I’m directionally challenged. Like, REALLY challenged. I confidently drive in the opposite direction after stopping for gas. For the first few weeks at any job, I make my way back from the bathroom with hesitation and uncertainty. I regularly go in the wrong door in my own apartment.

My condition — which lacks an official diagnosis but is sometimes called “spatial dyslexia” — also makes it nearly impossible to learn dance steps or any other sequence of movements. Games that involve manipulating pieces in space fill me with dread. Chess, ugh! I HATE chess.

There are workarounds, like always parking on the top level of a parking garage, and repeating directions out loud like a mantra, and following them, no matter how much my brain tells me I’m going the wrong way. (Nice try, brain.) The biggest workaround for me was moving to Seattle, a hilly city dotted with landmarks and bounded by water. In contrast to my nightmarishly flat and featureless hometown, I can almost always orient myself in Seattle by simply looking up and finding the Space Needle, Mt. Rainier, or Queen Anne Hill.

While Seattle’s topography is a godsend, its signage is often frustrating. Is it reasonable to expect sign designers to cater to my condition? In a word, yes. It’s a well-established design principle that when you optimize for the least-able user, everyone benefits. An example is Good Grips, a best-selling line of kitchen implements originally designed for arthritics. Chunky handles that feel better in your hand and give you more leverage than standard can openers? Who wouldn’t want that?