There are times when everything slows down, and the pace of life becomes more deliberate. In these moments, the world feels simpler, steadier, and more meaningful.
Age Six: Sticky Hands, Open Skies
When I was six years old, the days felt endless, slow and steady. Time was a distant idea, something I barely noticed. In the yard, an old pear tree stood, its roots deep and firm. Every year, its branches sagged with heavy fruit, a quiet constant as the seasons came and went.
Picking pears was simple. My small hands reached for what I could, biting into the soft flesh. Juice ran down my wrist, sticking to my skin. I didn’t mind. The cores, half-eaten, were left on the ground, forgotten, or buried in the grass.
Afterward, I sat beneath the tree, the cool earth pressing against my legs. I watched the clouds drift lazily across the sky, always shifting. One moment, they were a whale; the next, a train. My thoughts followed their lead, light and free. The pear tree did not seem remarkable to me back then. It was just there—part of a world I had yet to understand.
Age Twenty-Two: The Pace Quickens
The ease of childhood gave way to the hurried, unrelenting pace of young adulthood. By twenty-two, life seemed to accelerate, leaving me to muddle through. The world grew louder, driven by a pace I couldn’t quite keep up with. Everything moved with purpose, though I often stumbled along, trying to make sense of it.
The pear tree stood where it always had, but it had faded into the background. It was a presence I noticed without truly seeing it. Picking the fruit had become second nature, almost mindless. Juice trickled down my wrist, though I hardly noticed. I wiped it away, my thoughts already on what came next.
Sitting beneath the tree no longer felt like a break from the world. I didn’t tilt my head back to watch the sky like I used to. My eyes stayed down, focused on the path ahead. The future wasn’t something to sit back and admire—it was something I had to chase.
Age Forty-Nine: What Remains
At 49, I no longer try to control life’s pace. The pear tree is still there, its branches thicker, its roots deeper. I still eat the fruit when it’s in season, but I take my time with it now. The juice from the pear runs down my wrist, and I let it.
Sitting under the tree doesn’t feel like searching anymore. The shade is enough. The clouds still drift by. Their shapes matter less now than the fact that they are there.
The questions that once pressed at 22—what I should do, who I should be—have softened over time. The questions don’t demand answers anymore. They just need space to exist.
The Thread That Ties It Together
At six, the world felt a little scattered—a sticky pear, a passing cloud. By twenty-two, I tried to make sense of it, searching for meaning. At forty-nine, I have learned to let things come together in their own time. They are what they are, shaped by time, without force.
The pear tree stands, its roots deeper, its shade still cool. The juice still runs down my wrist, and the years feel lighter when I take a moment to notice what has always been here.
I hope 2025 is off to a great start for each of you. I am reaching out to gather your thoughts and feedback. What topics would you like to see explored on Wiley’s Walk (www.wileyswalk.com)?
Are there specific stories, challenges, or insights you’re interested in? Your input is invaluable in shaping content that resonates with our community.
To spark ideas, here are a few topics that might interest you:
Personal Narratives on Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP) and Other Disabilities: Sharing personal experiences and challenges faced while living with CP or other disabilities to foster understanding and connection.
Mental Health and Disability: Exploring the intersection of anxiety, stress, and living with a disability, along with strategies for building emotional well-being.
Inclusive Design and Accessibility: Discussing the importance of inclusive design—creating physical and digital spaces that everyone can use comfortably—and how it impacts daily life for people with disabilities.
Resilience and Adaptability: Resilience refers to the ability to recover from challenges, while adaptability is the capacity to adjust to new circumstances. Both are vital for overcoming daily obstacles and embracing change.
Advocacy and Awareness: Advocacy means actively supporting or promoting a cause, such as accessibility or disability rights, to inspire action and positive change. Awareness, while important, is about educating others to create understanding as a foundation for inclusion.
Navigating Social Perceptions: Examining how societal perceptions and stereotypes affect individuals with disabilities and sharing strategies to challenge and reshape these views.
Educational Insights: Sharing lessons and experiences from educating others about disabilities, inclusion, and how small changes can make a big difference in creating a more equitable world.
Do any of these resonate with you? Or is there something else you’d like us to focus on?
We value your feedback! You can share your thoughts and ideas in one of the following ways:
From personal narratives about living with disabilities to discussions on inclusive design and mental health, your voice is crucial in creating a more understanding and connected world. Engage with us on topics like resilience, advocacy, and the nuances of social perceptions that affect the daily lives of individuals with disabilities. Join the conversation at www.wileyswalk.com and help guide our content to inspire and educate—because every step on this journey counts. #WileysWalk
I look forward to hearing from you and creating meaningful content together.
The California wildfires have scorched landscapes and ravaged communities. They have left an indelible mark on countless lives. Homes have been reduced to ashes, Individuals and families have been displaced, and ecosystems upended. From afar, the magnitude of such devastation can feel overwhelming. However, it prompts an essential question: How can we help?
While the challenges of rebuilding may seem daunting, there are clear, tangible ways to support recovery efforts. Even from miles away, each small action adds up to making a difference.
Reflecting on the Loss
The impact of these fires reaches far beyond the visible damage. Individuals and families face the uncertainty of rebuilding their lives. Many are struggling to find shelter and replace what has been lost. Even amid such overwhelming loss, there is a reminder that support can take many forms. Small acts, when combined, can help foster healing and rebuild hope.
At Wiley’s Walk (www.wileyswalk.com), the goal is to share resources to help people with disabilities access the support they need during disasters like the wildfires.
Below are organizations offering direct assistance.
Support for People with Disabilities in Wildfire Recovery
California Foundation for Independent Living Centers (CFILC) CFILC works with local independent living centers to help people with disabilities during emergencies. Their services include evacuation support, emergency aid, and ensuring accessibility during disasters. Website:https://disabilitydisasteraccess.org/
The Richard Devylder Disaster Relief Fund This fund helps replace lost assistive devices, tools, and technology for people with disabilities. It also offers temporary housing assistance, such as covering motel stays, and resources through the Community Wildfire Safety Program. Website:https://disabilitydisasteraccess.org/wildfires/
Financial Support for Wildfire Recovery
If you are looking to support wildfire recovery efforts, consider donating to these trusted organizations that are making a meaningful impact:
California Community Foundation’s Wildfire Recovery Fund The California Community Foundation’s (CCF) Wildfire Recovery Fund has been helping wildfire-affected communities in Los Angeles County since 2003. The fund focuses on rebuilding homes, restoring livelihoods, providing mental health services, and enhancing emergency response systems. It works closely with local organizations and government agencies to prioritize under-served communities and ensure aid reaches those who need it most. Website:https://www.calfund.org/funds/wildfire-recovery-fund/
American Red Cross The American Red Cross provides emergency shelter, meals, and emotional support to families impacted by disasters. Their disaster response efforts help communities recover and rebuild during crises like wildfires. Website:https://www.redcross.org/
Supporting First Responders
First responders risk their lives to protect communities during wildfires. Supporting organizations that provide them with essential tools and resources ensures they can do their job effectively:
Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation The Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation (LAFD Foundation) supports 3,500 firefighters and paramedics of the LAFD by funding essential tools, equipment, and programs not covered by the city’s budget. Key areas of support include providing advanced firefighting gear, funding health and wellness initiatives like cancer prevention and mental health programs, and improving fire station conditions through the Adopt-A-Fire-Station program. The Foundation also supports youth education and leadership programs for future firefighters. Donations directly enhance firefighter safety, readiness, and efficiency.
The California Fire Foundation, a nonprofit established in 1987 by California Professional Firefighters, provides emotional and financial support to families of fallen firefighters, firefighters, and the communities they serve. The Foundation maintains the California Firefighters Memorial at the State Capitol, honoring fallen firefighters with an annual ceremony. It supports firefighter families through the California Firefighters Benevolent Fund, educational scholarships for children of fallen firefighters, and financial assistance for firefighter candidates. Additionally, its SAVE Program provides $250 gift cards to disaster survivors for immediate necessities like food, clothing, and medicine.
Wildfires often leave families without basic necessities. These organizations provide immediate aid to those in need:
Baby2Baby Baby2Baby supports children affected by disasters by providing essentials like diapers, clothing, and hygiene products. Their efforts help families meet their immediate needs and recover more quickly. Website:https://baby2baby.org/
Los Angeles Regional Food Bank The Los Angeles Regional Food Bank distributes groceries and meals to families facing food insecurity due to wildfires. Their work is critical for those who have lost access to basic resources. Website:https://www.lafoodbank.org/
Caring for Animals and Wildlife
Wildfires can displace and injure animals, leaving them vulnerable. These organizations are dedicated to caring for pets, livestock, and wildlife during disasters:
Pasadena Humane Pasadena Humane reunites lost pets with their owners and provides care for displaced animals, ensuring their safety and well-being during emergencies. Website:https://pasadenahumane.org/
Staying Informed and Raising Awareness
Staying informed about climate change and advocating for better policies can help prevent future disasters and improve recovery efforts:
The Climate Reality Project The Climate Reality Project raises awareness about the impacts of climate change and advocates for policies that reduce the risks of natural disasters like wildfires. Website:https://www.climaterealityproject.org/
Your Support Makes a Difference
Even from a distance, your support is invaluable. Whether through a donation, spreading awareness, or simply staying connected to the stories of those affected, each step makes a meaningful difference. The road to recovery will take time, but together, we can ease the burdens of those who need it most.
Educating and teaching have always been integral to my life, although not through traditional classrooms or structured lessons, but as a natural part of navigating life with Cerebral Palsy and mobility challenges.
This unique perspective often means that when the world fails to understand one’s reality, sharing knowledge becomes essential. In doing so, the lesson is not just taught; it is embodied.
Wiley’s Walk was born from a lifetime of experiences and a simple goal: to spark meaningful conversations about inclusion. It is a space to explore what inclusion truly means and how people navigate a world that doesn’t always make space for everyone. Through stories and reflections, it highlights the ways people overcome challenges to foster understanding, create connection, and find a sense of belonging.
This blog is for anyone who has faced challenges. These challenges might stem from a disability, the way others perceive them, or simply being underestimated. It is for those who, despite everything, hold on to the belief that there is always a way forward. Even when the path ahead seems uncertain, they keep going, knowing that progress, no matter how small, is still progress.
For me, that belief is rooted in one of my earliest memories of confronting and educating about difference.
Finding My Voice at Five
I was five or six years old, standing in front of my classmates. My hands gripped my walking devices and the hem of my shirt, twisting it nervously, as twenty pairs of eyes stared at me. Their unspoken questions hung in the air, so loud they felt like words.
“Why does she walk like that?” “Why are her legs so stiff?” “What do words like spasticity and rigidity even mean?”
At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to answer them—not in a way that would make sense. However, I knew I wanted them to understand. Their stares weren’t mean-spirited, but they burned all the same. So, I did what made sense to me: I asked someone else to explain.
I turned to my physical therapist, someone who had the words I couldn’t find. There was no hesitation in my request, just a simple desire to help my classmates see me for who I was—not as something unfamiliar to decode, but as someone navigating the same world in my own unique way
“Spasticity is when muscles stay tight all the time, like they’re stuck,” he told the class with a calm, confident voice. “Rigidity makes it hard for mucles to stretch or move the way you want.”
Those words explained my Cerebral Palsy, a condition that affects muscle control and coordination, but that wasn’t what truly mattered. As I stood there, watching their expressions shift, I realized it wasn’t about the medical terms or technical explanations.
It was about creating a connection, about replacing the uncertainty in their eyes with something real and relatable. That moment wasn’t about delivering a flawless explanation or finding the perfect words. It was about being seen—not as a mystery to figure out or someone set apart, but as someone they could understand and include.
I did not realize it then, but that moment shaped how I approached every challenge that came after. Whether it was joining playground games or navigating crowded classrooms, I refused to let my differences keep me on the sidelines. When things didn’t go as planned, I found ways to adapt.
Sometimes that meant reaching for duct tape. I used it to secure sports equipment to my walking devices or modify classroom tools to suit my needs. Over time, the duct tape became a familiar part of my world. It wasn’t always perfect, but it got the job done—a simple, practical solution that turned obstacles into possibilities.
A Question That Shook Me
Even with my ability to adapt, there was a moment I wasn’t ready for—a question that caught me off guard and unsettled me deeply. By my thirties, I believed I was skilled at helping others understand difference.
I had spent years as a living example—showing people how to make space, advocating in rooms not designed for someone like me, and fighting to join conversations that might have otherwise excluded me.
Then, without warning, a question stopped me cold. It came from someone close, someone I trusted—and that made it cut even deeper.
“Why did you bother?”
Their tone wasn’t cruel, but the sting was undeniable.
“When the faculty took time to work with you, we all had to wait. In the end, what was the point?”
The words hit like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Decades of adapting, advocating, and sensitizing others about difference—had it all been for nothing? Did any of it even matter?
That question lingered. It forced me to reconsider everything I thought I knew about educating others. Had the people I believed understood me ever truly seen me at all?
Lessons From Imperfection
It took some time to sort through those feelings. Slowly, I began to see something important. Educating and sensitizing others about difference isn’t about perfect explanations or easy fixes. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. It is about showing up again and again, even when it feels like no one is listening.
The duct tape that held my sports equipment wasn’t just functional. It told a story. It said, “This isn’t perfect, but it works. And I’m not stopping.” Over time, it became a deeper reminder. Adaptability isn’t just about finding a way to get by. It’s a way of saying, “I’m here,” even when the world isn’t exactly built for someone like me.
That lesson influenced more than just how I faced challenges—it changed how I thought about inclusion itself. Adaptability, I realized, isn’t just something you rely on to get through. It is a statement. It is a refusal to be limited by assumptions or circumstances.
In education, imperfection holds its own kind of power. A teacher pausing mid-lesson to say, “This isn’t working—let’s try something else,” isn’t just solving a problem. They are teaching something far more valuable. Mistakes are not dead ends. They are part of the process.
Inclusion works the same way. A design that doesn’t quite fit or a system that leaves someone out isn’t a failure. It is a chance to step back, reassess, and try again. Each adjustment sends a message: You are seen. You matter. Let’s find a way.
Agency Builds Bridges
How challenges are handled speaks volumes. People notice whether obstacles are met with creativity or frustration, intention or indifference. Pity creates distance. It says, “I feel bad for you because you’re over there, and I’m over here.”
Agency, on the other hand, builds bridges. It says, “You know what you need, and I’m here to listen.” It respects autonomy and empowers people to take the lead in their own lives.
Assumptions about how to help can sometimes feel stifling—a hand placed on a mobility device without permission or a decision made without input. Even small, well-meaning actions can unintentionally take away someone’s voice.
Asking questions, however, opens another door. A simple, “Do you need help?” or “What works best for you?” changes everything. It is not just about offering help—it is about offering trust. That trust fosters connection, and that connection becomes the foundation for true inclusion.
Why It’s Always Been Worth It
Educating others about difference isn’t about drawing lines between “us” and “them.” It is about discovering the places where our stories meet, where experiences overlap, and where understanding begins to grow.
Difference doesn’t have to separate. It can open the door to connection. It is in the shared laugh over an improvised solution that works. It is in the moment someone says, “That reminds me of something I’ve experienced,” and suddenly, the gap between you feels smaller.
That question—“What was the point?”—still surfaces from time to time. Now, it carries less weight because the answer is clear. The point was never just to be included.
It wasn’t simply about proving I could belong or leveling the playing field. It was about something bigger: showing that the playing field itself matters—that everyone deserves a chance to stand on it, to participate, and to thrive, even if the space wasn’t originally designed for them.
The process of helping others understand this hasn’t always been easy. It’s slow. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. But it’s also necessary. Because understanding isn’t the end goal—it’s the starting point. It’s the beginning of something transformative.
Maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question all along. The question isn’t, “What was the point?”
The real question is, “What comes next?” And even more importantly, “How can I help build it?”
Ever tried holding sand in your hand? At first, it feels steady, something solid that can be held onto. Then, slowly, it starts slipping away—grain by grain. The harder the grip, the faster it falls.
Life can feel like that. Things shift, whether wanted or not. Sometimes, change is loud and impossible to miss. More often, it’s subtle. Like erosion, gradual and steady, pulling away until, one day, everything looks and feels different.
This kind of change touches everyone. A role that once defined everything starts to fade. A routine that once provided structure no longer fits. Even the version of yourself that once felt solid begins to feel distant. The ground doesn’t disappear all at once. It crumbles, piece by piece, leaving you to figure out how to stand on something entirely new.
Adapting isn’t about holding on tighter to what is slipping away. It is about learning to move in a new way. Disability, chronic illness, and unexpected detours in life all push for this kind of shift.
There is no going back to what was. Yet there’s also no stopping what comes next. Sometimes, that next thing turns out to be more valuable—more fulfilling or meaningful in the moment—than what’s been left behind.
At the heart of Driftwood, there’s a tree—strong, rooted, steady by the river’s edge. It represents stability, something unshakable. Yet, even the most solid ground doesn’t stay firm forever. Over time, it begins to shift. Storms roll in, and the roots start to weaken. The fall doesn’t happen suddenly or violently. It unfolds gradually, piece by piece, a quiet collapse. Eventually, the river claims it.
Adapting to change is never easy, and sometimes, it is not about holding on. It’s about letting go and learning to move in a new direction. The shift can be subtle, like erosion, slowly pulling away until everything feels different. This concept is reflected in the poem, Driftwood.
Driftwood
By Kerry Ann Wiley
Tall once on the river’s edge, Roots knotted deep in earth’s steady pledge. The soil whispered promises it could not keep, Chipped away by waters that refused to sleep.
Bit by bit, the ground gave way, A quiet erosion, day by day. Currents laughed, their song so benign, Until the pull unraveled what once was mine.
Storms tore branches, splintered the core, Winds howled, rains claimed more and more. The weight of time began to press, A slow collapse into nothingness.
Fallen, silent, into the stream, The river carried what remained of the dream. A fragment, a remnant, floating free, A piece of what was meant to be.
Yet the drift is not an end at all; The waves reshape what storms let fall. Every scar speaks of battles survived, Each grain a mark of having thrived.
Some see ruin, a form undone, A fractured shell beneath the sun. But others find beauty in battered lines, The art of endurance through endless tides.
The river asks nothing of what remains, Only to dance through its shifting veins. Not whole, not broken—just set adrift, A soul transformed by the water’s gift.
The river pressed close, whispering low, Soft at first, then unrelenting. What held firm began to loosen, A quiet surrender to the constant pull.
The ground beneath was once a promise, Rich, steady, full of weight. But promises thin under patient hands, Eroding grain by grain, Until there is nothing left to hold.
Storms tore through with a cruel precision, Branches snapped, torn free without apology. The air grew heavy with each breath of wind, And even the strongest roots began to fray.
Time leaned heavy on aging bark, Not in leaps, but in whispers. The weight of years became the final blow, And what stood tall finally gave way.
What remains drifts through restless waters, Not as it was, but not erased. The shape is different, yet still alive, Carved anew by hands unseen.
Some would see ruin in the splinters, A story of what was lost. But there is beauty in the softened edges, In the way even broken wood floats.
The river asks no questions of the fallen, Only carries it onward, A silent witness to the unmaking And the quiet, endless becoming.
The poem starts with collapse. The poem opens with a tree’s gradual decline. Once strong, it is slowly worn down by time, water, and storms. This erosion feels inevitable, happening slowly as its roots and structure steadily weaken.
Ultimately, the weight of time becomes undeniable. Pressure builds steadily, leaving little room for resistance. In the end, the tree can no longer hold its ground and gives way.
Yet, the story doesn’t end there. The driftwood—the remnants of the tree—doesn’t disappear. Instead, the river carries it forward, reshaping its form. Splinters, softened edges, and scars all tell a story of survival. What is left is different, but it’s still alive. Still moving.
The poem doesn’t pretend the driftwood is whole. It bears the marks of everything it has endured. These marks are part of its character. “Each grain a mark of having been.” The scars don’t lessen the value of what remains. Instead, they add to it. The poem highlights that the driftwood’s imperfections enhance its beauty, reflecting its journey through change.
Interestingly, the river doesn’t demand anything from the driftwood. It simply carries it forward, allowing it to stay as it is. There’s no effort to change its shape or return it to its original form. The poem shows how the river lets the driftwood exist in its new state, embracing the natural changes without trying to fix what was lost.
This is where the poem feels raw and real. It doesn’t push a story of recovery or a return to the past. Instead, it lets the driftwood exist in its new form. Different, but not less. That’s the lesson. Adapting isn’t about rebuilding what is lost. It is about creating something new from what remains. Driftwood isn’t less than the tree—it simply changes. Its different form holds its own significance.
The line, “Not whole, not broken—just set adrift,” reflects a deeper reality. Life isn’t black and white. It is not about being completely intact or entirely falling apart. Instead, it’s about the spaces in between. The driftwood continues to float. It bears its scars, yet it moves forward.
The poem explores how small, gradual shifts can shape who or what someone becomes. Like driftwood that keeps moving forward despite its marks, experiences leave their impressions while creating new paths. With everything always shifting, a question comes to mind: How can the past be honored while moving toward what’s next?
People with disabilities, one of the world’s largest population groups, often face significant challenges in finding housing that is both accessible and affordable (Cho et al., 2016; Louin et al., 2021).
According to the United Nations Flagship Report on Disability and Sustainable Development Goals, housing for people with disabilities is a critical focus area for the coming decade (United Nations, 2018). Yet finding an accessible home can feel impossible—something I learned firsthand.
In 1994, I set out to find a home with clear priorities in mind: a single-story house that was practical, easy to maintain, and close to work. Public transportation was essential, so proximity to a bus line was non-negotiable. Most importantly, I needed a space that would not only meet my current needs but could adapt as my needs changed over time.
As I started looking at houses my optimism about finding a home that met my needs didn’t last long. Every house I toured had its own set of obstacles. One had steep stairs at the entrance. Although I could manage them then, I couldn’t help but worry about how they might pose a problem in the future.
Another had charm, but the doorways were so narrow that using walking poles or a mobility device would have been next to impossible. It drove home a sobering reality: truly accessible homes were nearly nonexistent. Finding one that checked all my boxes started to feel completely out of reach.
That’s when I realized it wasn’t about perfection—it was about potential. A home could be adapted with a few thoughtful tweaks, and that mindset shift changed everything. Accessibility doesn’t end when you sign the lease or close on a purchase; it’s an ongoing process grounded in creativity and practicality.
In fact, research shows that small, evidence-based changes can significantly boost a home’s safety and functionality for people with with disabilities (Campani et al., 2021; Imrie, 2018). These aren’t just theoretical fixes—I’ve put them into practice in my own home to make it truly work for me.
Lessons Learned: Functionality Over Perfection
Entrances and Doorways
The first challenge is often the entrance. I remember touring a house that seemed ideal, except for a single uneven step leading to the front door. At the time, it felt like a dealbreaker. Later, I discovered that portable threshold ramps could solve this issue quickly and affordably without requiring permanent modifications (Atlas Home Safety, n.d.).
Narrow doorways are another common problem but can often be addressed by installing swing-clear hinges, which increase clearance by up to two inches. In homes where that isn’t enough, removing non-essential doors entirely can open up tight spaces further and improve mobility (Imrie, 2018; Ratnayake et al., 2022).
Flooring
Flooring can be a surprising obstacle, especially when transitions between materials create tripping hazards. One home I toured had mismatched flooring that felt risky to navigate. The potential solution was simple: beveled transition strips that provide a smooth bridge between different surfaces, making movement safer and easier (Imrie, 2018).
Loose rugs or carpets are another hazard but can be secured with non-slip pads or double-sided tape to prevent slipping (Campani et al., 2021).
Kitchens
Kitchens often require bending, reaching, and navigating tight spaces, making them one of the most challenging areas to adapt. Several homes I viewed had deep cabinets and high shelves that felt entirely out of reach. However, I discovered a few straightforward solutions:
Reorganizing cabinets so frequently used items are within easy reach.
Adding pull-out shelves or lazy susans to improve access to deep cabinets (Ratnayake et al., 2022).
Incorporating a rolling cart as a potential mobile workstation for meal prep or transporting items between rooms.
These small changes make a big difference in creating a functional space.
Bathrooms
Bathrooms often present the biggest accessibility challenges, but even a few minor adjustments can transform them into safer, more usable spaces. For instance:
Suction grab bars provide stability near toilets or in showers without requiring permanent installation (Campani et al., 2021).
Portable shower benches allow for seated bathing, reducing strain and increasing safety.
Handheld showerheads with extended hoses offer flexibility and make bathing easier (Ratnayake et al., 2022).
These tools create an environment that prioritizes both safety and independence.
Living Areas
Living rooms often contain subtle obstacles that go unnoticed at first glance. One home I toured had a layout that felt cramped, with furniture creating narrow pathways that were difficult to navigate. Rearranging furniture to create clear walkways, ideally at least 36 inches wide, made the space far more accessible.
For additional support, furniture risers can elevate chairs and couches, making it easier to sit or stand without discomfort (Campani et al., 2021; Imrie, 2018).
Bedrooms
Bedrooms can also benefit from simple but effective accessibility upgrades. For instance, clamp-on bedside grab bars offer added stability when getting in and out of bed, reducing the risk of falls (Ratnayake et al., 2022). Similarly, adjustable bed tables provide a versatile surface for reading, eating, or working (Steinfeld & Maisel, 2012).
Lighting and Smart Home Technology
Lighting is an often-overlooked factor in accessibility. I learned how motion-sensor LED lights can illuminate dark hallways or closets, reducing the risk of trips and falls (Campani et al., 2021).
Adding smart home technology, like voice-activated assistants and smart plugs, allows for control over lighting, and other devices with minimal effort. These tools enhance convenience while supporting greater independence.
Embracing Imperfection: Creating a Home That Works
The perfect home never materialized in 1994. Instead, what I found was a house with potential. With a little creativity and care, it gradually transformed into a home that truly worked.
A great home doesn’t have to be perfect—it simply needs to evolve alongside the people who live in it. With the right perspective and some practical adjustments, any space can become a place of safety, comfort, and belonging.
Campani, D., Caristia, S., Amariglio, A., Piscone, S., Ferrara, L. I., Barisone, M., Bortoluzzi, S., Faggiano, F., & Dal Molin, A.; IPEST Working Group. (2021). Home and environmental hazards modification for fall prevention among the elderly. Public Health Nursing, 38(3), 493–501. https://doi.org/10.1111/phn.12852
Cho, H., MacLachlan, M., Clarke, M., & Mannan, H. (2016). Accessible home environments for people with functional limitations: A systematic review. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 13(8), 826–848. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph13080826
Louin, M., Adema, W., Fron, P., & Roth, P. (2021). A crisis on the horizon: Ensuring affordable, accessible housing for people with disabilities. Geneva: Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development.
Imrie, R. (2018). Accessible housing: Quality, disability, and design. Routledge.
Ratnayake, M., Lukas, S., Brathwaite, S., Neave, J., & Henry, H. (2022). Aging in place: Are we prepared? Delaware Journal of Public Health, 8(3), 28–31. https://doi.org/10.32481/djph.2022.08.007
Steinfeld, E., & Maisel, J. (2012). Universal design: Creating inclusive environments. Wiley.
United Nations. (2018). Realization of the sustainable development goals by, for and with persons with disabilities: United Nations flagship report on disability and development. United Nations.
I was dressed and ready—hair styled, outfit chosen—yet there I was, stuck on something deceptively small: putting on my shoes. For most people, it is a forgettable step in their morning routine. For me, it is often a negotiation—sometimes a battle—with my own body.
Swelling, spasticity, rigidity—these aren’t just words; they are realities that turn ordinary tasks into moments of persistence. Some days, my foot takes on a life of its own, swelling to twice its usual size. On those days, shoes are less about style and more about strategy.
Swelling, in this context, is more than temporary puffiness. It signals underlying issues: water retention, immobility in the joint between the foot and ankle, or dietary factors. That joint—the talocrural joint, where the foot meets the ankle—is what allows smooth movement. For me, it often feels locked, immobile despite my best efforts.
Spasticity, the tightening of muscles, adds another layer of complexity. My leg is uncooperative, refusing to bend or move the way I need it to. Rigidity only compounds the challenge, making my body feel like it is working against itself. These are the realities of life with cerebral palsy, where even the simplest actions—like slipping on a shoe—become moments that demand creativity and patience.
The Battle of the Shoe
For me, putting on a pair of shoes isn’t just a task—it is a process. It starts with pulling my leg up to my knee using my hands, a motion that requires a great deal of upper body strength because my leg resists bending. Spasticity pulls back, as if my muscles have their own agenda. Some days, the resistance is so strong that I lose my grip and have to start over.
To make things a little easier, I rely on tools like a weight band. A rubber weight band is a thick, sturdy resistance band that forms a continuous loop, designed to provide adjustable resistance during strength training, stretching, and rehabilitation exercises. Its smooth, durable rubber surface allows for flexibility and comfort, while its resistance allows me to pull my leg up to my knee.
Wrapping it around my foot and leg, I can pull my foot closer while keeping my other hand free to slide the shoe into place. It’s a process that works—most of the time. On particularly difficult days, it can take multiple attempts before I get the shoe on.
When nothing works, I simply do what I need to do. Sometimes, that means walking outside with one shoe on and one off, heading to a waiting car where a friend helps me finish the task. In their hands, it takes seconds—a reminder that even when I adapt, it’s okay to ask for help.
Mismatched Shoes: Adaptation in Action
As I approach 50, swelling has become a more frequent occurrence. The reasons vary—diet, water retention, and the stubborn immobility of that talocrural joint. The result is always the same: shoes that no longer fit the way they should.
On days when one foot swells beyond recognition, I rely on mismatched shoes. One shoe fits my typical-sized foot, while the other is larger or looser to accommodate the foot that needs more space. It’s not the perfect solution, but it works. People notice, of course. Sometimes they ask, “How do you manage?” My answer is simple: I adapt.
Adapting often involves waiting for the spasticity and rigidity to subside, allowing my body to find its rhythm. It might mean using a weight band or repeating an action until the shoe finally fits. At times, it simply means accepting that mismatched shoes are the best option for the day.
One Step at a Time
Mismatched shoes have become more than a practical solution; they reflect how I navigate the world. They symbolize problem-solving and the willingness to meet my body where it is, not where I wish it could be.
They carry a simple truth: what works may not always be perfect, and that’s okay—it is progress. Life isn’t about perfect steps; it is about taking the next one, whatever it looks like.
Next time you notice mismatched shoes, consider that they might not be a mistake. Sometimes, they are part of adapting to life’s challenges. For me, they serve as a reminder that progress doesn’t need to be flawless—it just needs to keep moving forward. Mismatched shoes prove that things don’t always need to align, as long as the next step is taken.
The alarm buzzed at 7:00 AM, pulling me from sleep. I stretched, feeling the cool hardwood floor beneath my feet as I rose. In the kitchen, the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted me—a small yet familiar reminder that another day had begun. It was the start of a new year, marked by familiar routines, but something within me felt different.
As the New Year unfolded, it started like any other day—marked by familiar routines and quiet rhythms. At first glance, nothing seemed different. Yet beneath the surface, I felt a quiet shift, a nudge urging me to pause, reflect, and ask myself: What’s next?
In the days leading up to the New Year, a question lingered in my mind: How can I make room for what truly matters?
The shift I felt wasn’t bold or dramatic. It was subtle, like the stillness that follows a passing storm. Rather than chasing grand resolutions, I chose to focus on small, meaningful changes.
Clearing Space
As 2024 came to an end, I found myself reflecting on various moments. It had been a year of contrasts: ordinary days that blurred together, punctuated by vivid, fleeting memories.
Some of those moments brought unexpected joy. A shared laugh that lightened the weight of a difficult week. The quiet satisfaction of finishing something I had been putting off also brought a sense of fulfillment. Others were simple, routine actions—steady tasks that kept life moving forward.
Take, for example, the pile of unopened mail that sat untouched on my kitchen counter for weeks. It wasn’t anything significant—just bills, flyers, and a few random notes. Yet, every time I walked past it, I felt a tiny weight of stress. “I really need to deal with that,” I’d think, over and over.
One evening, I finally sat down and sorted through the pile. I recycled the flyers, filed the important papers, and discarded the rest. When I finished, the counter was clear for the first time in weeks. It only took 15 minutes, but the relief was immediate.
That small act reminded me of something important: Meaning isn’t always found in dramatic actions. It is often in the simple things—clearing a cluttered space, finishing a task, or pausing for a breath. These small steps bring a lasting sense of calm and purpose.
Setting Intentions
As 2025 begins, I am carrying these small lessons with me. Like clearing a cluttered space or finally finishing a task, focusing on simplicity feels right for this year.
It is about letting go of the noise and focusing on what matters most—ease, connection, and fulfillment. My goal is to invest more energy in relationships that bring joy and let go of those that no longer fit. In doing so, I am making room for the kind of growth that feels real.
This year, I am prioritizing what nourishes me—whether it is reading a good book, taking a walk, or diving into that creative project I’ve been putting off. Embracing these simple activities allows me to focus less on perfection and more on the process, creating space for growth and connection.
There is something beautiful in the simple moments: folding the last load of laundry, organizing a shelf, or sending a handwritten note. These small acts bring a steady sense of fulfillment, like a solid foundation beneath me. Instead of chasing bold resolutions or sweeping changes, I am focusing on the small, intentional choices that matter most.
By making space for what truly nourishes me—whether it’s engaging in a creative activity, connecting with others, or taking a moment to relax—I have found that these small, intentional choices have the greatest impact. They may not seem significant in the moment, but over time, they accumulate in unexpected ways, fostering a lasting sense of fulfillment.
This year, I am shifting my focus away from bold resolutions and embracing the quiet opportunities that come my way. Here’s to making each small step count, finding meaning in the quiet moments, and embracing the power of simplicity.
Life often follows familiar patterns: keys dropped on the counter, shoelaces tugged tight, coffee poured and left to cool. Small rituals shape the day, predictable and automatic. Then, something shifts.
It is not dramatic—just a subtle change, like stepping onto uneven ground. The shoelace remains untied. The coffee sits untouched. Nothing appears wrong, but something feels different. A quiet unease settles in: pay attention.
Most days, the unease fades. It gets buried under distractions and tasks. But sometimes, it lingers. When it does, questions begin to surface: Does this matter? Is this enough?
These questions aren’t obvious, but they linger. They quietly disrupt the rhythm, revealing cracks in routines that once felt unshakable. The usual response is to push them away. A task, a notification, or some distraction often fills the silence.
When nothing works to drown them out, the stillness takes hold. It brings buried doubts and forgotten memories into focus—uncomfortable truths that have remained hidden for far too long.
It often starts with work—not just how it’s done, but whether it holds any meaning. Milestones that once inspired urgency may now seem empty, their purpose eroded. Effort begins to feel disconnected from the reward, as if the balance has shifted. The cycle itself starts to resemble motion for its own sake, leaving behind only exhaustion in place of fulfillment. Awareness offers no immediate answers. It simply asks: Is this what matters?
From here, the questions get harder. Beneath the packed schedules and endless tasks, something becomes clear: stopping doesn’t help. Even with a break, the fatigue lingers. Yet the drive to keep going remains, fueled by something unspoken. The discomfort doesn’t demand resolution. It waits to be noticed.
Questions don’t stay confined to work. They seep into other areas, especially relationships. Some connections remain steady, like an effortless conversation. Others strain. Obligations pile up, pulling people apart. Silences stretch long, heavy with unspoken words. Cracks become hard to ignore. Once unshakable connections now feel delicate, bearing too much weight.
Clarity doesn’t force decisions or solutions. It means seeing things as they are, like noticing a forgotten receipt in a cluttered drawer. Patterns become clearer. Goals once chased with urgency now feel mismatched, like shoes that no longer fit. Dreams aren’t gone—they are paused, waiting for the right moment. This isn’t failure. It is life reshaping itself. Clarity offers a chance to let go of what doesn’t fit and hold onto what still does.
Awareness doesn’t clean up the mess or eliminate discomfort. It creates space to uncover what is hidden beneath the noise—the imperfections, the beauty, the weight of it all. A forgotten receipt becomes a moment to reflect, not ignore.
Together, clarity and awareness guide us forward. A forgotten receipt, an untied shoelace—small disruptions that seem inconsequential—can reveal what’s been overlooked. These moments hold the power to refocus attention, allowing meaningful change to take shape. In this space, letting go becomes intentional, and holding on feels deliberate. Life isn’t waiting to be perfected—it is asking to be noticed.
These subtle shifts interrupt the predictable, inviting reflection. Recognizing them transforms routine into revelation, turning ordinary moments into opportunities for growth. The forgotten receipt isn’t just clutter—it is a reminder to pause, to reevaluate, and to choose presence over perfection.
As a child, I was fascinated by rubber bands—the way they could stretch, snap, and return to their original shape. Over time, they became more than just objects of curiosity; they offered a powerful metaphor for understanding my experience with Spastic Cerebral Palsy.
For years, doctors used the rubber band analogy to help me make sense of my condition.
“Think of your muscles like a rubber band,” they would say. “When you pull on it, it stretches.” My muscles function in much the same way—they tighten with certain movements. However, unlike a rubber band that easily snaps back into place, my muscles don’t always relax. Sometimes they remain tense, refusing to let go. Other times, they lock up completely, without warning or clear reason.
This phenomenon, called spasticity, occurs when the signals between the brain, spinal cord, and muscles become scrambled. These misfires create stiffness and involuntary contractions, producing a tension that’s difficult to describe. While the rubber band comparison offers a useful glimpse into my condition, it oversimplifies something far more intricate.
Understanding Spasticity
Spasticity happens when muscles receive conflicting signals from the nervous system. Imagine trying to open a sliding door while someone else is simultaneously pushing it shut. The result isn’t movement—it is resistance. That is how my muscles feel when spasticity sets in: caught between the urge to contract and the need to release, leaving me stuck in between.
For me, this tightness is like trudging through thick mud—every movement, no matter how small, requires significantly more effort than it seems. It is not fleeting; it is a constant force that shapes every step I take.
According to the Mayo Clinic (2023), spasticity occurs when disrupted communication between the brain, spinal cord, and muscles causes stiffness, spasms, and fatigue. These symptoms make everyday activities—walking, sitting, even sleeping—more challenging. Yet, this clinical definition only scratches the surface; additional factors can amplify its effects.
Stress: The Invisible Amplifier
Stress operates like an invisible magnifier, intensifying the impact of spasticity. It is not just mental strain—it’s physical. For muscles already impacted by rigidity, stress is like pulling an already stretched rubber band even tighter.
When I’m stressed, my legs stiffen, and walking loses its natural rhythm. Every step feels mechanical, requiring more effort. Stress compounds the stiffness of spasticity, making movement harder. As the Mayo Clinic notes, stress can exacerbate muscle tightness and reduce the energy available for mobility (Mayo Clinic, 2023).
Stress can sometimes be obvious, like the pressure of a deadline or the buzz of a crowded room. Other times, it’s quieter, like an unresolved worry. Regardless of the form it takes, the outcome is the same: mental tension manifests as physical strain—a heaviness in my calves and a tightness that’s impossible to ignore.
Recognizing Limits
These moments of stiffness and rigidity remind me that I might be pushing myself too hard. Ignoring these signals doesn’t make them go away; it only increases the strain. Research shows that stress and overexertion can worsen muscle tension, creating a feedback loop. In this cycle, increased muscle tension leads to more stress, which then amplifies the tension further. Over time, this pattern becomes progressively harder to break (PubMed, 2013).
This cycle mirrors how rubber bands function, revealing a simple truth: everything has limits. Stretch a rubber band too far, and it won’t snap back—it will break. Spasticity works the same way. Pushing harder doesn’t ease the tension; it only increases it. Sometimes the result is subtle—a dull ache that lingers. Other times, it stops me mid-movement, forcing me to pause.
Respecting Limits
Over time, I’ve learned to honor my limits. For years, I saw resting as a weakness, believing that resilience meant pushing through challenges no matter what. However, resilience in this context, isn’t about relentless perseverance—it is about adapting to challenges while respecting your body’s boundaries. Slowly, I began to view those signals not as setbacks, but as my body’s way of offering guidance.
When the body signals it’s had enough, it’s not just a suggestion—it’s a clear message. Resting isn’t about giving up; it is about preventing further strain. The Mayo Clinic emphasizes that pacing and rest are not indulgences but essential strategies for managing conditions like spasticity (Mayo Clinic, 2023).
Moving with the Pull
Living with spasticity is like working with a rubber band stretched to its limits. Over time, I have learned that resilience doesn’t come from fighting the tension but from moving with it. Each movement requires attention—not just to how far I can go, but when to pause and let my body reset.
Like the rubber bands I admired as a child, my muscles have their own boundaries. Resilience in this context is not about pushing past those limits; it’s about adapting within them.
By honoring these boundaries, I have come to see that resilience isn’t about how far I can push—it’s about recognizing when to pause and adapt. This perspective extends beyond spasticity. We all encounter limits, whether they stem from our bodies, thoughts, or feelings. Stepping back is not a sign of weakness; it is an act of strength. It is how we sustain balance, conserve energy, and move forward with intention and grace.
