For most people, there’s nothing particularly interesting or noteworthy about the common elevator (or lift in Australian and British English). We use them to get where we need to go—work, school, or meeting up with friends. They can feel claustrophobic, uncomfortable when crowded, and there’s always the worry of them breaking down at the worst possible moment. To many, lifts are simply another everyday inconvenience.
However, for many autistic people, the opposite is true. Many of us are drawn to lifts like moths to a flame. The fascination can be as intense as interests people have in comics, video games, or major movie franchises. It can feel almost impossible to walk past a lift without riding it. If we don’t, it can linger in our minds until we do—like an earworm you can’t shake until you hear the song again. At least, that has been my experience.
I’ve always loved lifts for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories are from when I was undergoing cancer treatment at the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne in the early 2000s. There were so many different lifts to explore that a visit didn’t feel complete unless I rode at least two or three. That fascination only grew stronger, and before long, I wanted to ride practically every lift I encountered.
After I lost my vision, the way I experienced lifts changed significantly. I could still hear all the sounds, but I could no longer enjoy the visual elements. I began relying far more on my other senses, such as sound and touch. I’m grateful that I learned to read both print and Braille, as without that knowledge I would struggle to navigate lifts and identify floors. The inclusion of embossed buttons, Braille signage, and voice announcements in many lifts has been essential for accessibility.
More recently, destination dispatch systems and touchscreen lifts have introduced new challenges for me. These systems are often less intuitive for blind users. However, I’m determined to learn how to navigate them and to advocate for better accessibility from a blind person’s perspective.
As I grew older, my fascination with lifts only deepened. Around six or seven years ago, during a free period at high school, I searched for “elevator” on YouTube. What I found was an entire global community of people who share this passion. There were countless videos and channels dedicated solely to lifts. Suddenly, I realised this wasn’t just a niche interest—it was something many people around the world enjoyed.
Through this community, I learned about lift mechanics, different lift types, and the companies that manufacture them. From Otis to Schindler, ThyssenKrupp to Kone, I can often tell which company installed a lift just by riding it.
This connection between autism and lifts hasn’t gone unnoticed. Many lift photographers and videographers actively support or advocate for the autistic community. One prominent figure in the lift world, Andrew Reams (known online as DieselDucy), is a strong supporter of autistic people. Much of his content is created with autistic audiences in mind, and he has gone out of his way to support autistic children by sharing experiences and special lift tours.
He also owns and operates the elevaTOURS International Elevator Museum in Roanoke, Virginia, which houses a wide range of lift components and historical artefacts collected from lifts around the world.
So the next time you think of lifts as a daily inconvenience, consider how different the world would be without them—not just technologically, but culturally and socially. For many autistic people, lifts are a source of joy, fascination, and connection. And if that doesn’t lift your spirits—yes, pun intended—I don’t know what will.
— Sam
A List Ambassador