Mission Date: June 2026

Operator Status: Slightly overconfident.

Persephone Status: Innocent until proven guilty.

Mission Objective: Determine why the passenger-side ramp appears determined to deploy whenever it feels like it.

Well, today's mission report comes with a confession.

After all the excitement surrounding Persephone lately, including the discovery that some of her recent "creative decisions" were actually the result of crossed wires and not an emerging artificial intelligence, I was fully prepared to blame her for yet another mystery. In fact, I had been carrying this particular grievance around for the last three months, quietly adding it to the growing list of things I intended to have checked out.

It all started during one of Jeff's and my favorite traditions: Costco Date Night.

Yes, I realize most people think of date nights as fancy dinners, movies, or romantic walks. We roam the aisles of Costco, debate whether we really need the industrial-sized package of whatever is currently on sale, and somehow come home happy. After thirty-six years of marriage, we've learned not to question what works.

That particular evening started in the garage. Jeff wanted to put a few things into the storage area behind the passenger seat. Easy enough. I pushed the button to open the sliding door and waited for it to do exactly what I expected it to do.

The door opened.

So far, so good.

Then the ramp started deploying.

Now, under normal circumstances, a wheelchair ramp deploying is hardly noteworthy. In fact, that is literally its job. Unfortunately, Persephone was parked about one to two feet away from the garage wall, which meant there was absolutely not enough room for the ramp to perform its duties without introducing itself to the concrete.

The level of panic that arrived in that moment was completely disproportionate to the situation but entirely real.

My brain skipped right past thoughtful problem-solving and went straight into emergency mode.

"NO. NO. NO. NO. NO."

I started pushing the 'close' button with the kind of urgency usually reserved for disaster movies. Thankfully, it responded promptly. The ramp stopped and retreated before it could commit an expensive act of vandalism against either itself or the garage wall.

Crisis averted.

At least that's what I thought.

Later that evening, after a successful Costco Date Night complete with unnecessary purchases and enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse, I pushed the button again.

The door opened.

The ramp deployed.

And promptly met Jeff's shins.

Not hard enough to cause any actual damage, but certainly hard enough to earn a surprised expression and a few colorful observations about accessibility technology.

From that point forward, I was convinced something wasn't quite right.

The confusion centered around one particular button. There are buttons in the van specifically designed to perform the entire sequence. Push them and the van goes through the full production: open the door, kneel the suspension, deploy the ramp, and welcome everyone aboard. That's exactly what those buttons are supposed to do.

But the button located between the steering wheel and the driver's door always felt different to me. In my mind, that button should simply open the sliding door. Nothing more. Open the door. End of story.

The fact that it occasionally seemed determined to unleash the ramp as well felt suspicious.

Being the highly trained investigator that I am, I eventually pulled out the owner's manual.

Sure enough, there it was in black and white.

Push once, open the door.

Push again, deploy the ramp.

Aha!

Evidence.

Proof.

Validation.

I knew it.

Clearly Persephone was doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing.

Armed with my newfound confidence, we finally stopped by United Access today. I was fully prepared to schedule a spa day for Persephone so the experts could diagnose her latest behavioral issue.

Instead, the technician listened patiently, smiled politely, and walked over to a switch I had apparently ignored for months.

As it turns out, there is a three-position switch that controls how the passenger door and ramp behave.

When the switch is in the middle position, pressing the passenger door controls gives you the full deployment package.

Move it one direction and the system assumes you're dealing with a sidewalk, so it changes how the van handles the kneeling function.

Move it the other direction and — voilà — pressing the button simply opens the door.

Just the door.

Exactly the way I thought it was supposed to work.

The entire mystery. The three months of confusion. The garage panic. The shin assault. The suspicion. The investigation.

All caused by a switch.

One tiny little switch.

Now, in my defense, I'm reasonably certain someone explained all of this when we picked up Persephone. I'm equally certain I retained approximately none of it. After spending a few months unable to drive and finally getting back behind the wheel, I was far too excited to absorb details about auxiliary control systems.

I was probably smiling, nodding, and thinking, "I'M DRIVING AGAIN!"

The technician was kind enough not to point this out directly, although the amused look on everyone's face suggested they had seen this particular scenario before.

Of course, once we understood what was happening, we all had a good laugh. I laughed. Jeff laughed. The technician laughed.

I'm pretty sure Persephone laughed too.

In fact, I suspect she's been waiting three months for this moment.

After all the times I blamed her for being difficult, temperamental, or overly enthusiastic with her ramp deployment, she finally had her day in court.

And wouldn't you know it?

She was innocent.

The ramp wasn't malfunctioning.

The electronics weren't confused.

Nothing was broken.

The operator simply didn't know what she was doing.

Mission Outcome:

• Garage wall: Unharmed.
• Ramp: Functioning perfectly.
• Jeff's shins: Filed a formal complaint.
• Technician: Thoroughly entertained.
• Operator: Retrained.
• Persephone: Officially cleared of all charges.

Final Score:

Persephone: 1
Operator: 0

I'd like to say lessons were learned.

They were.

Mostly by the operator.

There is probably a life lesson hiding in here somewhere about assumptions, paying attention, and reading the instructions before declaring something broken. But for today, I'm choosing to focus on the fact that Persephone's reputation has been restored and my garage wall remains intact.

If you've ever spent months convinced something was wrong, only to discover the problem was user error, welcome to the club. Membership is apparently much larger than any of us would like to admit.

As for me, I'll be over here getting reacquainted with all the buttons I thought I already understood.

Shift happens.

If you've been following Persephone's adventures, make sure you're subscribed so you don't miss the next mission. Something tells me this won't be the last time either Persephone or her operator keeps life interesting.

For most of my life, I bought into the saying, "Karma is a bitch."

Not just a little bit, either. I embraced it completely. It seemed to explain so much. Every time someone did something terrible and later experienced misfortune, people would nod knowingly and say, "That's karma." Every time life dealt someone a difficult hand, somebody would inevitably suggest that karma was collecting a debt.

The message was everywhere. Karma was punishment. Karma was payback. Karma was the Universe's way of settling scores.

And if I'm being honest, that explanation made a lot of sense to me at the time.

Looking at my life through that lens, it was easy to conclude that karma must be working overtime.

I grew up in an environment where feelings were often dismissed and struggles were frequently minimized. As I got older, life added its own collection of challenges. Physical pain became a constant companion. Diagnoses arrived that I certainly hadn't ordered from the cosmic menu. Surgeries, mobility issues, limitations, frustration, and uncertainty all became part of my reality.

Somewhere along the way, I quietly accepted a belief that I never consciously chose.

If I am suffering this much, I must have done something wrong.

Maybe it was something from this lifetime. Maybe it was something from another. Maybe I was paying off some giant karmic debt that I couldn't even remember creating.

I rarely spoke those thoughts out loud, but they lived comfortably in the background of my mind for years. Every new challenge became evidence. Every setback seemed to support the case.

The problem wasn't my circumstances.

The problem was the story I was telling myself about my circumstances.

When you believe suffering equals punishment, every difficulty starts looking like proof that you are somehow flawed, broken, or undeserving. You stop looking for lessons and start looking for reasons you deserve the pain.

Trust me when I tell you that is an exhausting way to live.

Eventually, something began to change.

I started asking questions.

I've discovered that life has a funny relationship with questions. Ask one, and sooner or later an answer tends to show up. The challenge is that the quality of the answer is often directly related to the quality of the question.

For years, my favorite question had been:

Why is this happening to me?

Can you feel the emotional weight in that question?

The question itself already assumes something has gone wrong. It assumes blame. It assumes victimhood. It assumes that life is somehow singling you out for special treatment.

Not surprisingly, the answers I found usually supported those assumptions.

Then one day, perhaps out of frustration, curiosity, or sheer stubbornness, the question began to change.

Instead of asking why something was happening to me, I started asking what it was trying to teach me.

At first, it seemed like a small shift in wording.

It wasn't.

It was a completely different conversation.

The old question placed me in a courtroom. The new question placed me in a classroom.

The old question searched for someone to blame. The new question searched for something to learn.

The old question made me powerless. The new question returned some of that power to me.

My circumstances didn't magically disappear. My challenges didn't suddenly evaporate. What changed was the meaning I attached to them.

And as that meaning changed, so did my understanding of karma.

The deeper I explored spiritual teachings, personal growth, and the Universal Laws, the more I realized that karma had gotten a terrible reputation. Somewhere along the way, people had turned it into a cosmic punishment system when that isn't what karma is at all.

At its core, karma is simply the Universal Law of Cause and Effect.

Every cause creates an effect.

Every effect has a cause.

Nothing exists in isolation.

Nothing happens in a vacuum.

Every thought, belief, action, decision, condition, and circumstance contributes to the experiences that follow.

That doesn't mean everything that happens is your fault.

Let's clear that one up immediately.

Life is far more complex than that.

Other people make choices. Circumstances unfold. Unexpected events occur. We are constantly interacting with a world that contains countless moving pieces beyond our control.

The Law of Cause and Effect is not about blame.

It is about understanding that everything is connected.

Once I understood that distinction, karma stopped looking like punishment and started looking a lot more like a mirror.

And mirrors are fascinating things.

A mirror doesn't judge you.

A mirror doesn't shame you.

A mirror doesn't punish you.

A mirror simply reflects what is there.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that many of the things we blame on karma are often reflections of other Universal Laws at work.

Take the Law of Attraction.

Many people treat karma and the Law of Attraction as if they are interchangeable. They are not.

The Law of Attraction teaches that we tend to attract experiences that align with our dominant thoughts, beliefs, emotions, and expectations. If I spend years believing that life is unfair and that I am somehow being punished, I become remarkably skilled at finding evidence that supports those beliefs. My attention naturally gravitates toward whatever validates the story I already believe.

That isn't karma punishing me.

That is focus doing what focus does.

Then there is the Law of Correspondence, often summarized as "As within, so without."

In simple terms, our outer world often reflects aspects of our inner world. If fear, resentment, shame, self-judgment, or unworthiness are taking up residence inside us, they have a tendency to influence how we interpret the experiences around us.

Again, not punishment.

Reflection.

Feedback.

Information.

Perhaps one of the most hopeful laws is the Law of Perpetual Transmutation of Energy, which teaches that energy is constantly changing and transforming. Nothing remains fixed forever unless we continue feeding it.

That means no matter what happened yesterday, last year, or twenty years ago, change remains possible.

The story can change.

The perspective can change.

The outcome can change.

That realization was life-changing for me.

Because perhaps nowhere was my misunderstanding of karma more evident than in my relationship with my own body.

For decades, I viewed my body as evidence that something was wrong with me. Every diagnosis seemed to confirm it. Every limitation appeared to strengthen the case. I genuinely believed my body was betraying me.

What a heartbreaking misunderstanding that turned out to be.

The truth is that my body was never the enemy.

While I spent years criticizing it, questioning it, and blaming it, my body continued showing up for me every single day. It adapted. It compensated. It carried me through circumstances that would have broken many people. It communicated constantly, trying to get my attention in the only ways it knew how.

My body wasn't punishing me.

It was speaking to me.

I simply didn't understand the language yet.

The same can be said for many of life's challenges.

When we view karma as punishment, we often miss the message entirely. We become so focused on asking why something happened that we never stop to explore what it might be trying to show us.

Today, I no longer picture karma as some cosmic enforcer sitting behind a giant desk keeping score.

I see a teacher.

Sometimes a gentle one.

Sometimes a frustrating one.

Sometimes a teacher who keeps handing back the same lesson until I finally stop rolling my eyes and pay attention.

But always a teacher.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that life is less interested in punishing us than it is in waking us up. Every challenge, every relationship, every setback, every success carries information. Some of that information is comfortable. Some of it is not. But all of it offers an opportunity to become a little more aware than we were yesterday.

So no, karma is not a bitch.

Karma is honest.

Karma is consistent.

Karma is one of life's most effective mirrors.

And every now and then, when I find myself slipping back into old stories, old fears, or old patterns, karma quietly hands me that mirror once again and invites me to take another look.

The difference now is that instead of feeling punished, I feel grateful.

Because every reflection offers another opportunity to learn.

And every lesson offers another opportunity to grow.

Ready for a Perspective Shift?

Many of the beliefs that keep us stuck aren't actually ours. We inherited them from family, society, culture, religion, or simply years of repeating the same story until it felt true.

The good news is that beliefs can be questioned.

Stories can be rewritten.

Perspectives can shift.

If you're tired of asking, "Why is this happening to me?" and ready to explore a different conversation, visit MattersOfPerspective.com and explore the resources, tools, and teachings designed to help you see yourself and your life through a new lens.

Because sometimes the biggest change isn't in what happens to us.

It's in what we finally choose to see.

Gratitude changed my life.

Literally.

In early 2003, during one of the darkest periods of my life, gratitude became the thing that helped me stay.

It helped me keep going.

It helped me find reasons to take another step when I wasn't sure I wanted to take one at all.

What started as a simple gratitude journal became a lifeline. It changed how I saw my life. It changed how I saw other people. It changed how I saw challenges, setbacks, and opportunities.

Eventually, gratitude became one of the foundations of everything I teach.

I write about gratitude.

I teach gratitude.

I recommend gratitude journals.

I encourage people to look for what is working instead of obsessing over what isn't.

Gratitude is woven into my books, my courses, my conversations, and my life.

Which makes what I'm about to tell you both humbling and slightly embarrassing.

In more than twenty years of gratitude journals, gratitude lists, gratitude challenges, gratitude workshops, gratitude books, gratitude conversations, and gratitude practices...

I don't remember ever consciously thanking my body.

Not once.

Funny how that works.

I read the books.

I recommend the books.

I reference the books.

I write the books.

I teach people about perspective, emotions, beliefs, energy, healing, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves.

I spend my days helping people uncover the hidden assumptions that quietly shape their lives.

I talk about how our words matter.

I talk about how what we focus on grows.

I talk about how the relationship we have with ourselves influences every area of our lives.

I teach that everything is connected.

I teach that our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, and experiences are woven together in ways most people never stop to consider.

And somehow...

I completely missed something sitting right in front of me for nearly sixty years.

You know the saying about not being able to see the forest because of all the trees?

Apparently, I bought property in that forest and lived there for decades.

Because while I was helping other people uncover their blind spots, I had one of my own.

A big one.

For nearly sixty years, I believed my body was the problem.

Not consciously.

Not every day.

But underneath it all was a quiet frustration that had been building for as long as I can remember.

I was overweight as a child.

I was overweight as a teenager.

I am overweight as an adult.

No matter what I tried, it often felt like my body had received a completely different set of instructions than everyone else's.

While other people seemed to lose weight simply by making eye contact with a treadmill, I felt like every step forward came with a complimentary trip backward.

Exercise hurt.

Movement hurt.

Sometimes existing hurt.

And when you're carrying extra weight while navigating pain, the world tends to have plenty of opinions.

"Just eat less."

"Just move more."

"Just try harder."

As if nobody had ever thought of those things before.

Trust me, if the answer had been that simple, I would have solved this mystery sometime before the internet became a thing.

Over the years, I searched for answers.

Diets.

Programs.

Doctors.

Supplements.

Exercise plans.

Experts.

Books.

More diets.

More experts.

More promises wrapped in shiny packaging.

I wasn't chasing perfection.

I wasn't trying to become a swimsuit model.

I wasn't trying to look twenty-five again.

I wanted relief.

I wanted better health.

I wanted to lower my blood pressure.

I wanted to feel better.

Most of all, I wanted my body and me to finally be on the same team.

In August of 2003, I underwent gastric bypass surgery.

Like most major decisions, it came wrapped in hope.

I hoped it would help me lose weight.

I hoped it would improve my health.

I hoped it would make life easier.

The surgery worked.

At least on paper.

I lost weight.

That was it.

The magical transformation I secretly hoped for never arrived.

Life continued.

The years continued.

Challenges continued.

Eventually, some of the weight returned.

And without realizing it, every disappointment became another piece of evidence in the case I was building against my body.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C...

By the time I reached my forties, I had assembled enough evidence to convince any jury.

Then life handed me even more.

In 2005, I received a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis.

Years later came a Lipedema diagnosis.

There were spinal issues.

Joint issues.

Surgeries.

Pain.

Mobility challenges.

A wheelchair.

More frustration.

More setbacks.

More moments spent staring into space wondering what the actual hell the point of all this was.

Every challenge seemed to support the story I already believed.

My body was broken.

My body was failing me.

My body was fighting me.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Recently, during a deeply personal spiritual experience, something happened that caught me completely off guard.

Not because it was complicated.

Not because it was profound.

Not because I had never heard it before.

Quite the opposite.

It was so simple that I almost laughed.

I was asked a question.

What if your body isn't fighting you?

What if your body is fighting for you?

The question stopped me cold.

Not because I didn't understand it.

Because I did.

At least intellectually.

I've spent years teaching people that perspective changes everything.

I've spent years teaching people that words matter.

I've spent years teaching people that the stories we tell ourselves become the lens through which we experience life.

I've spent years teaching gratitude.

Yet somehow, despite all of that, I had never consciously stopped and thanked my body.

Not once.

I thanked the Universe.

I thanked friends.

I thanked teachers.

I thanked opportunities.

I thanked lessons.

I thanked challenges.

I thanked the coffee that got me through certain mornings.

But I don't remember ever sitting down and saying:

"Thank you, body."

Not for losing weight.

Not for behaving the way I wanted it to.

Not for performing perfectly.

Just...

Thank you.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for doing your job.

Thank you for carrying me.

And that's when something shifted.

Because suddenly I saw something I had somehow missed for nearly sixty years.

My body is still here.

Not was.

Is.

My body is still carrying me.

Present tense.

Right now.

This body carried me through childhood.

This body carried me from Germany to the United States.

This body carried me through marriage (and still is).

This body carried me through raising two incredible children.

This body carried me through every move, every deployment, every challenge, every celebration, every heartbreak, every lesson, and every fresh start.

This body carried me through receiving an MS diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with that diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with Lipedema.

This body carries me through pain.

This body carries me through surgeries.

This body carries me through concrete legs.

This body carries me through difficult days.

This body carries me while I write these words.

And suddenly I wasn't looking at everything my body couldn't do.

I was looking at everything it was doing.

Every heartbeat.

Every breath.

Every repair.

Every adaptation.

Every workaround.

Every adjustment happening quietly behind the scenes without me even noticing.

While I spent decades accusing my body of betrayal, my body was busy doing everything it could to keep me going.

Not perfectly.

Not effortlessly.

Not without struggle.

But faithfully.

Day after day.

Year after year.

Decade after decade.

The truth hit me harder than any diagnosis ever had.

My body has never stopped fighting for me.

Not once.

Even when I was angry at it.

Even when I judged it.

Even when I blamed it.

Even when I felt betrayed by it.

Even when I believed it had failed me.

My body kept showing up.

My body kept adapting.

My body kept trying.

My body kept carrying me.

And then I realized there was another story hiding underneath the first one.

For years, I thought the problem was my body.

Looking back, I think the real problem was the story.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing challenges as experiences and started treating them as identities.

I wasn't just carrying extra weight... I became "the overweight one."

I wasn't just navigating diagnoses... I quietly started seeing myself through them.

I wasn't just experiencing limitations... I started believing they defined me.

But I am not a diagnosis.

I am not a symptom.

I am not pain.

I am not a wheelchair.

I am not a number on a scale.

I am not a medical chart.

I am not a collection of limitations.

I am the awareness experiencing all of it.

And the body I spent decades judging has been faithfully carrying me through every moment of the journey.

Now, before anyone gets too excited, this is not the part where I tell you all my symptoms disappeared, angels started singing backup vocals, and I suddenly began training for a marathon.

Let's be realistic.

The diagnoses haven't magically packed their bags and moved out.

My body still experiences challenges.

My body still experiences pain.

Some days are harder than others.

I still have moments when I'd happily trade this model in for one with fewer warning lights, better suspension, and a warranty that actually covers everything.

But the relationship has changed.

And that changes everything.

For nearly sixty years, I looked at my body and saw failure.

Today, I look at my body and see effort.

I see resilience.

I see devotion.

I see a body that has been carrying an extraordinary load for a very long time.

I see a body that wakes up every morning and says:

"Alright, kiddo. Let's see what we can do today."

And honestly?

After everything my body has carried, I think it deserves a thank-you instead of another accusation.

If my body could talk, I suspect it would smile, shake its head, and say:

"Took you long enough."

The myth says my body is fighting me.

The truth is my body is fighting for me.

It always has been.

And perhaps the greatest lesson wasn't hidden in a diagnosis, a surgery, a diet, a book, or even a spiritual experience.

Perhaps it was hidden in plain sight all along.

The one thing I forgot to include in my gratitude practice was the very thing that had been carrying me through every moment of my life.

My amazing, beautiful, resilient body.

Ready for Your Own Perspective Shift?

Sometimes the thing that needs healing isn't the circumstance.

Sometimes it's the story.

If you've been carrying a story about yourself, your past, your worth, your future, or your body, perhaps it's time to look at it through a different lens.

The QAR7IS Method and the resources at Matters of Perspective® are designed to help you uncover the stories beneath the story, challenge the myths you've accepted as truth, and discover new possibilities hiding in plain sight.

Because sometimes changing your life doesn't begin by changing your circumstances.

Sometimes it begins by changing your perspective.

And trust me...

That kind of shift changes everything.

If any part of this story feels familiar, I want you to know something...

You are not alone.

Whatever battle you are fighting, whatever pain you are carrying, whatever part of yourself you have been struggling to trust, you are not alone.

Twenty-three years ago, I sat staring at a blank page wondering if ten simple gratiudes could possibly make a difference.

Today, I know they can.

Not because gratitude magically removes every challenge.

Not because it instantly heals every wound.

But because gratitude helps us see possibilities where pain only sees problems. It helps us remember that there is more to our story than the chapter we happen to be living in right now.

If you're feeling stuck, overwhelmed, exhausted, or simply ready for a different perspective, I invite you to explore the free resources available at Matters of Perspective®.

Over the years, I have created tools, articles, courses, videos, and exercises designed to help people move from surviving to creating, from fear to possibility, and from feeling powerless to recognizing the choices that still exist.

You don't have to figure everything out today.

You don't have to heal everything today.

You don't even have to know where to start.

Sometimes the next step is enough.

Sometimes a new perspective is enough.

Sometimes one small shift changes everything.

You can explore the resources at MattersOfPerspective.com and start wherever feels right for you.

Because no matter what your mind may be telling you today, your story is not over.

Shift happens.

And sometimes, that's a very good thing.

Maybe the goal was never to become less human.

Maybe the goal was to stop suffering in silence while pretending we were “fine.”

If your brain feels loud, overloaded, scattered, exhausted, or constantly stuck in survival mode, you are not alone — and you are not broken.

That’s exactly why spaces like Home of Misfits exist. A place for overthinkers, deep feelers, neurospicy humans, recovering perfectionists, and beautifully complicated people trying to navigate life without pretending to have it all figured out.

And if you’re looking for deeper perspective shifts, practical tools, or support untangling the mental noise, you can explore the work inside Matters of Perspective®.

Turns out humans were never meant to do all of this alone.

Mission Status: Mostly successful with minor public humiliation.
Crew: Me, Persephone, one very patient car wash attendant, and a growing audience of trapped motorists.
Weather Conditions: Relaxed. Hydrated. Spiritually moisturized.
Unexpected Plot Twist: Persephone temporarily retired inside the car wash.

The day started out innocent enough. Just a normal self-care day for me and Persephone. We hit the road for my massage because, quite frankly, this body deserves support, encouragement, snacks, and occasional professional intervention. Two glorious hours of self-care later, I felt like a partially reassembled human being instead of a raccoon held together by caffeine and stubbornness.

From there, I met a friend for a salt cave session. First of all… where has this magical little sodium sanctuary been all my life? I have wanted to try one forever and holy shift — I get it now. Soft music. Zero chaos. Reclined chairs. Tiny glowing vibes. Apparently sitting in a cave made of salt while breathing deeply is exactly what my nervous system has been filing formal complaints about for years.

We were the only two people in the session, which somehow made it feel even more peaceful. Honestly, I may have unlocked a new level of adulthood. Forget fancy handbags. Give me massage memberships and Himalayan cave naps.

Afterward, we rewarded ourselves with lunch at a café I had not been to in years, and it was ridiculously good. Nothing dramatic. Nothing life-changing. Just one of those beautiful ordinary days where everything feels soft, easy, and aligned for a minute.

And then came the car wash.

Mission Update: Confidence levels remained high. Intelligence levels are still under review.

Now listen. I have done the car wash routine approximately seventeen thousand times in my life. This was not new territory. We rolled in. I turned off the automatic windshield wiper sensor because otherwise Persephone thinks she’s fighting for her life. Put her in neutral. Everything was smooth. Halfway through, the parking sensors started screaming like we were entering another dimension, so I turned those off too. Again — standard procedure.

Totally fine.

Until it wasn’t.

At the end of the wash, the light turned green for me to leave. I pushed the D/S button to shift Persephone into gear, pulled the hand controls to accelerate and…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Persephone, in what I can only assume was an act of rebellion, had somehow shifted herself into Park and refused to move. I turned her off. Turned her back on. Still stuck. Tried again. Same thing.

Meanwhile, the car wash conveyor stopped.

And suddenly, I realized I was no longer simply getting a car wash. I had become an obstacle. A very shiny obstacle.

Behind me? A packed line of cars.

I’m sure there were colorful metaphors happening in several vehicles. Probably some spiritual growth opportunities too.

Mission Status: The crew morale was declining rapidly.

The attendant walked over while I explained that Persephone had apparently decided she lived there now. To her credit, the attendant did not panic, judge me, or dramatically sigh while an entire line of trapped humans slowly reconsidered their life choices behind us.

Instead, she smiled and calmly said, “Hold the D/S button for about three seconds.”

Well.

Apparently Persephone just needed boundaries.

I held the button, she snapped out of whatever existential crisis she was having, shifted into gear, and we rolled triumphantly out of the car wash like nothing had happened.

As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the car behind me finally escaping too. Freedom for everyone. Civilization restored.

Was it embarrassing? Oh, absolutely.

But honestly? It was also hilarious.

Because sometimes life is not giving you a grand spiritual lesson wrapped in dramatic symbolism. Sometimes life is just your minivan publicly malfunctioning after a salt cave session while you hold up an entire car wash line like the universe decided you needed one final character-building exercise before dinner.

Final Mission Assessment:
Persephone is clean.
The public survived.
I learned a new button trick.
And somewhere out there, at least one stranger probably still has a story about “that woman who broke the car wash.”

Mission Status:Operational — smoother, stronger, and slightly more time-travel-ready.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t healing.
It’s stepping back into a world that kept moving while you were learning how to stand again.

This week, I went to my first networking group since COVID and everything that followed after. And let’s be honest — “everything” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. So much has shifted. Not just in my body, but in how I experience people, energy, connection… myself.

For a while, stepping back out into the world felt less like a decision and more like a negotiation. Transportation alone was its own adventure. But now, with Persephone and the ability to drive again, something opened. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough.

Enough to say yes.

One of the moments that meant more than I expected was something so simple, it almost feels silly to explain. I picked up a friend. After years of being the one who needed help, I got to return the favor. It wasn’t just a ride. It was independence. It was dignity. It was a quiet, grounding reminder that I’m not where I used to be.

And then there was the coffee situation… because of course there was.

The day started with what can only be described as a minor domestic crisis — my Keurig gave up halfway through brewing my morning cup of life. Now, anyone who understands the sacred ritual of coffee knows this is not a small inconvenience. This is an event.

Jeff stepped in and made me one of his coffees — which, let’s just say, is less “gentle morning companion” and more “rocket fuel with feelings.” I am fairly certain that first cup had me buzzing more than I realized. By the time I had my second one at the restaurant — which, of course, also came with a kick — I was operating on a level of caffeine that probably required a disclaimer and a warning label.

So there I was — re-entering society for the first time in a while, slightly over-caffeinated, mildly jittery, and fully committed.

What could possibly go wrong?

When we arrived, I made a decision. I left my wheelchair in Persephone. Partly because I wanted to try. Partly because I thought, “This should be manageable.”

At first, it was. I parked right in front, and the group was gathering near the entrance. Easy. Comfortable. Almost suspiciously smooth.

And then, as life tends to do, it gently raised an eyebrow and said, “Let’s see about that.”

The bathroom, of course, was on the complete opposite side of the restaurant. So was the coffee. And the food. Every step felt like I had accidentally signed up for an endurance event I did not train for.

But I did it.

I made it there. I made it back. I ordered what I needed. I rejoined the group. Not gracefully, not effortlessly — but fully.

And just as I settled in, the group decided we needed more space… on the other side of the restaurant.

Of course we did.

There was a moment — just a small one — where I questioned my life choices. And yes, I briefly reconsidered my decision to leave the wheelchair behind.

But here’s the honest truth: I didn’t regret it.

Because this wasn’t about doing it perfectly. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. It was about participating. It was about reminding myself that I can still show up, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it requires more effort than it used to.

The meeting itself was wonderful. I met new people, reconnected with familiar faces, and felt something I hadn’t felt in a while — a sense of being part of something again. Not as I was before, but as I am now.

Afterward, my friend and I lingered, talking with a few others, letting the moment stretch just a little longer. Then I took her home and headed back myself, carrying that quiet mix of exhaustion and fulfillment that only comes from doing something that matters more than it looks on the surface.

It was a lot. Honestly, more excitement than I’ve had in quite some time.

And instead of feeling drained in a discouraging way, I felt… awake.

Not overwhelmed. Not defeated. Just aware that I had crossed a threshold.

There’s this myth that says you should wait until everything feels stable again before stepping back into life. That you should be fully ready, fully healed, fully confident.

But that’s not how it works.

You go back while it’s still a little wobbly.
You reconnect while parts of you are still figuring things out.
You rebuild in motion.

This wasn’t a grand comeback. It wasn’t dramatic or polished.

It was something quieter.

I went.
I stayed.
I participated.

And now?

I’m actually excited.

Excited to step out again.
Excited to explore more of the wild.
Excited to see what else is possible — not someday, not when everything is perfect — but now, as I am.

Turns out… I still belong out here.

If you’ve been standing at the edge, waiting for the “right time” to step back into your life…

You don’t need perfect conditions.
You just need a willing step.