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Through a Different Lens

What Silktide Taught Me About Digital Accessibility

Posted by Liezl van Wyk | Instructional Designer & Teacher

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When I opened the Silktide Toolbar, I assumed I knew about accessibility. Years of designing lessons for five- and six-year-olds in China made me proud of my bright, engaging slides and welcoming resources. But minutes after toggling the simulation filters, I learned accessibility is not a checklist. It is a perspective I must live every day.

The Disabilities I Chose to Explore

I focused on three Silktide simulations: low vision, complete color blindness, and dyslexia. These represent barriers I see in my Prep 5 classroom daily. Some students squint from the back row. Others confuse red and green phonics cards. Some process text differently than most. If my digital materials fail them, I am failing them twice: first by not noticing, and again by not designing better.

I spent an afternoon reviewing three websites I use regularly: a popular educational video platform, a free worksheet repository, and our school's learning management system. I kept the Silktide Toolbar active in Chrome, switching between filters while I navigated each page.

What I Experienced: The Hardships

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The low-vision filter was my first shock. The page wasn't just blurry. It was tiring. Headlines I thought bold enough merged into grey smudges. Buttons I had clicked a hundred times receded into the background. I leaned so close to my screen that my shoulders ached. I had to pause often because the strain triggered a genuine headache. I thought of my student who sits at the far end of the carpet for story time. Suddenly, I felt guilty. If a thirty-two-year-old adult with full cognitive ability cannot manage ten minutes of this, how must a five-year-old feel during a twenty-minute whole-class lesson?

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The color-blindness simulation exposed a different problem: invisibility. An ICT activity I had bookmarked relied entirely on a "click the red button, not the green one" instruction. Under the filter, both buttons looked identical. A maths game used a traffic-light system to show progress, and I could not tell whether I was succeeding or failing. The information was technically there, but it was not available to me. I experienced a quiet frustration that built with every click. It was not anger; it was the steady decline of confidence that comes from being told, implicitly, that this space was not built for you.

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The dyslexia simulation was the most personal for me. Words moved on the screen. Letters shifted themselves in the middle of sentences. I read quickly and voraciously, yet I found myself reading the same paragraph four times. Still, I kept losing the thread. I felt stupid. That is a word I never allow in my classroom, yet I uttered it to myself. This was a serious reminder that ability is contextual, not fixed. As Nakamura (2025) emphasizes, neurodivergent students aren't broken versions of a standard. They are navigating environments that were not designed for them.

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Changes I Would Make: A UDL Alignment

If I could redesign the websites, I would start with four core changes. Each is grounded in the Universal Design for Learning framework (CAST, 2024).

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First, I would insist on high-contrast modes and resizable text. The low-vision filter showed me that elegant pale-grey fonts are a barrier, not an aesthetic choice. UDL Principle I, Multiple Means of Representation, requires us to present information so all learners can perceive it. A built-in contrast toggle and text that scales to 200%, without breaking layouts, would honor that principle.

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Second, I would remove color as the sole means of indicating meaning. Every status indicator, instruction, or feedback needs a label, an icon, or a pattern backup. UDL guides us to offer options for comprehension. This includes making sure visual information does not rely on a single sense.

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Third, I would offer audio alternatives and clearer visual hierarchy. During the dyslexia simulation, dense text felt like a wall. Chunked sections, optional audio narration, and sans-serif fonts with wide line spacing would help. UDL emphasizes clarifying vocabulary and structure. Accessibility is not about a special version. It is about flexibility in the first design.

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Fourth, I would add subtitles and transcripts to every video. In one clip I watched, the background music was so loud that the narrator's voice got lost. For a learner with sensitive hearing, or anyone in a noisy place, this is a needless barrier. Subtitles do not help only deaf learners. They also serve the child reading along, the student in a busy home, and the teacher who previews content with the sound off.

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The Benefits and Challenges of UDL in My Practice

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UDL has changed my instructional design practice. But I will not claim it is effortless. The benefits are tangible. When I build lessons with multiple entry points from the start, I spend less time making catch-up activities for those who struggle. My classroom feels more equitable because barriers are lower for everyone. Stephen Barnett and Ben Ramadan (2023) say that diversity, equity, and inclusion must be woven in from the start, not added later. UDL helps me do that.

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The difficulties are real. Time is the biggest. Designing a worksheet is quick. Making it readable aloud, viewable in high contrast, and usable with voice-to-text takes longer. There is also a learning curve. I am teaching myself to write alt-text that describes, not decorates. I also work on structuring digital content so screen readers can follow it logically. Harden (2022) offers five strategies for more equitable lessons. Her advice on scaffolding and group flexibility reminds me UDL is a journey, not a stopping point. I do not have to be perfect. I just have to be committed.

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Ethical Considerations: Why This Matters Beyond Compliance

Accessibility has an ethical side I cannot ignore. If I create a learning experience that excludes someone because of how they see, hear, or think, I am making a value judgment about who deserves to learn. Rieber and Estes (2017) argue that accessibility in instructional technology has usually been about legal compliance or technical standards. I want to reframe it. For me, it is about human dignity. Every child in my classroom (or on my website) has a right to participate fully.

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This ethical stance changes my work. I no longer ask, "Will this work for most students?" I ask, "Who might this prevent from learning, and what can I change?" I now advocate louder for accessible software budgets. I speak up in meetings when a colleague suggests a resource that is not screen-reader friendly. I model for my students that inclusion is not a favor. It is a responsibility.

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Using the Silktide Toolbar did not give me a disability for an afternoon; it gave me a glimpse into a world that millions of people inhabit permanently. That glimpse was uncomfortable, frustrating, and deeply necessary. It reminded me that equity in instructional design is not about grand gestures. It is about the font size I choose, the colour palette I test, the silence I leave for a screen reader to fill, and the humility to admit that my first design is rarely my best one.

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I will carry this experience into every module I build, every slide I animate, and every resource I share. Because accessibility is not a barrier to creativity. It is the foundation upon which genuine learning stands.

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