There’s a particular supermarket near me where the automatic doors open with the confidence of a man introducing wrestlers at a village fête.
They’re not too fast and not too slow. Just a calm ‘fwump’ that says, ‘Come in. Nobody’s going to make you explain yourself here’.
This means that I don’t have to scramble around trying desperately to figure out where the handle is, or do the classic push-pull dance to ascertain which way it opens because I can’t see the sign which clearly tips off everyone else.
In short, I don’t have to feel self-conscious, appearing to any onlookers like a helpless child in the body of a woman in her flirty thirties! I can just walk through the doors confidently, simply being me.
That is, honestly, at least half the battle already won.
It’s easy for brands to believe customer relationships are built on loyalty cards, giveaways and cheerful emails containing the phrase “Hey superstar!” We all love a little tickle to the ego of course, but being blind, my loyalty is usually built from much stranger ingredients. Tiny things, yet very human things. The sort of details most businesses don’t even notice they’re doing.
For example, I once stayed loyal to a café for nearly three years because a man called Darren always told me where the muffins were using clock directions. He’d cheerily say things like, “Blueberry at twelve o’clock, chocolate at three. And something with pumpkin seeds nobody trusts at six!”
It made me laugh. It was perfect. I felt as though we were practically family from the first time he did it!
You see, that’s the thing about accessibility. People often imagine it as grand gestures involving expensive software, clever slogans and futuristic tech that whispers your name like a haunted butler!
In reality, true loyalty (the kind that actually makes its mark and matters) is usually born in remarkably ordinary moments.
The member of staff who says: “Would you like me to read the menu?” without sounding frightened or the website that doesn’t collapse like a damp accordion the second a screen reader touches it! That little bit of extra thought and care which goes such a long way in helping us all through our own messy, stressy lives.
It’s the simplest things that make our days really, isn’t it? For me, that just so happens to be something like a train company whose app allows me to book assistance without requiring the navigational skills of an astronaut trying to reverse park on the moon!
Once a business gets those things right, something beautiful happens — I relax.
This kind of relaxation may not sound like much on the surface, but it is, in fact, enormous. We underestimate it and what it can mean for people.
As someone who spends her life navigating spaces that weren’t designed for someone like me, I can sometimes feel a bit like a meerkat with an anxious disposition. I go out and I’m constantly alert. I’m listening to everything. I’m mentally assessing it all. I catch myself wondering whether this next interaction will be smooth, deeply awkward or spiritually damaging!
Spoiler: sometimes it’s a combination of all three!
So when a business removes those barriers, I definitely remember.
It might sound silly, but truly these are the encounters I remember forever. I retell them to my friends and family in the same way that others talk about how someone smiled at them for no reason and it felt like a lovely moment of connection. It’s a shame I can’t see all the many people I like to assume do the same to me every day really!
Essentially, I’m loyal to brands that understand dignity. Theirs is not performative dignity or the sort that arrives in a press release with stock photos of people laughing at salads.
In my experience, real dignity can be as simple as being spoken to directly, instead of through whoever happens to be standing next to me. It might be found in the thoughtfulness of staff introducing themselves, instead of clumsily yanking at my arm as though we’re escaping a burning casino!
Dignity can also be digitally realised. It can come in the form of websites where buttons are labelled properly and intuitively, instead of simply making Trevor (my poor, exhausted screen reader) tirelessly announce, “BUTTON! BUTTON! BUTTON!”.
Let me tell you, that sounds less like fun, carefree online shopping and more like a small robot panicking — which is exactly what it is! Poor Trev.
If a business gets accessibility right once, that’s lovely. If they get it right consistently, my loyalty hardens into something rock solid.
If that’s you, I will defend your business with the intensity of a man protecting an unusually good garden rake from his shifty-looking neighbour. I’ll recommend you to everyone. I’ll continue using your services, even when another company arrives, waving discounts around like a bunch of balloons trapped in a wind tunnel.
To me, trust matters more.
Trust is built in a million little moments. Trust means I know your checkout won’t suddenly become unusable after an update designed by some bloke called Tristan who refers to himself as a ‘Digital Disruptor’. It means I know your staff won’t react to my blindness as though I’ve arrived carrying a rare tropical bird. Most of all, it means I don’t have to rehearse simple tasks or conversations in advance. It means that, with you, I feel like I belong.
Whether they are disabled or not, if you can give someone that feeling (that sense of natural ease and confidence), you’re no longer just selling coffee, train tickets, books, or socks. You’re selling something I think we all need — relief.
The truth is, businesses sometimes miss how emotionally exhausting our lives can be. For you, that might look like your job, looking after your family, the latest argument with your other half or your flakey friends. I can relate to all of those!
Other causes of minor emotional meltdown for me include every inaccessible app, every badly designed self-checkout, every staff member whose insecurity around disability inadvertently leaves me feeling terrible about myself — you know what it’s like; it all accumulates.
Every day, we all acquire tiny cuts into gaping wounds. So, when a business genuinely tries to make things that little bit easier, it stands out immediately.
Of course, I’m not expecting perfection. I think most of us are realistic. We know systems fail, technology breaks and sometimes the accessible entrance is guarded by seventeen bins and a traffic cone that appears to have accepted its battered fate.
What really matters is attitude and effort. A willingness to learn and grow.
If a staff member says: “I’m not sure of the best way to help – what works for you?” that’s excellent! That builds loyalty far quicker than polished marketing campaigns involving ukuleles and shampoo that gets you a promotion.
The best part is that the businesses that do accessibility well often excel at customer service generally. Once you learn to think carefully about one group of people’s experience, you usually become better at thinking about everybody’s. You become more attentive, flexible and most importantly, human.
This is probably why the places I’m most loyal to rarely feel corporate — even when they are. Instead, they feel considerate, caring, honest and homely. That is what sticks in people’s minds and carves the stories they will go on to tell about your business.
Years ago, I visited a small shop where the owner walked me through the layout the first time I entered. It was basically: “Till at the back, shelves on the right, fridge on the left and dog bowl near the door for your guide dog. Oh and mind the display stand because it attacks without warning!”
Nancy (my guide dog) was chuffed! I felt empowered. It took thirty seconds. No fuss or performance. Simple, straightforward support.
Guess what? I still go there, because loyalty, at least for me, is built through moments where somebody makes life slightly easier without making you feel slightly smaller.
Honestly, that’s the sort of thing people remember for much longer than five reward points on their purchase costing £500. They may possibly even remember it longer than Darren’s clock-face muffins — although, let’s face it, those were exceptional and legendary, except for the pumpkin ones!