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.

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.