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.

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.

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.