Accommodations Aren’t Enough: What Structural Access Actually Requires
Bridgette Hamstead
The concept of “reasonable accommodations” has long been the cornerstone of disability inclusion in education, employment, and public life. Grounded in legal frameworks such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, accommodations are designed to provide disabled individuals with the supports they need to access the same spaces, opportunities, and services as their nondisabled peers. While the legal right to accommodations is undeniably essential, the dominant framing of access as an individual request within an otherwise unchallenged system is deeply inadequate, especially for neurodivergent people. Accommodations, as they currently function, often position access as a transactional, compliance-oriented exception to a norm, rather than a cultural and structural commitment woven into the design of the environment itself. To achieve anything approaching neurodiversity justice, we must move beyond accommodations-as-adjustment and toward access-as-transformation.
At their best, accommodations can be life-changing. When implemented well, they can offer much-needed relief from sensory overwhelm, executive dysfunction, overstimulation, and barriers to communication or participation. For some, they are the only way to survive inside systems that were never built with our minds or bodies in mind. But at their worst, and all too often, they are treated as burdens, as special favors, or as interruptions to the flow of business as usual. They rely on disclosure, documentation, and negotiation, forcing individuals to self-identify, prove their legitimacy, and advocate for themselves in environments that may already be hostile or unsafe. The burden of access falls on the person seeking it, rather than the institution offering it. This dynamic is especially damaging for neurodivergent people, whose access needs may be invisible, variable, or misunderstood, and whose diagnostic status may be delayed, contested, or financially inaccessible.
The accommodation model assumes a baseline environment that is neutral or universally accessible until someone requests otherwise. But there is no such thing as a neutral environment. All environments are designed around certain norms, norms of pace, tone, communication, productivity, behavior, and social interaction. These norms are not objective; they are rooted in white, neurotypical, cisgender, able-bodied, capitalist, and often patriarchal standards of what counts as appropriate or effective. Neurodivergent people are frequently expected to perform to these norms in order to access basic rights and opportunities. Accommodations are granted when someone is deemed unable to conform, and even then, they are often implemented with caveats, time limits, or suspicion. This framing of access as exception rather than assumption reinforces the idea that divergence is a disruption, a liability, or a request for “special treatment.” It positions disabled people as the problem to be solved, rather than inviting a deeper interrogation of the environment itself.
True access cannot be achieved through individual accommodations alone. It requires proactive, systemic design that anticipates a wide range of needs and builds flexibility, care, and adaptability into the structure itself. This is the principle of universal design, not just in physical architecture, but in pedagogy, workplace policies, community care, communication practices, and cultural norms. A universally designed workplace does not wait for someone to disclose ADHD before offering flexible deadlines. A universally designed classroom does not penalize students for needing to stim, move, or process information in nonlinear ways. A universally designed meeting does not require synchronous verbal participation to measure engagement. And most importantly, a universally designed space does not treat access as a chore or a disruption, it treats it as a shared responsibility and a reflection of values.
Structural access also requires a shift in power. Who decides what counts as access? Who determines whether a request is “reasonable”? Who defines productivity, participation, and professionalism? If these questions are always answered by nondisabled or neurotypical people in positions of authority, access will continue to be conditional, hierarchical, and extractive. Neurodivergent people must not only be consulted, we must lead. Our knowledge of what creates or blocks access is not anecdotal; it is expert, lived, and essential. Peer-led access audits, co-designed spaces, community protocols, and mutual aid networks are already offering blueprints for what truly inclusive design can look like. But they are rarely resourced or institutionalized. Until institutions are willing to cede control, redistribute resources, and center disabled leadership, access will remain something individuals have to fight for, one HR form, one professor, one policy exception at a time.
There is also an emotional cost to a system that treats access as a negotiation. Neurodivergent people are constantly forced to assess when and how to disclose, what language to use, whether a request will be seen as legitimate, and how much backlash or disbelief we are prepared to absorb. Even when accommodations are granted, they often come with scrutiny, resentment, or gossip. We are made to feel like we are asking for too much when in fact we are asking for what should have been available all along. The cumulative effect is one of chronic hypervigilance, internalized ableism, and burnout, not just from lack of access, but from the exhausting process of justifying our need for it. Structural access would mean being able to move through the world without constantly having to explain ourselves.
Accommodations are a start, but they are not the goal. They are reactive, individualized, and often insufficient. What we need is access that is anticipatory, cultural, and collectively held. This means shifting from a model of permission to a model of design. It means replacing the question “How can we accommodate this person’s difference?” with “Why was this space built in a way that excluded them in the first place?” It means understanding access not as an add-on or an afterthought, but as the foundation of any space that claims to be inclusive. And it means holding institutions accountable not just for whether they comply with the law, but for whether they live up to the values they profess to uphold.
The path forward is not simple, but it is possible. It requires imagination, humility, and a willingness to let go of systems that feel familiar but are deeply unjust. It requires acknowledging that the current model, even when well-intentioned, is failing too many of us. And it requires listening to the people most impacted, not just as informants, but as architects of new realities. Accommodations may open the door, but structural access builds a world where no one has to ask permission to exist. That is the future we must build together.
Reflection Questions:
When you think of “access,” do you picture individual accommodations or collective design? What shaped that understanding?
What assumptions have you been taught, explicitly or implicitly, about what a “reasonable” accommodation is? Who benefits from that framing?
Can you recall a time when you needed something but didn’t feel safe or legitimate enough to ask for it? What made it unsafe?
Who in your institution or community currently has the power to define what counts as a valid access need? How is that power used or withheld?
Are there “normal” practices in your work, classroom, or organizing spaces that are actually hostile to neurodivergent or disabled people? How are those practices justified?
Think about a time when someone disclosed a need or asked for a shift in structure. How did you or your community respond? What was made possible or not?
What emotional, logistical, or professional tolls have you witnessed or experienced when navigating access through individual accommodations?
What would change if access were treated as a shared responsibility rather than an individual negotiation?
What does it mean to proactively design a space, policy, or relationship with access in mind before anyone has to ask?
Are your definitions of “professionalism,” “productivity,” or “participation” rooted in ableist or neurotypical norms? How might they be redefined?
How does your organization handle disclosure? Is it trauma-informed, peer-supported, and culturally grounded or based in compliance and hierarchy?
If a neurodivergent person joined your workplace or classroom tomorrow, what would they need to unlearn, mask, or suppress in order to survive?
What access practices are already happening informally in your communities? What would it take to resource and formalize those?
How often do you treat access as something to be “managed” rather than something to be designed and sustained?
What possibilities open up when we stop asking how to include people in harmful systems and start asking how to co-create new ones?