The Revolution Will Have Alt Text

“If you can’t run a mile without stopping, you’re not ready for the apocalypse.”

When I read this quote on a friend’s Instagram story, it infected my mind for weeks. I had stress dreams about getting lost in alleyways, trapped for eternity in an endless maze. As a blind guide dog handler, I rarely travel without assistance. Bright, my dog, flunked out of the running guide unit during training; I’m not exactly marathon material either. If survival depends on sprinting, I probably won’t make it very far.

But the real issue is not whether I can run. It’s the version of survival that our hyper-individualistic culture demands: fast, isolated, physically strong, and self-reliant. I do not see myself as the main characters in the zombie apocalypse stories. I see myself in those quietly working together behind the scenes, the ones who survive because they have someone to call and someone to care for.

Disabled people already know how to survive in broken systems. We do it all the time. We adapt, we plan, we rely on one another. I bring eggs from my chickens to the neighbors. They give me a ride to the pharmacy when my transportation falls through. That’s not charity; it’s how we both get through.This kind of mutual care is what the disability justice movement calls interdependence, and it challenges the myth that any of us survive alone.

I prepare in other ways, too. I chaos garden. I buy flour in bulk. I label jars of preserved food with puff paint braille dots. But even the best-stocked pantry is not enough if I can’t access emergency alerts or mutual aid networks. I can’t volunteer if the sign-up sheet is a graphic with no alt text. I can’t join the ride list if it’s saved as a JPEG.

These are not small issues. In a crisis, they decide who gets help and who gets left behind. Inaccessible communication in emergencies shows how even protections promised by the ADA fall short when digital systems are not designed with us in mind. Even our own movements forget that access is the keystone to survival, not something to address only when approached by the squeaky wheel.

Sometimes disaster prep means emailing the local transit board because their annual reports aren’t screenreader compatible. Sometimes it means advocating for plain language in public health alerts. It means pushing for town halls to be held in buildings with accessible entrances. It means organizing to add image descriptions to the work of the photo-journalists documenting an ongoing genocide. These are acts of care. They keep the circle strong.

I’ll admit that my go-bag is lacking. But I do have a mental map of who can show up in an emergency, who needs support, and who might need a couch if they can’t make rent. I know who goes out of their way to make their digital content accessible. And I know who has space in their fridge if the power goes out. This is what safety looks like for me.

No, I cannot run a mile without stopping. But I know how to take care of people—and I know who will take care of me.

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Izzy Bailey (she/they) is a social work graduate student at the University of Maine who works at the intersection of disability justice, public health, and outdoor equity, drawing on her lived experience as a blind guide dog handler. She serves on various boards and councils including Maine Organization for Blind Athletic and Leadership Education (MOBALE) and the Guiding Eyes Graduate Council. Izzy is passionate about building more accessible communities across Maine and beyond.

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