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?”
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