

For three years, Marcus asked for a consistent later start time. Not remote work—not at first. Just a schedule that let him arrive at 10 instead of 9, so he could manage his chronic pain without calling it a medical appointment every single morning. His supervisor said the nonprofit couldn't accommodate that; clients expected early availability, even though no clients ever called before 9:30. HR rejected his request twice, once invoking policy and once suggesting he consider whether the sector was right for him.

Then March 2020 happened. Within a week, everyone worked from home, and Marcus's "unreasonable" accommodation became standard practice. Not because the organization suddenly believed in accessibility, but because remote work was now necessary for all staff. His flexible schedule wasn't a favor anymore—it was just how the office operated.

He's still remote. He's still productive. His clients have never noticed a difference. What changed was not the work or his capacity to do it, but the organization's willingness to see what had been right in front of them for years.

This is the part that keeps me up at night. I helped design hiring programs at a nonprofit for six years. I sat in meetings where we discussed accessibility as a compliance checkbox, not a lived reality. We celebrated our "people-first" culture in annual reports while my colleague Marcus drove to work in pain because we couldn't imagine letting him skip the 9am standup.

Now, as organizations announce return-to-office mandates, I'm watching us quietly undo the only real accessibility win I've witnessed in two decades of nonprofit work. We're not firing disabled employees outright—that would draw legal scrutiny. Instead, we're asking them to prove, again, why they deserve a workplace that works for their bodies. Most won't. They'll leave. And we'll call it a "return to normal," as if normal ever included them.