I’ve been working in the fields of disability inclusion and digital accessibility for over two decades. I’ve filed thousands of bugs. I’ve led accessibility programs at major tech companies. I’ve served on standards committees. I’ve written hundreds of articles and spoken at dozens of conferences. I have three disabilities myself.

And yet, I don’t call myself an accessibility expert.

This came up recently as I was being introduced to a new team, which really made me look at my internal motivations for this choice, which seemed to confuse the other people on the call. It isn’t humility theater or false modesty. It’s the result of significant discomfort with the term “expert,” resulting from a lot of overthinking and concerns about saying the wrong thing harming the communities you’re trying to serve.

The Imposter Syndrome Alarm System

Every time I’ve considered adding “accessibility expert” to my LinkedIn headline or Twitter bio, an alarm goes off in my head. It sounds suspiciously like imposter syndrome, but I’ve learned to listen to it anyway.

The alarm asks uncomfortable questions: Expert compared to whom? Expert in what, exactly? Expert enough for people who are blind when I’m not blind myself? Expert enough for people with cognitive disabilities when that’s not my lived experience? Expert enough to keep up with the technology I’m trying to make accessible, which changes every six months?

Here’s the thing about imposter syndrome in fields like accessibility: sometimes it’s not actually imposter syndrome. Sometimes it’s your brain getting hung up on the fact that the definition of “expert” was built for a different field with clearer boundaries, a more stable knowledge base, and less impact on people’s lives if you get it wrong.

The Expert Trap

The word “expert” carries weight. It suggests completeness and the end of a journey, where you have arrived at a destination where you know what needs to be known. The mismatch is that accessibility isn’t a destination. It’s a moving target being shot at by someone who’s also running.

For some people, declaring expertise creates a cognitive trap. Expertise declares you have all the answers. In accessibility, expertise is often more about knowing what questions to ask than about what answers to give.

I’ve watched self-proclaimed “accessibility experts” confidently explain solutions that would work great for their own disabilities while completely missing how those same solutions would create barriers for someone else. I’ve also seen people with impressive credentials bulldoze the lived experiences of disabled people who don’t have those credentials but who know what they’re talking about because they’ve been living it.

I refuse to be those people.

What I Say Instead

When someone asks what I do, I tell them about my experience. I tell them I’ve been doing disability inclusion and digital accessibility work since 2004. I talk about my own disabilities and neurodiversity, along with my personal assistive technology use. I describe leading accessibility programs, the teams I’ve built, the people I’ve mentored, and proudly discuss the products I’ve helped make more accessible.

If it’s relevant, I mention my committee work—standards development, policy consultation, and advisory boards. I also talk about my degrees in computer science, law, and business. I don’t do this to waive credentials around; rather, to explain what point of view I bring to my work.

Most importantly, I’m very explicit about my limitations. I do not have lived experience of being blind. I don’t know what it’s like to navigate the world with certain cognitive disabilities. I can read the research, listen to users, consult the guidelines, and do my best, but I absolutely will not claim expertise for experiences I haven’t lived.

This approach annoys some people. They want the clean hierarchy of credentials and titles. They want to know if I’m “qualified” to speak on accessibility. They want the shorthand that comes with being declared an “expert.”

In short, my response to this is “sorry, that’s not who I am.”

The Pressure to Perform Expertise

There’s enormous pressure in this field to fit a particular definition of what an accessibility professional should be. You’re supposed to

1) know all the WCAG success criteria inside out

2) have opinions on the latest assistive technology

3) be able to confidently answer any question about any disability in any context

This is a composite sketch of an impossible unicorn-like accessibility professional. It requires knowledge of everything about every disability and how people with any disability interact with every piece of technology ever invented.

I spent years trying to fit that definition. Years of overthinking every statement, every presentation, every article. Years of wondering whether I knew enough, had experienced enough, and had the right combination of lived experience, technical knowledge, and policy understanding to have opinions that should be taken seriously. I called myself an “expert” for a while, and then, as I gained more experience, I realized there was too much I didn’t know and could never learn.

What Actually Matters

Here’s what I’ve learned matters more than expertise:

Don’t be Pretentious. Being willing to say “I don’t know” or “That’s outside my experience, let me connect you with someone with more experience in that area than I have.” Having that kind of network is critical to accessibility success.

Active Listening. Listening to disabled users, especially when they’re telling you that the accessible solution you’ve built isn’t actually accessible for them. It’s uncomfortable, but again, critical to accessibility success.

Specificity. Instead of claiming broad expertise, be clear about what you do know and what you don’t. “I have experience with color contrast and magnification, but screen reader use isn’t my strength,” is a good example of how to do that.

Continuous learning. Understanding that accessibility changes constantly. There are always new technologies, standards, barriers, solutions, and perspectives from the disability community to keep up with.

Accountability. Being willing to publicly admit when you are wrong, learn from mistakes, and correct course when you mess up.

None of these things requires you to be an expert. In fact, declaring yourself an expert might make them harder to accomplish.

The Overthinking Never Stops

I will always overthink everything; that is just part of who I am. Before I publish an article, I review it multiple times to make sure I’m not speaking for disabilities I don’t have, not claiming knowledge I don’t possess, not accidentally positioning myself as more authoritative than I am. Some people might see this as a waste of time. I see it as essential to doing competent work.

Working in the accessibility field is like paying high stakes poker. When you get it wrong, people can’t use the products you’ve built. They can’t apply for jobs, access education or healthcare, or participate in civic life. Accessibility mistakes don’t just harm egos; they hurt real people in concrete ways.

So yes, I overthink. I question myself. I check my assumptions. I listen to that imposter syndrome alarm when it goes off, because sometimes it’s trying to tell me something important.

And I don’t call myself an accessibility expert.

What I call myself is someone who’s been doing this work for a long time, who has some relevant lived experience, who’s learned a lot but has a lot more to learn, and who’s committed to getting better at it.

That might not fit neatly on an email signature or LinkedIn headline. But it’s honest. And in a field where we’re asking organizations to be honest about their accessibility barriers, honesty about one’s self-descriptions seems like a good place to start.

If you’re working in accessibility and struggling with similar questions about expertise and credentials, know that you’re not alone. The field is full of people who care deeply about getting it right, who overthink because the work matters, and who understand that uncertainty can be a feature, not a bug. Keep asking questions. Keep listening. Keep learning. That’s the actual work.