up. And any time Siri understands me before someone in my own family does, I choose to consider that a technological achievement rather than investigate the possibility of selective hearing.
Paying without the extra physical steps
The same idea applies to everyday transactions. Handling cash isn't particularly easy for me. Pulling a credit card from my wallet, lining it up with a reader, inserting it, removing it, and entering a PIN all involve fine motor movements that most people probably never think about. Face ID and Apple Pay remove many of those steps. I can authenticate using my phone and complete a purchase without fumbling for cash, handling a card, or carefully aiming at a tiny keypad. For someone else, Face ID and Apple Pay may simply be faster. For me, they reduce a physical barrier.
The purchase itself hasn't changed. What has changed is the amount of effort between me and completing it independently. That's a big part of how I think about assistive technology now. Sometimes, accessibility isn't a completely different way of doing something. Sometimes it's simply removing unnecessary steps from the way everyone else already does it.
When ordering lunch becomes an accessibility issue
Restaurant apps may be one of my favorite examples because almost no one thinks of them as assistive technology. Because cerebral palsy affects my speech, ordering in a busy restaurant can sometimes require more effort than the meal itself. There's music playing, people talking, kitchen noise, and someone trying to hear me from the other side of a counter.
"What was that?"
I repeat myself.
"Sorry?"
Eventually we get there, but by then I've invested far more energy in ordering a sandwich than anyone should. With a restaurant app, I can look through the menu, choose exactly what I want, make modifications, pay, and send the order directly to the restaurant. I don't have to simplify my order because communicating a change is becoming frustrating, and I don't have to wonder whether I was understood correctly. That doesn't mean I'm trying to avoid people; I like interacting with people. The app simply gives me another way to communicate when the environment itself creates a barrier.
Smart home technology does something similar physically. Turning off a light, changing the thermostat, or checking something elsewhere in the house may not seem demanding, but those extra trips add up. If I can accomplish the same task with my phone or my voice, that's energy I can use somewhere else. Again, someone else may call that convenience. For me, it can also be accessibility.
Convenience and accessibility can be the same thing
After years of both using and working with assistive technology, I think this overlap between convenience and accessibility is one of the most interesting changes I've seen. Voice commands are convenient when your hands are full – they're accessible when using your hands is difficult. Dictation is convenient when you want to write quickly – it's accessible when typing requires more physical effort. Image stabilization helps everyone take better pictures – it helps me capture moments that shaky hands once made much harder to record. A restaurant app can save someone else time – it can save me from struggling to communicate over background noise.
The technology hasn't changed; the person using it has. That's why I no longer think assistive technology has to look specialized or carry an accessibility label. Sometimes it does – specialized assistive technology remains incredibly important for people whose independence, communication, education, employment, and daily lives depend on it. But sometimes assistive technology is already sitting in your pocket. For someone else, it may mean convenience. For me, it may mean independence. Most days, I'm perfectly happy for it to be both.
About the Author
Glenn Moscoso is a retired Assistive Technology Coordinator and founder of WheelchairDaddy.com. Combining his professional in accessibility with his personal experience as a wheelchair user, Glenn writes about preparedness, independence, and the everyday realities of rolling through life.
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