Why Universal Design is a Goal Worth Pursuing, Even If It’s Impossible
There is only one space perfectly designed for our bodies: the womb. It is the only environment, biologically and evolutionarily shaped for us. Once we leave that place, all other forms of shelter are unequal in their ability to accommodate our bodies, needs, and limitations. Architecture, at its most fundamental, is the practice of trying to shape the built environment to house our lives — to create forms that hold our bodies, interests, fears, joys, and cultures. And yet, it is an imperfect science. No building can anticipate or suit every individual equally. Still, the pursuit of universal design — a built environment accessible to as many people as possible — remains a goal worth chasing.
I learned this not in a classroom, but as a kid.
When I was five years old, my younger brother Cole began having seizures. I remember one in particular, sitting on our couch watching Winnie the Pooh, when his body suddenly convulsed, his tiny frame shaking uncontrollably. It was terrifying. That moment marked the start of Cole’s lifelong experience with epilepsy. Over the years, our family adapted to the unpredictability of his seizures — watching him wear a padded helmet to school, enduring the stares and teasing, pushing him through school hallways in a wheelchair after an injury.
Spaces that were designed for “everyone” weren’t designed for Cole.
As I grew older and pursued architecture, that realization stuck with me. Most of the environments we move through daily — schools, museums, parks, homes — are designed for an able-bodied, neurotypical, predictable experience. And for those whose bodies or minds function outside those norms, the built world becomes a landscape of obstacles: thresholds too high, lighting too harsh, corridors too confusing, surfaces too dangerous.
Universal design asks us to do better.
It acknowledges that no two people inhabit a space in exactly the same way. That disability isn’t rare or abnormal — it’s a natural, inevitable part of being human. Whether temporary, permanent, visible, or invisible, we all live with limitations. Universal design means anticipating a wider range of needs, abilities, and experiences within our spaces, aiming to craft environments that are more flexible, forgiving, and humane.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: perfect universal design is impossible. Human variability is infinite. The accessibility needs of one person may directly contradict the needs of another. Designing a space to be soothing and low-stimulus for one person might make it disorienting for someone else. Universal design isn’t a finish line we’ll ever cross — it’s a conversation we commit to, an evolving discipline that adapts with new research, technologies, and lived experiences.
And that’s okay.
Because the pursuit of universal design isn’t about perfection — it’s about empathy. It’s about acknowledging that architecture isn’t neutral. Every design decision either opens or closes doors for someone. The goal isn’t to eliminate all barriers, but to become better at seeing them, and to be relentless in our efforts to remove what we can.
When I designed a home for Cole, I wasn’t just solving a design problem — I was learning how to see the world through his eyes. And that act of seeing is what universal design demands of all of us.
We may never build the perfectly accessible world. But the attempt itself makes the built world a kinder, safer, more beautiful place to inhabit. And isn’t that what good architecture is for?
