I grew up in America with a father who was hard of hearing and pronounced words his own way. He was a painter too, but not with a palette. He painted on whatever was in front of him. At church he'd bring a card and mix colours on the left sleeve of his camouflage jacket, instead of using a dish. He wore that jacket and his favourite paint-stained trousers everywhere, including to his job as a technical draughtsman for a military supplier. My mother didn't fight the trousers. She went to the hardware shop, had them mix paint to match the fabric, and painted over the stains after washing so he could keep wearing what he liked.
I have that jacket now. I brought it back from his memorial service in Colorado. It's one of my most prized possessions.
I mention it because it tells you where I come from. Two people who didn't let the world's idea of normal run their lives. One loudly, one quietly, with a paint brush from the hardware shop.
I studied in Switzerland, then settled in the UK. Somewhere between the accents, the technical vocabulary, and the way my brain works, I ended up with a voice and a way of thinking that mainstream systems consistently get wrong.
I'm AuDHD, so autism and ADHD shape the picture at the same time. That means I notice the world a bit differently.
For ages, if I wanted to know about a band playing on Friday, I'd ask someone if they'd heard of them. I was just trying to find out about the music. But the answer would usually have nothing to do with the band. They'd tell me their brother was visiting, or that they couldn't go out. And I'd still know nothing about the band.
It took me a while to realise that when I ask a question, people often hear something totally different from what I meant. I don't think that's a flaw. It's just a different way of being in the world.
Turns out it's useful when you're building tools that listen to what someone actually needs, instead of guessing what you think they meant.
The irony is that as voice-to-text got smarter with AI, it got worse for me. The more systems tried to guess what I should sound like, the more they missed what I actually sound like.
Inclusion Vault started from frustration. I build tools I need first. If they don't work for you yet, tell me. That's not a problem. That's the point.
When I was fourteen, I built a Braille device for a science fair. It worked. The local paper wrote it up and called me Eastice, not Eustice. I tested it on a blind classmate and he told me it buzzed and hurt his fingers. I'd built something that worked, but solved the wrong problem.
Two things stayed with me. Build with people, not for them. And when a system gets someone wrong, don't assume the person is the problem.
Inclusion Vault is funded by money my mother left me when she died. It feels right that it started there. She was the one who matched the paint.