I’m in Las Vegas today, spending time with my siblings—something I’ve been looking forward to. Like any trip, I made my arrangements in advance, making sure to request what I needed: an accessible room with a roll-in shower. Simple enough, right?
Well… not quite.
When I checked into the hotel, the first thing I noticed was the front desk. At a glance, it looked like it was trying to be accessible. The counter was a bit lower than standard height—but not quite low enough to truly function as an ADA-compliant counter. It lived in that all-too-familiar gray area: designed to appear accessible without fully delivering on usability.
It’s a small thing, maybe. But it sets the tone.
Then I got to my room.
Everything seemed in order at first. The layout worked, the space was navigable, and the bathroom included the roll-in shower I had specifically requested. So far, so good.
But then I noticed the handheld shower wand.
It was mounted at the very top of the adjustable slider bar.
Now, technically, that bar is designed so the shower head can be moved up or down. In theory, that’s great. In practice, though, if it starts in a position I can’t reach, it defeats the entire purpose. Accessibility doesn’t mean “adjustable if you can access it”—it means usable from the start.
So I made a call.
Room service transferred me to housekeeping. Housekeeping told me they couldn’t adjust it. At that point, I shifted gears a bit—because sometimes being polite isn’t enough. I explained, firmly, that this is an accessible room, and if I can’t reach the shower head, then it isn’t accessible. Period.
That got me transferred again… and placed on hold.
After sitting there for a few minutes, I had a realization.
Why am I waiting for someone to maybe solve this over the phone?
So I hung up and called housekeeping again—this time with a simple request: could they send up a couple of towels?
When the staff member arrived, I asked—in person—if they could lower the shower head.
Problem solved. Instantly.
No resistance. No confusion. Just a simple fix.
And that’s what stuck with me.
The issue wasn’t that the solution was difficult. It wasn’t that the staff was unwilling. It was that the system itself wasn’t built with real-world use in mind—and the people within it weren’t always equipped to recognize what accessibility actually requires.
This experience is a reminder of something I talk about often:
Accessibility isn’t about checking a box.
It’s about whether something actually works for the person who needs it.
Too often, spaces are designed to meet minimum standards on paper, but they fall short in practice. And when they do, the burden shifts to the individual—to speak up, to problem-solve, to find a workaround.
Today, I did what many of us do. I adapted. I found a way to make it work.
But here’s the bigger question:
What if I didn’t have to?
What if accessibility wasn’t something we had to fight for in small moments like this? What if it was simply… built in?
That’s the goal. And until we get there, I’ll keep telling these stories.
Because sometimes it’s the everyday experiences—the check-in counters, the shower heads—that reveal the biggest gaps.
By Doug Vincent
