How AI Gave Me Access—and Why It Must Give Others the Same

Shawn Murinko is a disability advocate based in Olympia, Washington.

There are moments in life when the difference between failure and opportunity comes down to something most people never have to think about: whether you can physically turn a page.

In law school, I remember staring at towering stacks of casebooks—dense, heavy, and unrelenting. For most students, they were a rite of passage. For me, they were something else entirely. Living with cerebral palsy and using a power wheelchair, even the simple act of lifting a book or turning its thin pages was an exhausting, sometimes impossible task. What others could do in seconds could take me minutes, or leave me unable to proceed at all. I often wondered, quietly and painfully, whether I belonged there.

What made the difference was not strength or perseverance alone—it was compassion and access. My professors understood the reality I faced and allowed me to use online legal databases instead of physical books. That accommodation did more than help me succeed; it affirmed that my mind, not my mobility, was what mattered.

Today, artificial intelligence builds on that same principle—but with far greater reach. AI has not just made my life easier. It has given me something I once had to fight for every day: independence. It helps me read, synthesize, and navigate complex information without physical limitation. It removes barriers that once stood between me and full participation. It allows me to compete, contribute, and create on equal footing.

For people like me, AI is not a luxury. It is a lifeline.

And yet, I understand why so many people are afraid of it. There are serious and legitimate concerns about AI—concerns we cannot afford to ignore. Workers fear losing their jobs as automation expands. Artists worry that their creativity will be replaced or devalued. Environmental advocates point to the immense energy consumption required to power AI systems. Educators see students leaning heavily on AI tools and wonder whether critical thinking—the very foundation of learning—is at risk. And perhaps most profoundly, there is a growing unease that we are creating systems that could erode human agency itself.

These fears are real. They deserve respect, not dismissal.

But they are also familiar. There was a time when factory machines were seen as the end of meaningful human labor. There was a time when photography was dismissed as a threat to art. When the internet emerged, it brought with it fears of misinformation, isolation, and intellectual decline. Social media intensified those fears, raising urgent questions about mental health, privacy, and the vulnerability of young people. And in many cases, those fears were not wrong.

Yet we adapted. We created labor protections. We redefined creativity. We implemented digital literacy programs. We introduced safeguards—imperfect but necessary. Social media platforms, for example, are now implementing content restrictions for younger users, parental controls, and monitoring systems designed to reduce harm. These measures exist because people demanded them, developed them, and—importantly—continue to refine them.

But safeguards do not work on their own. They require vigilance. A content filter doesn’t protect a child if a parent doesn’t know it exists. A classroom policy doesn’t preserve critical thinking if educators aren’t equipped to teach alongside new tools. Workplace guidelines mean little without a culture of accountability. The lesson is clear: technology does not shape society alone—we do, through how we choose to engage with it. The same will be true for AI.

We cannot treat AI developers as adversaries and expect meaningful progress. Nor can we leave them entirely unchecked. Instead, we must do the harder work of collaboration. Policymakers need to sit at the same table as technologists. Educators need a voice in how AI tools are integrated into learning. Disability advocates, workers, parents—all must be part of the conversation. Because if we are not shaping AI, it will shape us.

And that brings me back to what is at stake. For people with disabilities, the stakes are deeply personal. Imagine a student who cannot hold a pen but can now write essays using voice-enabled AI. Imagine a worker who once struggled to organize tasks now using AI tools to manage their workload seamlessly. Imagine someone who has spent a lifetime excluded—not because of a lack of talent, but because of a lack of access—finally being able to participate fully.

This is not hypothetical. This is happening. AI-powered screen readers are interpreting visual content. Speech recognition is breaking down communication barriers. Adaptive systems are customizing how information is delivered, meeting people where they are instead of forcing them to adapt to rigid structures.

These are not conveniences. They are doors opening.

For too long, people with disabilities have been told to overcome their limitations—to work harder, adapt more, ask for less. AI flips that narrative. It asks: what if the barrier isn’t the person, but the system? And what if we can change the system?

That is the promise of AI. But promises mean nothing without action. Policymakers must recognize AI not just as a disruptive force, but as a tool for equity. That means funding accessible technology, embedding disability perspectives into policy decisions, and ensuring that accessibility is a requirement—not an afterthought—in AI development.

Employers must move beyond compliance and see inclusion as a strength. AI can help identify and remove barriers in the workplace, but only if organizations are willing to invest in it and prioritize equitable access.

Educators must teach students not to fear AI or rely on it by default, but to use it thoughtfully—to question, to analyze, to remain fully engaged thinkers in an evolving world. And all of us must resist the temptation to disengage.

It is easy to see AI as something happening to us—something distant, powerful, and uncontrollable. But that is not the reality. The reality is that AI reflects the choices we make: what we build, what we regulate, what we demand.

Which brings me, finally, to the heart of this piece. This is not an argument that AI is perfect. It is not a dismissal of risk. It is not another warning about what might go wrong. It is a reminder of what can go right.

Because for me, AI is not a headline. It is the difference between isolation and participation. Between dependence and autonomy. Between being told what I cannot do— and showing what I can. 

I have lived a life where barriers were constant. Where even small tasks required extraordinary effort. Where access was something I had to fight for, again and again. AI did not erase those struggles. But it changed what was possible.

And there are millions of people like me—people whose potential has never been fully realized, not because it doesn’t exist, but because the world has not been built with them in mind. We now have a chance to change that. But only if we act. Only if we demand safeguards where they are needed. Only if we collaborate rather than divide. Only if we see AI not just as a risk to be managed, but as a tool to be shaped—with intention, with care, and with a commitment to equity.

I am not asking for sympathy. I am asking for vision. For policymakers to lead. For developers to listen. For educators and parents to engage. For all of us to recognize that the true measure of technology is not how powerful it is, but how many people it empowers.

AI gave me access when I needed it most. Now it is our responsibility to ensure it does the same for others.