I am autistic. This affects every aspect of the way that I interact with the world, and presents me with challenges not experienced by my neurotypical peers. I’ve talked here about how moving through a world designed for neurotypicals can be frustrating, and the accommodations I need in order to be on equal footing. Sometimes people look at what I’m asking for and think that’s the way things should always be done, or they ask me what “the right way” to design a space is to enable neurodivergent people to flourish in it. I hate to disappoint, but as with so many other things in life, it’s not that simple.
Let’s look at a common example: quiet spaces. My auditory processing differences mean that an environment with a comfortable background noise level for a neurotypical person may be distracting and painful for me. I need quiet in order to accomplish deep focus work. If I’m taking a test in class, I might ask for permission to use noise-cancelling headphones. If I’m visiting the library, I might ask that they provide certain hours where a lower noise level is enforced. Having these accommodations will help me succeed in the tasks I need to complete by making the environment more compatible for me. Some might look at these ideas and think, “these aren’t just good ideas for autistic people. I bet everyone would benefit from quieter study environments. Let’s make libraries quiet spaces all the time.”
But the experience I have with auditory stimuli isn’t the only one. And while I’m quieter than most (thanks, situational mutism!), I’m not the only kind of person that uses these spaces either. There is some evidence that some brains operate better with a consistent low level of background noise, with “study lofi” music stations being a popularly cited example. Vocal tics are also common among neurodivergent people, and rules requiring quiet can exclude them from being able to utilize spaces like libraries.
This type of conflict in access needs, where the accommodations needed by one group may result in the exclusion of another group, mean that it isn’t always possible to design a space that is accessible for everyone. And these conflicts aren’t always between different people. I often struggle with understanding speech and can benefit from seeing the mouth of the speaker, using the visual information from lip reading to supplement my audio processing so that I can capture more of what is said; but I also have difficulty parsing human faces and can easily be distracted trying to decipher facial expressions and body language, and by policing my own facial expressions and body language, when having conversations face to face or over video chat. Sometimes the additional work of visual processing is worth it for better audio information capture, and sometimes it’s more distracting and draining than it’s worth. Neither mode is consistently better for me. It’s a trade-off, and either way I’m going to lose to some extent.
Bottom line: there isn’t a single best way to design spaces to be accessible. While policies often try to identify the most accessible way to meet people’s needs, having a single optimal solution is rarely achievable. Having flexibility by time can help, so that groups can use spaces differently at different times, but even so may not be able to consistently meet the needs even of single individuals. Even as we acknowledge that there is no perfect solution, we should strive to create spaces that can adapt to the needs of individuals within each moment.