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.

Status: Systems… mostly cooperative
Objective: Investigate rogue windshield wipers and ongoing parking sensor rebellion
Mission Outcome:Quick fix, smooth ride home, nothing dramatic

After the now well-documented incident of spontaneous windshield wiper enthusiasm , Persephone already had a spa day scheduled. The original reason? The ongoing mystery of the parking sensors — because apparently, we don’t do single-issue storylines around here. No, no. We go full series.

So off we went to the Honda dealer, both of us optimistic. And by optimistic, I mean cautiously hopeful that — just this once — something might be simple. A quick fix. A clean resolution. A “here you go, ma’am, all set” kind of moment.

That was adorable.

Instead, Persephone was taken in like a full investigative project. Two to two-and-a-half hours of poking, prodding, and exploring what I can only assume were every nook, cranny, wire, and possibly alternate dimension inside her. I imagine at some point someone said, “Huh… that’s interesting,” which is never the sentence you want to hear when it comes to your vehicle.

And then came the verdict.

Not a faulty switch.
Not a confused sensor.
Not even a moody system having a moment.

Nope.

Wiring.

Specifically, wiring that decided to go a little rogue during the mobility conversion. Which, honestly, feels very on brand at this point. Because why would anything in my world be straightforward when it can come with personality?

So instead of heading home, we pivoted — because of course we did — and made our way straight to United Access. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when life opens a loop, we might as well close it while we’re already in the adventure.

Now, let me just say… these were wonderful humans. Patient, kind, and clearly used to situations that make other people question their life choices.

We spent about four hours there.

Four.

Hours.

At some point, time stopped being linear and became more of a suggestion.

One of the key discoveries? Persephone is a 2026 model, which means her wiring plans haven’t quite made their grand debut into the systems yet. And just to keep things interesting, they are slightly different from the 2025 models. Not wildly different — just enough to ensure that nothing is plug-and-play, nothing is obvious, and everything requires a bit of detective work.

Because again… why would we choose easy?

And yet — this is where it gets good — progress was made.

The parking sensors are now working. Technically. They’ve simply adopted a more… intimate communication style. Instead of giving me a comfortable heads-up from a distance, they now prefer to alert me when I am approximately inches away from becoming one with whatever is behind me.

Helpful? Yes.
Relaxing? Not even a little.

And the windshield wipers?

Behaving.

For now.

(We’re all just going to pause here and appreciate the phrase “for now,” because we’ve earned that level of cautious trust.)

And Then… The Wind

As if the day hadn’t offered enough growth opportunities, I discovered something new while driving home.

Colorado winds.

Now, I was aware of wind as a concept. I’ve experienced wind before. We’ve all had wind in our lives.

But driving a van — especially with hand controls and one hand steadying the wheel—is a completely different relationship with wind.

This is no longer a gentle “oh, it’s breezy” situation.

This is a full-body, arm-engaged, “we are actively negotiating with the elements” experience.

There’s a strength required that you don’t think about… until suddenly, you’re in it.

Adjusting. Holding steady. Learning in real time.

And somewhere in the middle of that, I had to laugh.

Because of course.

Of course this would be part of the journey too.

Perspective Shift (because we don’t waste a good lesson)

Here’s what this whole beautifully chaotic day reminded me of:

Not everything that feels like a setback is actually a problem.
Sometimes it’s just a system… learning how to work together.

Wires get crossed.
Signals get misread.
Timing gets a little off.

And instead of everything breaking…

It adjusts.
It recalibrates.
It finds a new way.

Not instantly.
Not neatly.
But eventually.

Final Notes from the Driver’s Seat

Persephone is teaching me patience.
And adaptability.
And apparently… upper body strength.

She’s also reminding me that “easy” is not the requirement for something to be right.

Sometimes it’s a process.
Sometimes it’s messy.
And sometimes it comes with rogue windshield wipers and parking sensors that believe in last-second warnings.

Mission Status: Progress with Personality

• Wiring: Understood (mostly)
• Parking sensors: Functional… with flair
• Windshield wipers: Cooperative (we’re watching closely)
• Driver: Stronger, wiser, slightly amused

And just in case you were wondering…

Yes.

The adventure continues.

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.

When we think about “the wild,” most of us imagine something out there — forests, mountains, unpredictable terrain, or the wonderfully confusing behavior of humans in public spaces.

That kind of wild is easy to recognize.

But there is another wilderness many of us wander into on a regular basis. It doesn’t require hiking boots, trail maps, or emergency snacks. Instead, it lives quietly inside our computers, waiting patiently for the moment when we attempt to do something “simple.”

Sometimes the wild shows up in the system.

This weekend I set out to do something that sounded perfectly reasonable. Now that the blog is up and running, I wanted subscribers to receive an email whenever a new post goes live. Nothing complicated. Just a friendly little note that says, “Hey, a new field report from the wild just landed.”

Simple.

At least that’s what I believed at the time. In hindsight, that was my first mistake.

Because modern technology has a very particular sense of humor. It promises simplicity with a straight face while quietly hiding seventeen settings, three integrations, and a mysterious button that may or may not do anything at all.

In theory, systems talk to other systems. Automation works its magic. Everything flows smoothly in the background while we feel very accomplished and technologically advanced.

In reality, one system depends on another system, which depends on a third system, which requires a specific format, which must match a template, which only works if certain fields update correctly.

And if those fields don’t update?

Well.

Then you and the computer begin a relationship that can only be described as… complicated.

So there I was, sitting in front of the screen, clicking the same button over and over.

Update fields.

Refresh.

Update fields again.

Nothing.

Update fields again.

Still nothing.

At some point the situation begins to feel less like technology and more like a quiet psychological experiment designed to measure how long a human being can remain calm while a computer refuses to cooperate.

If you’ve ever worked with digital systems, you know the moment. It’s the moment when you stare at the screen and start wondering whether the computer understands exactly what it’s doing and is enjoying the situation immensely.

At that point people usually go in one of two directions.

Some people sigh, close the laptop, and walk away before their sanity leaves the room.

Others develop a certain determined look that says, “Oh no. One of us is going to win this, and I’m fairly certain it’s going to be me.”

I tend to fall into the second category.

So the exploration continued. I tried a different email template. I explored the settings again. I ventured into the deeper corners of the system where menus lead to other menus, which lead to additional menus, and somewhere along the way you begin to suspect the entire structure may actually be held together by coffee and optimism.

None of it was dramatic. There was no triumphant moment where the computer suddenly apologized and everything began working perfectly.

It was simply the slow process of trying, adjusting, learning, and occasionally giving the screen a long look that suggested I was willing to out-stubborn a machine if necessary.