A few weeks ago, my colleague Chris Wood was travelling to a meeting on an overcrowded train when he overheard a conversation about accessibility. His ears immediately pricked up.

Afterwards, Chris posted about the chance encounter on LinkedIn. One of the people involved, Harry from Accessible Events, replied:
“It’s a rare occasion that happens, isn’t it? Your ears prick up at the word accessibility.”

It was a lovely observation. But it started a train of thought.

Is accessibility really that rare? Or do we simply not notice it until somebody gives us a reason to?

We’ve all heard of “six degrees of separation” — the idea that any two people in the world are linked through a surprisingly short chain of acquaintances.

But when it comes to disability, I’m beginning to think six is five ‘degrees’ too many. And I believe I can demonstrate that... right here and now.

I’d like you to think of someone you know.

Don’t overthink it. Just the first person that comes into your mind. Your mum or dad, perhaps. Maybe a sister or brother. What about Auntie Vera? Your partner/spouse... or one of your children or grandchildren. Your best friend. Or someone you work alongside every day.

Got them?

Good. Now I want you to think about that person.

Perhaps their knees aren’t what they used to be. Perhaps they live with anxiety, dementia, autism or ADHD. Maybe they have hearing or sight loss... chronic pain... use a wheelchair, or have a condition or disability nobody can see. Perhaps they’ve always been fit, active and fiercely independent — until an operation, illness or injury suddenly changes things. Now they need crutches or a wheelchair, help around the house, or assistance getting on and off a train; things they may never previously have given a second thought.

Suddenly, “disability” isn’t six degrees of separation away.

It’s one. Possibly even none – because the person you thought about might be you.

Whatever the reason, there is a good chance that something most of us barely notice can make their world more difficult. An unfamiliar place. A flight of steps. A noisy environment. Information they cannot access. Not knowing what to expect when they arrive.

Sometimes that person will ask for help. But not always.

Sometimes they will simply decide not to go.

But this isn’t generally how we talk about accessibility.

We talk about the percentage of the population who are disabled or have additional needs. We quote statistics. We discuss Equality Act obligations... reasonable adjustments... business cases - and we factor in “The Purple Pound”.

All of that is valid. All of it is important.

But it is remarkably easy for the person holding the purse strings to hear all of that and simply think numbers – not people.

And that is part of the reason accessibility so often becomes a cost.

Because once we turn ‘people’ into ‘percentages’, accessibility becomes something to quantify. Something to justify. Something to put into a business case, weigh against competing priorities... and, when budgets get tight, perhaps quietly defer until next year. Or until never.

So maybe we need to bring the conversation much closer to home.

Don’t ask a decision-maker to think about “disabled people”.

Instead, ask them to think about someone they know.

Their mum. Their Auntie Vera. Their child or grandchild. Their best mate. The colleague sitting three desks away from them.

Then ask them to imagine that person deciding not to visit the place they manage because they don’t know what to expect. Struggling with an environment everybody else takes for granted. Quietly removing themselves from an opportunity rather than asking for help.

The same person who may be unable to access the place for which they hold the purse strings.

That changes things.

Because in our personal lives, we rarely ask for a business case before making life easier for someone we care about. If your dad starts struggling with steps, you don’t ask whether a handrail delivers sufficient ROI. If your grandson needs certainty before visiting somewhere unfamiliar, you don’t demand evidence that helping him is commercially viable.

You help.

Yet somewhere between our personal and professional lives, accessibility changes. It becomes a project, a compliance issue, a budget line.

The person disappears. The cost remains.

Perhaps that is the bit we need to reverse.

Because the moment there is a face attached to accessibility, it stops being about “them”.

It becomes about us.

And perhaps that is where the real lightbulb moment lies.

If the person controlling the budget can see accessibility through the eyes of somebody they actually know and care about, maybe we stop having to “sell” accessibility at all.

Because accessibility was never somebody else’s issue.

It was... and is... always ours.