There’s always a moment where something simple stops being simple.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just … quietly.
We were looking for a place to go for my friend’s birthday. Nothing planned properly yet. Just scrolling, talking, seeing what looked good.
She found a restaurant she liked and went to check it out. Naturally, the website didn’t really work.
At this point, that barely feels like a problem. It’s more like a personality trait.
So, we did what everyone does now and moved over to Instagram.
And it looked good. It was the kind of place you don’t have to think too hard about before picturing yourself there. The lighting, the food, the whole feel of it was all there.
Then the menu showed up.
Pictures.
That’s usually the point where things split into two directions. For most people, it’s still just scrolling. Deciding. Moving on.
For me, and for those of us in the blind and visually impaired community, there’s always that half-second pause first. The one you don’t really announce to anyone. The one where you already know the next step is going to be different from everyone else’s.
At that point, it’s not just “what’s on the menu.”
It’s “how do I even read it?”
And yes, there are ways. Of course, there are ways. We live in a world where there’s an app for just about anything.
Naturally, none of them are built into the thing you’re actually trying to use.
Be My Eyes exists. Envision AI exists. AI or not, they do what they’re supposed to do. You point your camera, they describe what’s in front of you, and you work it out from there.
And I would use them. My friend would, too. Of course, we would.
But it still changes the shape of the moment.
What should have been a glance becomes a process. What should have been casual becomes something you have to decide to do. It’s no longer “let me check the menu,” but “am I going to go through the steps to check the menu?”
It sounds small when you say it like that.
Until you notice how often it happens.
Because the thing is, nothing about that moment needed to be complicated.
The images didn’t need to change. The way the restaurant presents itself didn’t need to change. The whole aesthetic of it could stay exactly as it is.
There’s a simple thing that solves it in the background: alt text. When images are posted, they can be described in text so a screen reader can read them out loud instead of leaving them blank or invisible.
A few lines. A description. That’s it.
Not a redesign. Not a new system. Just … words.
Enough for a screen reader to turn something visual into something readable without asking for help, without switching apps, without making it a whole decision.
Just … open it and go.
That’s it.
Instead, what happens is quieter than exclusion. It doesn’t shut the door completely. It just makes you pause in front of it long enough to decide whether it’s worth it at all.
And most people will never notice that pause exists.
Because if you’re not the one running into it, it doesn’t register as a barrier. It just looks like choice. Like preference. Like someone deciding to move on.
We ended up planning to go somewhere else. Not for any big reason that would make sense if you tried to explain it out loud.
The place looked good. It probably is good.
It just didn’t stay easy.
And that was enough.
That’s usually where it actually happens, if you pay attention. Not in the obvious moments where something is clearly inaccessible. But in the smaller ones. The ones that don’t announce themselves.
Where something that should have taken seconds quietly turns into something you have to weigh.
And if you’ve never had to stop and think about whether reading a menu is worth an extra step, then you probably wouldn’t even notice that decision happening.
But it does.
More often than you’d think.
And sometimes, something as simple as planning a birthday is all it takes.
This column is supplied in conjunction with the T&T Blind Welfare Association Headquarters: 118 Duke Street, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad
Email: ttbwa1914@gmail.com
Phone: (868) 624-4675
WhatsApp: (868) 395-3086
