One of the things I've discovered over the years is that my life rarely follows the script. Even the simplest plans somehow grow their own personality. What starts as "I'm just going to lunch with a friend" somehow turns into a full-blown adventure, complete with unexpected plot twists, a few good laughs, and another reminder that life has an incredible sense of humor.

Today's destination was Il Vicino Wood Oven Pizza here in Colorado Springs, one of my favorite restaurants. Yes, the pizza is amazing, but if I'm being completely honest, they are also responsible for introducing me to something I never knew I needed in my life.

Basil lemonade.

Whoever first looked at basil and lemonade and thought, These two belong together, deserves some kind of culinary award. Paired with their Bianca pizza, it's one of my favorite meals, and I had been looking forward to it all morning.

The adventure, however, began long before I ever saw a slice of pizza.

I happily made my way down the steps into the garage, transferred into Persephone without any issues, got comfortable, buckled my seatbelt, smiled to myself, and pressed the start button.

Nothing.

Not even a polite little attempt.

For a split second my brain started running through all the possibilities. Please don't tell me Persephone has decided she needs another spa day.

Then it hit me.

The key.

Apparently, push-button start still requires the key to actually be in the vehicle. Details... details.

Fortunately, Jeff was still home. He walked out to the garage with the key, handed it to me with a grin, and we both started laughing. It wasn't exactly the dramatic start to my outing I'd imagined, but it certainly fit the pattern my life seems to enjoy.

Round two went much more smoothly.

I drove to the restaurant, parked, unhooked Evi from her tie-downs, and watched the ramp quietly slide out of Persephone. If you haven't met Evi yet, allow me to introduce you. She's my fully decked-out power wheelchair — basically the Rolls Royce of wheelchairs. She has all the bells and whistles, which means once she's loaded and ready to go, she makes life wonderfully easy.

Persephone gets me there. Evi makes sure I can actually enjoy being there.

I rolled down the ramp, looked around, and thought, Well... here we go. Everything worked beautifully, which always feels like a little victory.

Lunch was exactly what I'd hoped it would be. Great food, wonderful conversation, and yes... basil lemonade that somehow tasted even better than I remembered. Those are the moments I treasure most — not because anything spectacular happens, but because life slows down long enough to simply enjoy another human being's company.

About halfway through lunch, another thought crossed my mind.

I need to find the restroom.

This was actually my first visit to Il Vicino since life became a little more... wheely. Whenever I go somewhere new in Evi, there's always that brief moment of wondering, I hope I can actually get into the restroom.

I'm happy to report Il Vicino passed with flying colors. I maneuvered through the restaurant without any issues, the restroom was genuinely accessible, and for once I wasn't trying to figure out some creative way to make things work. It may sound like a small thing, but it really isn't. Accessibility isn't about special treatment. It's about being able to enjoy lunch without wondering whether you'll be able to use the bathroom when nature inevitably calls. That simple peace of mind is a gift, and Il Vicino earned another gold star in my book.

Eventually it was time to head home.

Evi rolled back into Persephone like the seasoned professional she is, the tie-downs clicked securely into place, the ramp quietly retracted back into the van, and before long I was pulling into my garage thinking what a lovely, uneventful afternoon it had been.

Or so I thought.

I made my way back up the steps, reached for the door handle...

Locked.

The house was empty.

And then came my second realization of the day.

Apparently, I also hadn't brought my house key.

In my defense, Jeff had been home when I left, so why would I need a key?

Well... because people leave the house.

Who knew?

Thankfully, cell phones exist. One quick call later, Jeff came to rescue me once again, unlocked the door, and my grand adventure officially came to an end.

As I sat there laughing at myself, I realized this is exactly why I enjoy sharing these little stories. From the outside, it sounds like I simply went to lunch with a friend. End of story.

Except that's never really the story.

The story is forgetting the car key, discovering that basil lemonade is still every bit as wonderful as I remembered, appreciating thoughtful accessibility, sharing meaningful conversation, forgetting the house key, and laughing through every bit of it. None of it was earth-shattering. None of it was life-changing.

It was simply life.

Beautifully imperfect, wonderfully ordinary, and just unpredictable enough to remind me that even the most routine days can become memorable if we're paying attention.

I've decided life isn't measured by how exciting our plans are. It's measured by how willing we are to laugh when those plans decide to improvise. Today wasn't really about pizza. It wasn't even about forgetting two keys. It was about another wonderfully ordinary day that somehow became another story worth telling.

And honestly...

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Has an ordinary day ever surprised you with a couple of unexpected plot twists? I'd love to hear your story in the comments.

And if you enjoy these little adventures from everyday life, take a wander through the rest of Notes from the Wild and subscribe while you're there. Around here, ordinary has a funny way of becoming unforgettable.

Shift happens...

What about you?

What's a local place you've been meaning to visit for years but still haven't gotten around to?

Drop it in the comments. Maybe this is your sign from the Universe to finally put it on the calendar.

And if you enjoy these little adventures, unexpected discoveries, and observations from life out in the wild, be sure to check out the other Notes from the Wild stories and subscribe while you're there.

Because sometimes the biggest perspective shifts aren't found halfway around the world.

Sometimes they're hiding right in your own backyard.

There’s a very specific kind of moment that’s hard to explain… unless you’ve lived it.

It’s the moment when everything looks normal.
Accessible. Open. Welcoming.

And then you realize… it’s not.

Not for you.

For a lot of people, moving through the world is something they never have to think about. You go where you want to go. You enter the building. You join the group. You participate.

Simple.

Effortless.

Unquestioned.

For me?

There’s always a pause.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… there.

A quick internal scan:
Can I get in?
Is there space?
Will this work for me… or will this turn into one of those moments?

And if you know, you know.

I can’t tell you how many times something looked completely fine on the outside… only to turn into a quiet reminder that I wasn’t fully considered.

Parking that almost works.
Entrances that require just a little too much.
Spaces where, technically, I’m there… but not really able to participate the same way.

Or my personal favorite — the moment where help is needed, and suddenly everything slows down, attention shifts, and I’m no longer just a person… I’m a situation.

Yeah. That one.

And here’s the part that most people don’t see:

It’s not just about the physical barrier.

It’s what comes with it.

That split-second feeling of being… outside.
Of having to adjust, adapt, or ask.
Of wondering if this space was ever really meant for you in the first place.

I came across a quote that put words to something I’ve felt more times than I can count:

Accessibility is participation.

If you cannot enter the building, use the transportation, access the classroom, or get into the workplace, you cannot participate in society.

Accessibility is not about making the world perfect.
It’s about making participation possible.

– Carmen Lucia

And I just sat there for a moment thinking… yes. Exactly that.

Because let’s be real for a second.

Living with a disability — whether people can see it or not — already comes with its own full-time job.

There’s the physical side.
The mental calculations.
The constant adapting.

You become incredibly good at problem-solving… because you have to be.

But what gets exhausting isn’t just the logistics.

It’s the added layer of feeling like you’re navigating a world that wasn’t fully designed with you in mind.

And I want to say this clearly, because it matters:

Most people are not doing this on purpose.

They’re not trying to exclude.
They’re not trying to make things harder.

They just don’t know.

They feel awkward.
They don’t want to offend.
They’re unsure how to interact… so they hesitate.

And that hesitation?

It creates distance.

Here’s the thing though…

We don’t need perfection.

We don’t need everything to magically work flawlessly all the time.

What we need is awareness.
Consideration.
Willingness.

And maybe — just maybe — a shift from
“this might be uncomfortable” to
“this person belongs here too.”

Also… quick myth-busting moment (because you know I can’t resist ):

Disability does not equal inability.

Not even close.

There are people out here navigating bodies, systems, and circumstances that would knock most people off their “normal” routine in a heartbeat… and still showing up, creating, contributing, building, leading, loving, and living full lives.

Not in spite of their humanity.

Because of their strength within it.

What most of us actually want is pretty simple.

Treat us like humans.

Talk to us.
Include us.
Ask if you’re unsure.
Don’t turn us into a project or a problem to solve.

And please… don’t assume less.

Because at the end of the day, this isn’t just about ramps, doors, or logistics.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking (or rolling ) into a space and not having to question whether you were considered.

It’s about being part of the experience… not watching it from the edges.

Accessibility doesn’t make the world perfect.

But it makes it possible.

And possible?

That’s where life actually happens.

That’s where connection lives.
That’s where contribution begins.
That’s where people stop feeling like outsiders… and start feeling like they’re part of something again.

If this made you pause, even just a little… good.

That pause is awareness.

And awareness is where everything begins to shift.

If you’re ready to explore more perspective shifts like this, you’ll find them at Matters of Perspective® — where we don’t just talk about change… we live it.