- Massachusetts Commission for the Blind
How One Engineer Is Opening the World of Play—One Toy at a Time
When Ellen picks up a toy in the store, she isn't just thinking about the child it was designed for. She's imagining the child who can't press the tiny button, squeeze the handle, or activate the sound on their own—and wondering how she can change that.
She turns the toy over in her hands, feeling for a simple push-button switch hidden beneath the fabric or plastic. Sometimes she knows immediately it has potential. Other times, she won't know until she's home, screwdriver in hand, taking it apart piece by piece.
"You never know what you're going to get until you open it up," she says. "Some are really simple. Others are too challenging. That's part of the engineering challenge."
For Ellen, adapting toys isn't just a hobby. It's the dream she has been trying to return to for decades.
When she went to engineering school, she hoped to build assistive technology for people with disabilities. But years ago, before the internet made niche careers easier to discover, career counselors had little guidance for someone pursuing that path. An internship introduced her to manufacturing engineering, and she built a successful career there instead.
Still, the dream never disappeared.
Her connection to disability began much earlier. Growing up with an older sister with a disability meant adaptive equipment was simply part of everyday life. She remembers toys with switches and enabling devices that would inevitably break. While others saw a broken toy, Ellen saw an invitation to understand how it worked.
"I always wanted to take it apart," she recalls.
That curiosity never left.
Years later, while living in Ohio, she discovered an organization called May We Help, a volunteer group that designs and builds custom devices for people with disabilities. It reignited the passion she had set aside years before.
When she eventually moved back to Massachusetts, she knew she wanted to build something similar.
Today, that vision is taking shape through community toy adaptation workshops that bring together engineers, retirees, students, makers, therapists, and first-time volunteers around a shared purpose: making play accessible.
The process often starts with Ellen scouting store shelves. Plush toys are some of her favorites because she can sometimes feel where the switch is hidden inside. She buys a single toy, carefully disassembles it, and figures out whether it can safely be adapted. If it works, she photographs every step, writes detailed instructions, gathers supplies, and schedules a workshop.
By the time volunteers arrive, every station is prepared.
"If you can use a screwdriver, you're good," she says with a laugh. "You don't need technical experience."
Since launching the workshops in September 2025, roughly 60 volunteers have participated, with about a dozen returning again and again. Among them are retired electrical engineers who rarely miss a session, working professionals looking for meaningful volunteer opportunities, students eager to learn new skills, and community members simply looking for a way to help.
The workshops have become about much more than electronics.
"They bring together different outlooks," Ellen says. "Working with your hands, giving retirees a chance to contribute, educating people about the need. It's been wonderful."
Corporate teams have begun sponsoring volunteer days. Teen workshops are on the horizon. Volunteers with 3D printers are creating new adaptive components. Therapists, schools, makerspaces, and disability organizations are helping spread the word.
One of those adapted toys recently found its way to Esteban, a young boy served by the Massachusetts Commission for the Blind.
Esteban is a happy child who loves music, sounds, and toys that light up. Because he has low vision, cause-and-effect toys that combine lights and sounds are especially engaging—but like many children with disabilities, he isn't always able to activate them independently.
His mother first learned about the toy adaptation program after seeing a flyer from the Massachusetts Commission for the Blind. Around the same time, Esteban's speech therapist shared the flyer as well, knowing the family had been looking for ways to adapt more toys for him.
The first time Esteban played with his adapted toy, his reaction said everything.
"He was so happy," his mother says. "He's able to activate this toy himself, and he loves it."
Every press of the adaptive switch brings lights, sounds, and laughter.
"He laughs and screams with excitement," she says. "We talk about what's happening, and I encourage him to press the switch again so we can keep the fun going."
The toy has become more than entertainment. It has created new opportunities for connection between mother and son while also giving Esteban something equally important: independence.
"It creates opportunities for independent play," she says. "He doesn't need someone else to help him access a toy that brings him so much joy."
For his mother, that independence means knowing her son can spend time happily engaged in an activity on his own—a simple gift many families take for granted.
She also hopes the volunteers understand just how much their work means.
"First, thank you," she says. "These toys are expensive, and donations like this give children an opportunity to play just like any other child. As a parent, that's invaluable."
When Ellen thinks about stories like Esteban's, she gets goosebumps.
"It's not just about the toy anymore," she says.
Adaptive toys are becoming easier to purchase online than they once were, but Ellen believes something more valuable is being created alongside every modified toy: connection.
Parents of children with disabilities often spend their days coordinating medical appointments, navigating insurance, and managing countless responsibilities. Finding accessible toys can easily fall to the bottom of the list.
"I want them to know somebody cares," she says. "There's someone out there who wants to help them find a way."
For the children themselves, the goal is simple but powerful.
She hopes the first time they activate a toy independently; they experience something bigger than play.
"Independence," she says. "The joy of realizing they can do something—and they can keep doing it."
That first successful button press can become something larger: confidence to try the next activity, the next challenge, the next possibility.
"It's about getting people over that fear," she says. "You can do this. You're capable. It's just about finding out how."
Looking ahead, Ellen's vision extends far beyond adapted toys.
She wants to build a larger volunteer community that spans generations—retirees looking for purpose, working adults searching for meaningful ways to give back, and young people learning the value of making things with their hands. She hopes to partner with early intervention programs so toys can be reused by more families and dreams of hosting large community toy giveaways that feel as magical as a visit from Santa.
"The toys are really the entryway," she says.
The real project is building a community where people discover that even an hour or two of their time can make an enormous difference in someone else's life.
For Ellen, engineering has always been about solving problems.
Now, every adapted toy is solving more than one.
It creates moments of independence for children like Esteban, reassurance for families, purpose for volunteers, and proof that a community can come together—one screwdriver, one switch, and one toy at a time.
