Nothing looks broken on the outside. The coffee’s still made. The laundry still folded. The same drawer opens and closes. And yet—something shifts. Something has ended.
“The Things That Came Apart” lives in that in-between space. It is a moment not defined by collapse or closure but by the slow accumulation of days where nothing shifts and everything keeps going.
The Things That Came Apart By Kerry Ann Wiley
Even silence sounded different now—
There was no lesson, only the leaving.
The key still turned. The glass cracked but didn’t cut.
Some things vanished like they’d never fit. Others remained, warped by the breaking— still trying to hold.
It wasn’t enough. But it was what remained.
The couch remembered a second body. Sadness came. And stayed.
A drawer was emptied. There was no plan— just motion.
Still: a nail tapped into the wall. Still: a note written, never sent.
The future returned in chipped bowls filled again. In laughter that caught mid-breath. In sleep that came without asking.
The room no longer waited. It held the shape of what came after.
Living in the In-Between
This poem sits in the after. It sidesteps the comfort of closure, leaving everything exposed—unsettled, unfinished, and still open to the weight of feeling.
Each image carries the weight of what can’t be said: cracked glass, an emptied drawer, an unsent note. Grief moves quietly through the ordinary, present in every overlooked detail.
The Weight of Ordinary Things
The couch remembered a second body. Sadness came. And stayed.
Objects shift their meaning. The chipped bowl isn’t just damaged—it’s a trace of everyday use, of hands that no longer reach for it. The drawer stays half-full, a quiet inventory of what’s no longer needed. The room has lost its sense of waiting; it holds only what’s already passed.
Grief shows up in small things. It is there in a single coffee cup, left untouched. It’s in laughter that breaks too soon, and in sleep that feels more like withdrawal than rest. There is no single breaking point—only the quiet, gradual undoing of a life once intertwined.
What Stays
The poem lingers through its softest truths:
There was no lesson, only the leaving.
Still: a nail tapped into the wall. Still: a note written, never sent.
The opening lines strip away the expectation that pain must teach something. “There was no lesson, only the leaving” rejects the impulse to find purpose in loss. What remains is not meaning, but motion—the act of someone going, and the stillness left behind.
The image of the nail in the wall evokes something that once hung there: a picture, a memory, a presence now gone. The object is ordinary, but its implication is intimate—it marks a small, private change. Also, the note that was written but never sent suggests words held back, intentions unfulfilled. It exists in the space between expression and silence, presence and absence.
This section dwells in the aftermath, in the details that quietly record a departure. It lets the emptiness speak. In doing so, it honors the subtle, often overlooked weight of what’s left behind.
When the Future Arrives Quietly
Eventually, the poem turns toward continuation:
The future returned in chipped bowls filled again.
The image is simple yet intentional—pointing not to renewal, but a return to small routines. The chipped bowls are not replaced; they are simply filled again. Continuation is not found in closure. It lives in what stays behind, in familiar objects that are imperfect and unchanged. This isn’t about restoration in the traditional sense. Instead, it’s a quiet act of continuing, marked by small, repeated gestures. As time goes on, these small gestures gradually make space for the unfamiliar to become something familiar.
A cup is filled. A nail is gently tapped into the wall. A drawer slides shut once more. These simple actions may seem insignificant at first. Over time, they stop mirroring what’s missing and begin to shape what might be. It isn’t a return—it’s the sound of choosing to stay, of learning how to live with what lingers.
Chipped bowls hold the echo of lives once intertwined. Every unspoken gesture bears sorrow and hints at hope. Quiet rituals hold both what has been lost and what hasn’t arrived yet—hope for what may come.
Certain endings become visible only in hindsight. They tend to favor the back door rather than the spotlight. Often, they begin with a pause that stretches too long, a glance that doesn’t return, or a sentence left unfinished.
There is no sharp turn and no sudden conclusion to mark the end. Instead, there is recognition that something meaningful has shifted and will not return. The departure is not marked by a clean break but by a subtle understanding: everything that remains now exists just out of reach. What settles in is not apathy, but a quiet acceptance, an honest sense that it is truly over and that what lingers no longer asks to be chosen.
This poem begins there—not in the heat of what was lost, but in the still place that follows.
Everything After Red By: Kerry Ann Wiley
Lungful of ash. No fire in sight. Only the twitch of something unclaimed, beneath a skin never asked to be worn.
The frame turns inward. Softness learns how to brace. Names fall away, one, then another. One catches on the tongue, but the mouth closes around air.
What moved was not wind. What stayed did not settle. The sky folded at the corners and split down the center. No apology. Just red.
Somewhere, a question gives out, losing its spine. The answer lingers in the heat, spoiled, like meat left too long in the sun.
No reins. No sea. Only the sound of a throat choosing not to call it back.
This poem does not begin with heat or conflict. It begins in the quiet aftermath—where the fire has already passed. There is no promise of return and no path back to what once was.
From its opening breath, the poem offers only ash without flame—a stillness that settles in the absence of heat. What remains is stripped of sentiment.
Lines such as “the frame turns inward” and “softness learns how to brace” reflect what happens when explanation becomes too much to carry. These lines do not suggest surrender. Rather, they reveal a shift in stance. Softness does not disappear; it reshapes itself. Where clarity once came through language, now it arrives in the pause that follows.
The names come next; once familiar and tied to ordinary moments, they gradually begin to slip away. Even when one returns and “catches on the tongue,” it remains unspoken. Choosing not to say it is not about fear. It is about knowing that speaking it would only stir the ache. Some truths do not need to be voiced to be real. Letting them go can become an act of mercy.
The break arrives without warning. As the poem states, “The sky folded at the corners and split down the center.” This moment is not chaos and not collapse. It is an irreversible shift that occurs without permission or negotiation. The next line—’No apology. Just red.’—offers no clarity, no reassurance; only defiance. It names the wound as it is: raw, immediate, and beyond undoing. There is no metaphor here and no softened meaning—only finality, bare and unflinching.
Even the question begins to dissolve. “Losing its spine,” it slips out of shape. The answer—if it ever existed—rests somewhere in the heat, untouched. There is no attempt to recover it. The poem does not try to resolve what has been lost. Some things are meant to remain where they fall.
The ending doesn’t strike—it recedes, beginning in absence rather than force. The lines read, “No reins. No sea.” There is no path forward and no current left to carry anything away. The absence of reins suggests that there is nothing left to guide, no direction that can be forced.
Without the sea, there is no tide to wash anything clean and no movement to ease the weight of what has been lost. What remains is a single, quiet choice: “a throat choosing not to call it back.” That moment does not beg, and it does not break. It holds still. It reflects the strength to remain outside what has already ended—not from numbness, but from understanding that not everything is meant to be returned to.
Everything After Red does not attempt to make peace with what is gone. Instead, it honors the decision not to go after it. Some endings do not ask for closure; they ask to be left alone. Some truths do not need to be spoken twice. Sometimes, the clearest answer is the silence that follows.
The poem ends where most won’t linger: the aftermath. What is left can’t be salvaged, and what remains isn’t worth the reach. It does not circle back, and it does not feign resolution. It stands still—stripped bare, deliberate, and unflinching.
This is not a lament for what was lost, but an honest reckoning with the moment it no longer felt worth returning to. In that refusal, in that stillness, the poem makes its final mark—not through sound, but in the silence of all that remains unsaid.
Spastic diplegia may change how a journey begins, but it doesn’t define where a person can go. If you live with it, or love someone who does, you already know this: spastic diplegia isn’t just about tight legs or awkward steps. It is about waking up and negotiating with muscles that won’t quite cooperate.
Technically, it’s the most common form of spastic cerebral palsy, affecting roughly one in every 345 children in the United States (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2020). Within that statistic lies a wide range of experiences, but spastic diplegia primarily affects the legs, making walking and balance an everyday challenge.
It is frequently associated with premature birth and a specific type of early brain injury called periventricular leukomalacia, which damages the white matter responsible for motor control. What stands out today isn’t only the condition itself, but how far our understanding and treatment strategies have come—and how much further they can still go.
Understanding the Diagnosis: Who Is Affected and Why
Most people don’t set out to learn about cerebral palsy. Yet for many, it becomes part of their lives quietly and without warning. Over time, it grows into something personal and deeply significant.
Medical language that once felt remote begins to resonate in unexpected ways. For many families, this connection starts even before their baby leaves the neonatal intensive care unit.
Spastic diplegia is most often diagnosed in babies born prematurely. The risk increases the earlier a baby is born. Infants born before 28 weeks of gestation or with a very low birth weight are especially vulnerable (Cerebral Palsy Guide, n.d.). Injuries to the developing brain caused by a lack of sufficient oxygen or blood flow can later appear as spasticity, muscle stiffness, or delays in motor development.
Even when the cause is understood, the diagnosis can still feel overwhelming. Families wonder about the future: Will their child walk, play, or keep up with peers? Will they face pain or isolation?
Despite the unpredictability, the future holds many possibilities. Spastic diplegia does not follow a predetermined path, and that unpredictability can offer its own form of hope.
Progress in Treatment: Evolving Therapies and Early Intervention
A few decades ago, treatment for spastic diplegia largely revolved around managing deficits. Standard protocols included physical therapy, orthotic braces, and sometimes surgery.
These interventions focused more on symptom control than on encouraging development. Therapy often felt like something done to the child rather than with them.
Today, the approach to diagnosing cerebral palsy has changed significantly, allowing for earlier detection. An MRI can provide detailed images of the brain to help identify any areas of injury or abnormal development.
The Hammersmith Infant Neurological Examination, or HINE, is a simple, hands-on check that doctors use to assess a baby’s movement, reflexes, and posture. The General Movements Assessment looks at how babies move naturally, helping specialists spot patterns that may suggest a higher risk of cerebral palsy, even in very young infants.
These advancements make it possible to diagnose many children with cerebral palsy before their first birthday (Novak et al., 2020). This timing is crucial. Early intervention takes advantage of the brain’s plasticity during the first year of life, potentially leading to significantly better long-term outcomes.
Therapy now focuses on practicing real-life movements, such as walking up stairs, getting into a car seat, or reaching for a favorite toy. This kind of functional, engaging activity helps children learn by doing. When therapy aligns with everyday tasks, it can lead to more effective responses from both the brain and body.
Therapeutic Tools: What’s Available and What Works
Spastic diplegia doesn’t lend itself to a single, universal treatment. Every child’s experience is unique, and the most effective care plans are tailored accordingly.
Physical therapy remains a cornerstone of treatment. Stretching spastic muscles, strengthening weaker ones, and working on balance are foundational aspects of any treatment plan. Increasingly, these efforts extend beyond clinical settings. Families are encouraged to weave therapeutic activities into everyday routines so that progress becomes part of what they already do.
Botulinum toxin injections—commonly known as Botox—are sometimes used to temporarily relax specific muscles. This can lead to improved mobility and may reduce the need for bracing (Packer, 2020). The effects can vary from person to person and should be evaluated carefully. While the results are not permanent, they can still play a meaningful role in a broader treatment plan.
For children with more widespread spasticity, oral medications such as baclofen may be prescribed. These medications work by acting on the central nervous system to help reduce muscle tone throughout the body. Because they can cause side effects, careful monitoring is essential (Packer, 2020).
A promising shift in treatment today is the move toward flexibility and family-centered care. Instead of relying on a one-size-fits-all model, therapies are now tailored to reflect each child’s unique strengths, priorities, and daily rhythm. This adaptability allows care to respond to real needs rather than impose rigid routines.
Families are no longer passive observers—they are recognized as essential partners in shaping what treatment looks like. A family-centered approach values their insight, preferences, and lived experience, helping to create plans that are both meaningful and sustainable.
Progress is measured not only by motor improvements but also by increased independence and greater engagement—in play, in relationships, and within the broader community.
Emerging Possibilities: Technology and Innovation in Care
Advances in therapy for spastic diplegia are accelerating, with technology playing a growing role in how care is delivered and experienced.
One promising development is the use of robotic exoskeletons. These wearable devices, currently in clinical and research trials, are showing potential to support more natural walking patterns, build strength, and promote proper muscle activation (Rao & Cruz, 2023). For children who’ve long had to work around their limitations, this technology offers new ways to work with their bodies.
Functional electrical stimulation (FES) is another tool gaining ground. By sending targeted electrical pulses to specific muscles, FES can support more natural movement—particularly helpful for challenges like foot drop (Rao & Cruz, 2023).
Beyond high-tech interventions, accessible innovations are also making an impact. Telehealth visits, family coaching, adaptive equipment, and smart orthotics that offer real-time feedback are helping make therapy more engaging, effective, and tailored to individual needs.
However, access to these tools remains uneven. Geography, insurance coverage, and income all influence what care is available. The next challenge isn’t invention—it is ensuring that innovation reaches every child who could benefit. Moving forward, the focus must be on expanding access—so that progress isn’t determined by where a child lives or what a family can afford.
The Human Element: Why Relationships Still Matter Most
For all the medical breakthroughs and advanced tools, some of the most meaningful progress in supporting individuals with spastic diplegia begins with people.
It happens in small, consistent moments: a therapist celebrating a hesitant step, a parent learning to ease stiffness with care. A child meets difficulty with focus, sometimes frustration, but keeps going.
Support today comes from a network of people working together—therapists, doctors, educators, and family members, each bringing their perspective and care. They listen closely, collaborate, and adjust plans in response to real-life experiences and changing needs.
This kind of partnership is reshaping treatment and long-term outcomes. Therapy is no longer something handed down from above. It is a shared effort, where success is reflected not only in clinical progress but in growing confidence, and the steady rise of independence.
Continuing the Journey
Spastic diplegia may shape how movement begins, but it doesn’t define where growth can go. Advances in early diagnosis, functional therapy, adaptive technologies are opening more doors to meaningful participation.
Family-centered care and flexible supports now reflect each child’s individuality—their timing, priorities, and potential. Progress isn’t only measured by milestones; it’s found in presence, in belonging, and in the opportunity to participate and take part. Often, that is where the most lasting change begins.
Novak, I., Morgan, C., Adde, L., Blackman, J., Boyd, R. N., Brunstrom-Hernandez, J., … & Badawi, N. (2020). Early, accurate diagnosis and early intervention in cerebral palsy: Advances in diagnosis and treatment. JAMA Pediatrics, 171(9), 897–907. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9666139/
Oskoui, M., Coutinho, F., Dykeman, J., Jette, N., & Pringsheim, T. (2013). An update on the prevalence of cerebral palsy: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Developmental Medicine & Child Neurology, 55(6), 509–519. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7082248/
Not everything ends with finality. Some things don’t shatter or break apart; they simply begin to fade. The volume lowers. The conversation slows. The words that were once spoken are now silent, and the certainty that once existed is slowly slipping into the unfamiliar, as time quietly erases what was once believed to be permanent.
Over time, as the words fade and the pauses grow longer, what once held meaning begins to feel hollow. The shape remains, but the meaning no longer fits. It softens over time, until it barely holds together. There is no clear moment to point to, no obvious ending to mark when it all began to change. Some connections slip away exactly like this. There was no fight, no farewell — only silence in the end.
This poem exists in the silence that follows what was never fully said. It lingers in the ache of something that once lived deeply between two people, but now only echoes.
Threaded Through Bone
By: Kerry Ann Wiley
Not all bonds are braided. Some are threaded through bone — too deep to untangle, too quiet to break.
It split the sky. One vow, written in the wind. Broken by standing still.
What was shared, what was given, was already gone.
Some call it love Others call it faith because it doesn’t answer.
There were mirrors, but all showed different truths.
One steady, one burning. Full of silence.
Only the echo remains — the sound of grief when it no longer remembers its name.
The Quiet Fade
This is not a poem about dramatic endings or obvious heartbreak. It doesn’t move in a clear or expected way. There is no betrayal, no sudden departure, no sharp realization; only the slow fading of what once felt certain. Instead, it looks at the quiet erosion of a bond that was never clearly defined but deeply felt.
The opening lines root the connection in the body. It is neither chosen nor named. It simply exists—unquestioned, steady, silent, and profound. It runs through to the bone. This kind of connection isn’t easily named, but its presence is undeniable. When it begins to shift, the pain that follows is just as real — even if it’s hard to explain.
Stillness That Unravels
One of the most telling lines in the poem is:
“Broken by standing still.”
Here, the fracture doesn’t come from conflict, but from inaction. Nothing is said. Nothing is done. The absence of effort becomes its own kind of breaking. Without movement, the bond can’t hold. Over time, stillness becomes silence — and silence becomes distance.
The poem suggests that some endings don’t come from a decision, but from neglect. When nothing is offered, nothing can be sustained. What once felt sacred fades quietly, simply because it’s been left untouched for too long.
Misaligned Reflections
Midway through the poem, the tone shifts again:
“There were mirrors, but all showed different truths.”
This is where disconnection deepens into distortion. Two people can be in the same space and still see completely different things. One may believe in the stability of the bond. The other may feel it slipping away. Yet neither of them finds the words to say what they see.
The silence isn’t empty. It is filled with assumptions, with separate truths. By the time either realizes the difference, the bond has already begun to dissolve.
The poem doesn’t assign blame. Instead, it traces the sadness that comes when two lives, once closely connected, begin to move in different directions. It captures the slow fading of shared understanding—not through conflict, but through gradual change.
Grief Without a Name
The poem closes with lines that speak to a particular kind of grief — one that outlasts its cause:
“Only the echo remains — the sound of grief when it no longer remembers its name.”
This grief isn’t tied to a specific memory or a dramatic moment. It lingers in the body like background noise. It doesn’t have a clear shape, and most of the time, it arrives without warning.
It doesn’t disappear. It stirs beneath the silence, long after the rest has vanished. It’s not about refusing to let go—it’s about what doesn’t ask to be held.
Naming What Was Never Spoken
The poem ends, leaving the silence intact. It doesn’t try to unravel the past—only to acknowledge it. It recognizes a bond that mattered, even if it was never clearly defined.
When that kind of bond fades, it leaves no clarity; only grief without reason and absence without shape. What the poem offers is simple: a space for the unspeakable, a shape for the words that were never shared. When an ending never fully comes, absence becomes the only truth that remains.
There isn’t always a single moment when things begin to shift. There is no sudden realization or clear turning point. It starts quietly—somewhere between conversations, in the middle of routines, or when your thoughts are focused on something else entirely.
Life keeps going. You show up, get things done, make dinner, and answer what needs answering. Each day looks about the same. On the outside everything seems fine.
Underneath, something feels slightly off. It is not exactly sadness and not exactly exhaustion. It feels more like some small piece no longer clicks into place the way it once did.
You start leaving messages unopened a little longer. Replies take more time. It is not about avoiding anyone. Sometimes, when the words will not come, silence feels easier than trying to explain what is still unfinished.
This kind of shift usually flies under the radar. It does not stop your schedule or throw off your plans. It simply settles in. Life keeps moving, even when part of you feels a step or two behind.
Still, the questions come. Someone asks how you are doing, if everything is okay. You answer without thinking: “Fine,” or “Good,” or even “Hanging in there.” Maybe that is not the full truth, but it keeps things moving and spares you from opening conversations you are not ready for.
Something keeps moving beneath the surface. It shows up in tiny details no one else would notice, yet they gather. Mornings seem to stretch, not because the day is longer but because an old sense of urgency has eased. You raise the window, more to sense the change than to feel the air.
Not every shift leaves a visible mark, but that does not mean it has not changed you. Sometimes it is in the way you pause before speaking. Sometimes it is how you step outside simply to be somewhere else for a minute.
You start making choices that do not come from logic but from instinct. They are neither bold nor obvious, yet they carry a quiet sense of certainty. In those small adjustments, something begins to move, even if you cannot name it yet.
Stillness does not always bring peace. Sometimes it is only the absence of distraction, and in that calm the hard things surface. Old feelings stir. Doubts sharpen. Even that can be a kind of forward motion.
Maybe this is how healing begins: not with a breakthrough or a dramatic leap, but in fragments, in presence, in a few lucid moments of paying attention, in recognizing something true that has waited beneath all the noise.
Some things simply need space to breathe. When that space finally appears, clarity does not always arrive quickly. It moves in without announcing itself. You begin to do things you had not planned. You reply to a message you delayed. You step outside, not to escape, but simply to feel the air.
There is no clear before or after. Still, something feels different. This time you notice it. You may start to move toward unfamiliar choices, not because everything is solved, but because something inside feels ready to reach.
Even the smallest steps can feel like quiet affirmations. You are still here. You are still paying attention. You remain open to whatever comes next, however softly it arrives.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recently released new data: as of 2022, an estimated 1 in 31 children in the United States are identified as being on the autism spectrum. Some have responded with concern, suggesting this rise points to a crisis. It may help, though, to look more closely at what’s changed—and what hasn’t.
This increase doesn’t mean more children are suddenly developing autism. Rather, it reflects growing awareness, better screening tools, and expanded efforts to identify and support children who may have been missed in the past. In many cases, access to early intervention now depends on getting an accurate diagnosis—something that wasn’t always possible or equitable.
Autism prevalence varies significantly across different parts of the country. In Laredo Texas, the estimated rate is 1 in 103 children. In some regions of California, the rate is much higher, reaching approximately 1 in 19. New York falls between these two, with an estimated 1 in 49 children identified as being on the spectrum.
These variations are not necessarily tied to increased risk. Instead, they often reflect differences in access to early evaluations, diagnostic specialists, and timely support services.
It is understandable that changes in numbers raise questions. Still, a broad base of research has consistently shown that autism is not caused by vaccines or environmental exposures sometimes cited in the public conversation. It is a complex, lifelong neuro-developmental condition, and many of the tools now used to recognize it simply didn’t exist a generation ago.
For families, educators, and communities, the message beneath the numbers is one of preparation. It is about being ready to recognize autism early, to ensure that evaluations are timely, and that services are within reach. It means investing in systems that welcome all forms of communication, learning, and development.
While prevalence rates continue to rise, so does the opportunity to respond with intention and care. The real progress lies not in the count, but in the commitment to create environments where every individual is recognized, supported, and valued.
In recent months, a quiet but consequential shift has been unfolding in Washington. The U.S. Department of Education—a key driver in how schools across the country serve students—is undergoing a transformation.
Staff are being let go. Programs are going dark. Some regional offices are closing, and a directive now asks the department to begin preparing for its own sunset. It’s not just a shuffle—it’s a signal. And people are beginning to listen.
Families of students with disabilities are often the first to notice what is changing—alongside the educators and advocates who support them throughout the process.
Two developments are taking shape: a shift in the federal role in special education and a growing school choice movement, as families look beyond traditional public schools for the right match, tailored services, or new possibilities.
Evolving Oversight, Emerging Questions
For decades, the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act—IDEA—has anchored the work of public schools in supporting students with disabilities. The Department of Education has helped guide that work—not only by giving direction or funding, but by listening closely, investigating concerns, and pressing for stronger outcomes.
That role is now shifting. Some responsibilities may transfer to agencies like the Department of Health and Human Services. Others could move closer to state-level oversight. For some, this opens the door to a more connected, whole-child approach—one that treats education, health, and community care as parts of a shared effort rather than separate concerns.
A whole-child approach recognizes that students learn best when their physical health, emotional well-being, and sense of safety are supported alongside their academic growth. It centers the idea that learning doesn’t happen in isolation. But change brings uncertainty. And with uncertainty come new questions.
How will oversight be coordinated? Will families still have a clear place to turn when concerns arise? What does support look like when the systems behind it are being rewritten in real time?
Some states may step into these changes with a strong infrastructure already in place. Others may be bracing for a learning curve. Either way, the transition isn’t just administrative—it’s personal. Because for families, the difference between timely support and confusing red tape can be the difference between a child thriving or struggling.
School Choice Expands, But So Do the Questions
Even as federal oversight is being re-imagined, another change is moving faster—and with more momentum: the growth of school choice. Across many states, publicly funded programs are expanding access to private schools, micro-schools, and home-based services. Families often receive this support through vouchers or education savings accounts.
Micro-schools are small, independently organized learning environments, often serving fewer than 15 students. They vary widely in structure and may operate out of homes, community spaces, or dedicated facilities. Supporters point to their flexibility, close-knit learning communities, and the ability to tailor instruction to individual needs.
Critics raise concerns about oversight, accountability, and whether all students—particularly those with disabilities—have access to the same quality of education.
For some families of students with disabilities, this is a welcome expansion of possibility. Smaller settings. Tailored instruction. A break from systems that may have felt too rigid, too large, or too slow to respond.
But private schools live by different rules. They aren’t bound by IDEA in the same way public schools are. That means Individualized Education Programs (IEPs) may not transfer, procedural safeguards may look different, and the kind of services available may depend less on federal mandates and more on institutional capacity.
When the path forward is uncertain, families begin to navigate in the ways they know best: by asking questions, seeking information, and weighing their options. Some find programs that truly make a difference. Others run into gaps they didn’t see coming.
A Road Still Unfolding
What is clear right now is that the foundation of special education—and the broader system that shapes how children learn and are supported—is shifting. That shift may open doors. It may also lead to mismatches, delays, or new challenges.
Still, the core remains unchanged: creating learning environments where students with disabilities are seen, supported, and given real opportunities to thrive.
That responsibility doesn’t rest with any single agency or school model. It lives in the everyday work of listening, adapting, and remaining responsive to students—while systems work to catch up to the promise of true access and inclusion.
There was a time when White House press briefings included sign language interpreters. People who are deaf or hard of hearing could follow along, knowing someone had made sure they weren’t left out. Now, that access is gone.
The interpreters have stopped appearing, captions and ASL translations have been removed from videos, and even the webpage dedicated to accessibility has stopped working. For many, it doesn’t just feel like something was forgotten—it feels like they were.
This shift is part of something bigger. Programs meant to support people with disabilities are being scaled back, defunded, or eliminated. Efforts focused on diversity and inclusion—especially those that helped people feel seen and supported—are being erased. Changes at agencies like the Department of Health and Human Services have removed key services that helped people stay in their homes, get meals, and receive support. These weren’t extras—they were essentials.
The Administration for Community Living, once a central source of help for older adults and people with disabilities, is being dismantled. That office helped fund centers across the country that made independent living possible. With those resources now at risk, many are left asking what happens next.
Early on, the current administration signed an order that pushed aside diversity, equity, and inclusion work. The consequences have been wide-reaching. HIV-related programs lost funding, disability-focused research was cut, and support for studies that looked at things like job barriers and transportation challenges just disappeared. Research at the National Institutes of Health that once focused on chronic health conditions, intellectual disabilities, and rare diseases is now at risk, too.
Groups that support older LGBTQ+ adults, veterans, and people with disabilities are facing budget threats or have already lost federal funding. It’s not just about money—it’s about what the decisions say. When programs that support inclusion are removed, the message is that those individuals don’t count in the same way.
These decisions affect more than services. They change how people with disabilities are treated and viewed. Some federal protections are now harder to enforce. The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which handles workplace discrimination cases, lost key leaders. Without a quorum, it can’t move forward on certain cases. Meanwhile, disability-related complaints are increasing.
The Federal government has long been a leader in hiring people with disabilities. However, current downsizing and targeted layoffs—especially of workers in probationary periods—are making it harder to keep that promise. And because the hiring process for many people with disabilities includes a longer probation period, those cuts are hitting this group especially hard.
Still, advocates and advocacy groups are speaking up. Many are calling for interpreters to return, for funding to be restored, and for people with disabilities to be treated with the same dignity and respect as anyone else. Inclusion isn’t about politics. It’s about fairness and belonging.
Even when it feels overwhelming, small actions still matter. Whether you’re directly affected or standing in support, there are ways to help keep inclusion on the table:
Share accurate information with friends, family, and coworkers
Contact local representatives and ask them to protect programs that support people with disabilities
Support organizations that center disability inclusion
Ask for accessibility in your workplace, schools, and community spaces
Listen to and uplift the voices of people with disabilities
Change doesn’t always begin in headlines. Sometimes it starts in conversations, small decisions, and steady reminders that access isn’t optional—it’s essential.
Some of you may be wondering—what happened to Wiley’s Walk? The blog has always blended technical guidance, lived examples, and personal reflection. But lately, the shift has been unmistakable.
Fiction has stepped forward.
The recent stories weren’t a detour. They were a response—to what couldn’t be said plainly, and to what began asking for a different kind of language. Chronic conditions have a way of reshaping more than the body.
The stories arrived as a way to say what facts alone couldn’t hold. Chronic conditions aren’t just medical; they alter pace, memory, intimacy, and identity. The shape of a body changes, but so does the shape of a day, a relationship, a silence. Fiction gives room for those layers.
Redefining the Terms
Let’s start with the language that threads through these stories.
Chronic condition isn’t just a diagnosis—it’s an ongoing reality. There’s no resolution, only recalibration.
Adaptation doesn’t mean “getting better.” It means learning to function differently, often with limits that were once unthinkable.
Independence isn’t a fixed point. It is a shifting boundary that gets redrawn again and again, especially when care is required.
Grief isn’t reserved for death. Physical loss—of mobility, sensation, ease—demands its own mourning. Grief is not always about endings. Sometimes it’s about what used to feel effortless, and no longer does.
Care-giving can be both generous and complicated. And being cared for can stir something just as complex. It isn’t just support—it’s its own relationship, layered with love, fatigue, closeness, and space. It can be complicated, heavy, or unwanted. And for the one receiving care, it can trigger shame, longing, or guilt.
These terms aren’t always visible in public conversations about disability.
The recent stories shared on Wiley’s Walk a are moments that ask to be noticed. Fiction offers a way to carry them without turning away.
From “Braced” to “The Distance Between Steps”: What the Stories Explore
The stories published this past month were not random. Each one presses into a question I couldn’t shake. What happens when the body shifts—and doesn’t shift back?
In “Braced”, the main character confronts the quiet aftermath of a diagnosis. The tone is subdued, but the tension is clear: how do you keep showing up in a relationship when you can’t hide the decline anymore? The brace, meant to support, also exposes. And that exposure—of vulnerability, of need—brings both clarity and risk.
Then there’s “Erosion”, a story about slow undoing. Illness here isn’t a sudden break—it’s a steady fade. The emotional erosion matches the physical one. Communication fractures not because love disappears, but because the language for this kind of loss doesn’t come easily. Touch changes. Roles shift. And somewhere in the quiet, something essential slips.
“Fracture Line” lingers in the space between love and uncertainty. The characters want to connect—but the old ways no longer fit. The story names what most try to avoid: the grief of what was. It’s a grief rooted in function—what it meant to climb stairs without fear, to reach without hesitation. The characters struggle not with affection, but with what affection now requires. The balance between tenderness and frustration plays out in subtle exchanges—shared meals, glances, silences that stretch.
“The Suture (Unstitched)” goes deeper into emotional rupture. The body has changed, but so has trust. It lingers in discomfort—the kind that surfaces when care-giving becomes routine, but emotional re-connection does not. What does it mean to offer care when the person you’re caring for doesn’t want to be touched, let alone saved?
And in “The Distance Between Steps”, the idea of rebuilding takes center stage. Not just rebuilding health, but rebuilding intimacy. The character’s body has changed, yes—but so has her sense of control. The story traces the halting, awkward re-entry into closeness when power dynamics have shifted, when independence has been punctured, and when no one is quite sure how to ask for what they need.
The Questions That Won’t Let Go
These stories were written because some questions won’t leave:
What happens when a condition alters the very shape of a life?
What does it mean to grieve a body that still wakes up each day?
How do you ask for help when all you want is space?
How do you rebuild when “what was” is no longer possible?
What does independence look like when you need help getting out of bed?
How do you explain the grief of physical loss when you still appear “functional” to others?
What do you do with the guilt of needing too much—or offering too little?
Fiction gives room to explore these without clean endings. The characters live inside the tension. And so do many of us.
Why It Matters
Disability isn’t a metaphor. It’s a reality. The stories let us speak about the things technical guides can’t hold—the weight of a hand pulled away, the silence that falls when someone can’t keep up, the ache of being seen as fragile when you’ve fought so hard not to be.
These pieces aren’t departures from Wiley’s Walk. They’re part of the same path—just deeper in. A different way of holding what’s hard to say. A slower way of listening.
Disability shifts more than circumstance. It alters timing, closeness, and the way we carry the ordinary. These stories stay with what lingers. They open the door to discomfort, care, and change—and allow meaning to form slowly, in the spaces that often go unnoticed.
So Why Fiction? Maybe it’s because story allows space for the questions we haven’t quite found words for. Because it pauses where we’ve hurried past. Because some parts of illness, care, and what’s been altered are less about explanation—and more about recognition. What if the stories are here not to resolve anything, but to quietly return us to what still wants to be felt?
These stories didn’t come from a place of despair. They came from the tension of holding on and letting go. From the hope that even when roles shift and the ground feels unstable, there’s still room for connection. For choice. For love that bends without breaking.
The truth is—life with a chronic condition isn’t just about endurance. It’s about recalibrating joy, redefining strength, and choosing to stay in the room, even when the room looks different than it used to.
Thank you for continuing to walk alongside the stories at www.wileyswalk.com.
The dispatch crackled through at 11:43 a.m.—a woman in Midtown, possibly a neurological emergency. Her name was Kerry. I was halfway through a sandwich when the call came. Jake looked up from his crossword. I was already on my feet.
The rig was hot, the engine humming, sirens cutting a path through the noise of the city. Jake tossed out possibilities—sugar crash, dehydration, vertigo—but I wasn’t really listening.
I kept seeing her hand. Hovering over a cup of coffee. Trembling. Not enough to spill, but enough to stay with me.
“Turn on 53rd,” Jake said.
The building came into view—glass and steel, gleaming, reflective. One of those places where people don’t fall. Until they do. Inside, a concierge waved us through. “Top floor.”
We took the elevator. Neither of us spoke. When the doors opened, the scene hit like a snapshot frozen mid-collapse.
A chair lay on its side, skewed as if knocked over mid-motion. Loose pages littered the floor. Her blouse—a vivid purple—was bunched at one shoulder, an off-kilter detail that didn’t belong.
She lay still, limbs folded in on themselves, the angles of her body just slightly wrong. Her fingers curled with a subtle, uneasy tension. Her eyes were open, fixed on something distant, something I couldn’t see.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Kerry.”
Her leg twitched. It was a sharp, involuntary ripple from calf to thigh. A spasm, brief and unmistakable. These were fasciculations, small and rapid muscle contractions caused by misfiring nerves. It was not a seizure. It was not something benign. It was just a misfire. The nerves were sending instructions the body no longer understood. Something had been lost in translation.
This was not a person who simply fainted. It was a system failure. She had stood up, but her body had not kept pace. The connection between thought and motion had simply gone quiet.
“She stood to shake hands,” someone said. “Then she just… dropped.”
There was no blood. There was no visible trauma.
I leaned in closer and spoke gently. “It’s Julian. You’re safe now.”
Her pulse surged beneath my fingers. It was not fear. It was not panic. Her system was overcorrecting, struggling to catch up.
Orthostatic hypotension could explain the fall. It is a sudden drop in blood pressure that occurs after standing. But that would be a symptom, not the root cause. What we were seeing went deeper. This had been developing for a long time.
The condition was called length-dependent sensorimotor polyneuropathy. It is a degenerative nerve disorder that begins in the most distant parts of the body—first in the toes and fingertips. From there, it progresses along the nerves, moving steadily toward the spine and brain.
She had managed it in silence, with care, never allowing the strain to show. Now that was no longer possible. When I lifted her, she didn’t resist. That, more than anything, told me what I needed to know. Her body had already made the choice she could not.
II. In Transit
Jake was already at the elevator with the stretcher. We lifted Kerry onto it and secured the straps without a word.
“Vitals?” he asked.
“Blood pressure’s low. Pulse is elevated. Pupils reactive. No visible trauma.”
In the rig, the sirens came on. Jake drove, eyes forward. I kept two fingers on her wrist, monitoring her pulse.
“She’s not crashing,” he said.
I nodded. Her skin was cool. Her fingers twitched—subtle, irregular. Not a seizure. Not a spasm.
“It’s the neuropathy,” I said. “She stood too quickly. Her system lagged.”
“It’s catching up now.”
We backed into the hospital bay. The trauma team met us at the doors, moving quickly but without panic.
“She’s forty-one,” I said as they took over. “Diagnosed neuropathy. Ongoing fatigue, fasciculations, reduced proprioception.”
Proprioception: the body’s sense of position in space. Without it, balance is unreliable. Movements lose coordination.
“Meds?” someone asked.
“She’s on methylprednisolone, a corticosteroid to reduce inflammation around the nerves. Gabapentin, for nerve pain and misfiring signals. Pyridostigmine, which helps improve communication between nerves and muscles. And a full B-complex supplement for general nerve support.”
“Level of consciousness?”
“Partial. No trauma.”
A brief pause. “Is she your patient?”
“She’s my partner,” I said. I didn’t explain that I’d memorized the pattern of her breathing long before I ever took her vitals. That kind of knowing doesn’t come from a chart.
No one asked again.
III. Aftershock
The drive home was quiet, thick with everything we weren’t saying. Kerry hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. The discharge notes were folded neatly in her lap, their edges soft from handling. I kept my promise—no questions.
We turned onto the gravel drive. The tires crunched softly beneath us. The cabin waited behind a fringe of bare trees. I cut the engine.
“We’re here,” I said.
I got out and opened her door. Inside, I switched on the stove lamp; amber light pooled on the counter.
“I’ll get you settled on the couch, okay?” I knelt, slipped off her boots, and pulled the blanket over her legs.
“I’ll make something.”
In the kitchen, I filled a pot and set it on the stove to boil. I crushed a clove of garlic beneath the flat of the knife, then peeled and minced it. The motions steadied me—rinse, slice, stir. My hands moved on instinct, faster than the thoughts that kept circling: the monitors, the pale light of the hospital room, the way her body had gone still when they lifted her from the stretcher. I stirred the sauce without looking down.
The steam carried the salt, and I let it rise into my eyes. The oil hissed when I added the garlic. I listened to it. Let it fill the space.
She ate slowly. When she passed the bowl back, her fingers lingered just a second.
“Jul… I need help.”
She tried to stand. Her legs folded. “I can’t—”
I caught her and carried her. Her head rested lightly against me, her hand curled into my shirt. Neither of us said anything.
IV. Evidence
I stayed with her until she fell asleep, her interview clothes in a pile on the floor. Downstairs, I moved through the kitchen, cleaning, wiping the same spot twice. Her coat was draped over the chair. I reached into the pocket and felt something stiff—a printout:
I folded the email and slid it back into her coat.
Then turned off the light.
V. The Offer
The next morning, I heard her call my name from upstairs. She was at her desk with her laptop open, shoulders squared as if she’d been waiting. Without looking up, she turned the screen toward me.
The message was brief: Offer Extended — Senior Acquisitions Editor. Below it, two lines: Narrative nonfiction. Disability-forward publishing.
“I got it,” she said. “I hoped I would. I wasn’t sure.”
She hadn’t stood. Her chair was already positioned, her posture deliberate, as if each movement had been weighed and measured in advance.
Then her eyes dropped back to the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then settled in her lap.
VI. Recalibration
She accepted the new job and quickly transformed the dining room into a makeshift office. Papers accumulated in untidy stacks, creeping higher each day. Yet, with the chaos came structure: her days began to follow a rhythm—emails, scanned manuscripts, and meticulous edits.
She marked up proofs in red ink, her handwriting noticeably slower now, each stroke deliberate, as though every letter cost her something. The margins of her pages filled with notes—careful, exact, and purposeful. There was a clarity to her work that hadn’t been there before, like she was rebuilding something piece by piece.
She wore the brace without apology. A black wrap that hugged her thigh and crossed over her hip, stabilizing the sacroiliac joint—the same joint that had failed her so violently. She no longer tried to conceal it. On some days, it seemed almost like a part of her, a second skin.
Her voice returned too. She took calls from the kitchen, calm and assured. It wasn’t sharp, but it was clear—resolute. There was a steadiness in it I hadn’t heard in weeks, maybe longer.
Meanwhile, I returned to shift work—Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
Jake picked me up. We didn’t talk about her. Instead, we lifted, responded, patched people back together. The memory of her fall played on repeat in my mind. Her leg folding beneath her. The exact angle of her shoulder hitting the floor. I couldn’t unsee it, no matter how hard I tried. It looped in the background of every call, every siren, every patient we lifted.
VII. The Stairs
Three weeks later, she tried the stairs.
I was coming up the stairs with a mug of coffee in each hand when I saw her standing at the landing. Her right foot was forward, one hand resting lightly on the wall. That had always been our rule—right foot first. Then her foot shifted, just slightly, but the movement was off. Unsteady.
I dropped the mugs.
“Kerry—” I called out, already moving.
I caught her with my shoulder as she tipped, and we went down together. My back hit the stairs hard. She landed on top of me, her head against my chest.
She didn’t get up.
“Kerry?”
Her arm was slack, hanging, her wrist bent in a way that made my stomach turn. I tried to lift my head, but pain lit up my side—sudden and sharp. Breathing was hard.
I reached for my phone, my hands shaking more than I wanted them to. I scrolled through my call history and tapped Jake’s name.
“She’s not waking up,” I said, my voice low. “And I think I broke something.”
VIII. Stabilization
Jake arrived fast, taking the stairs three at a time. I heard his voice before I saw him. He dropped to his knees beside us.
“Vitals are steady,” he said quickly. “She’s unconscious. You’re guarding your ribs—don’t move.”
Austin came in with the second rig. They loaded her first.
In the trauma bay, I kept talking. “She has baseline muscle contractures—mainly along the ulnar nerve,” I told the resident. “That’s the nerve that runs along the inside of the arm, controls fine motor function. If her arm’s rigid, that’s not new. Don’t misread her posture.”
I gave them everything: her medications, the pattern of symptoms, how her proprioception—the body’s sense of its own position—dropped off when she was fatigued. I watched them secure her with wide straps across her chest and foam bracing around her neck to protect her spine.
They scanned us both. Her spine was clear—no fractures—but her sacroiliac joint, the one connecting the spine to the pelvis, was inflamed again. Her system had gone into overdrive, tried to compensate, and then collapsed under the strain.
I had two fractured ribs and a pulmonary contusion—a bruised lung that made each breath shallow and careful. They were monitoring for a pneumothorax, in case the lung collapsed, but it stayed intact.
I refused sedation until they cleared her cervical spine. They did.
She woke up before I did.
IX. Aftermath
She was upright when I saw her again. “I hate this,” she said. “What happened?”
“You fell,” I told her. “Your SI joint locked. Your body shut down.” She nodded, slow and steady. “
“I couldn’t feel my feet when I stood,” she said. “They were just… gone. Like the floor wasn’t there.”
Her voice stayed quiet.
X. The Move
Two months later, we left the cabin. The stairs had grown too steep. The space, too vertical. The memories, too exacting.
We found a bungalow with one story and no steps. It was the kind of place you choose when you stop pretending your body might recover, when hope starts to resemble adaptation more than restoration.
She unpacked her books first and lined them along the wall. Their spines were worn soft and split, like habits she wasn’t ready to abandon. Next came the pens, the notepads, the red markers, and the sticky tabs she never quite confessed to relying on. She arranged her desk by the window, where the light refused to change—even when everything else did.
The brace stayed on—black, sleek, functional, and impossible to ignore. Some days, silence did the talking, holding what neither of us could say.
XI. Waking
It started with the way she froze.
One moment, Kerry sat on the edge of the bed, her mug cooling on the nightstand, her cardigan pulled close as if bracing against more than cold. The next, her breathing shifted—sudden and sharp. It was too fast, too shallow, as if she were trying to outrun a feeling she didn’t fully understand but instinctively wanted to escape.
I recognized the look instantly.
“Kerry.” I sat down beside her, careful not to get too close. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”
Her eyes were wide, yet distant, as if the world had shifted around her and she hadn’t moved with it. Then her hands went to her throat, fingers scraping at bare skin, grasping for something that no longer existed. That’s when I knew—she was back in the hospital room.
Her breath caught. Her spine snapped rigid, as if the weight of the neck brace had returned. The memory of the breathing tube seized her, choking her all over again. Her hands flailed, disoriented, her body hadn’t stopped losing yet. Just like that, I was there with her—right back in that room.
Pale light slipped through the blinds. The machines droned, steady and unrelenting—impossible to tune out. I remembered how she had come to without warning. Her eyelids had fluttered. Her breath had snagged before it could fully begin. Her hands had lifted—halting, desperate.
The nurse had moved quickly. “Try not to fight it, Kerry. You’re safe. You fell.”
I sat in the corner of the room, ribs bandaged and aching, knowing I couldn’t reach her in any way that truly mattered. All I could do was whisper, “I’m here,” because it was the only thing I had to give.
Now, beside me, she let out a choked gasp and folded into herself.
She wasn’t speaking—at least, not yet—but I felt the exact moment it hit her. Not just the shock of being in the hospital, but the stark realization of the empty space where her legs should have been. The absence. The fear.
I moved closer. “It’s not happening again,” I said softly. “You’re not there. You’re with me.”
Her breath came in sharp bursts, each one a fragile attempt at control.
Then: “That morning—” Her voice broke. “I woke up and I didn’t even know if my legs were there. I thought they were gone.” She buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled beneath the cardigan. Every part of her looked like it was bracing for impact.
I swallowed hard. “I remember.”
She shook her head, as if denial alone could erase the memory.
“I couldn’t feel them, Julian. Not even a shadow of them. I thought I was paralyzed. I thought…” Her voice dropped. “I thought that was it.”
I closed the distance between us, slow and cautious.
She looked at me then. “My legs don’t feel like mine,” she said.
Her voice was barely holding together—thin, frayed with a fear I had heard only once before. It was back in that hospital bed, when she had been too drained to ask what had happened and too aware of what could have.
“They said it was soft tissue,” I said quietly. “Ligaments and muscle strain. Not a break. The nerves were already weak, and the fall overloaded everything.” She didn’t move. “It isn’t about strength or willpower. It’s signal noise. It’s static. Your body is re-calibrating.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came—only a long, shuddering breath that seemed to pass through her like a wave. I reached out then, slow and certain, and wrapped my hand around hers.
Her fingers were cold. She exhaled again, this time a little steadier, and I felt the smallest shift in her posture, a loosening in her shoulders. It wasn’t peace, not yet, but it was a quiet yielding—an unspoken decision to let the moment hold her instead of fighting it.
XII. Not Another Baseline
I had just explained it all again. Her body wasn’t betraying her—just misfiring. The fall had bruised more than muscle. Now, standing took the kind of energy most people used to run.
I thought I had spoken gently. Each word was chosen with care, my voice was low and deliberate, as if I were stepping barefoot across a floor scattered with broken glass. I meant to be careful. I meant not to hurt her. Still, something in her shifted. It was subtle, but I saw it—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her eyes fixed on something far away.
“How much more, Julian?”
Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the space between us. It wasn’t sharp or loud, just strained, as if she were holding something together that no longer wanted to hold.
She shoved the blanket off her legs and sat up, every movement stiff and stuttering, like a glitch in her nervous system. Pain flared in her ribs, making her flinch. Her hands trembled in her lap.
When she finally spoke, the words tumbled out fast and jagged, as if they had been building inside her for weeks—maybe even months—just waiting for the right moment to break free.
“How many times do we rebuild from zero?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it shook with the weight of held-in grief. “How many more times do I have to start over as someone slightly less than I was before?”
She pressed the flat of her palm hard against her thigh, like she needed to be sure it was still there, still solid beneath her touch.
“I took that job interview,” she continued, her eyes bright—not with tears, but with something sharper, something that burned, “because I wanted to feel something that wasn’t clinical. I wanted a version of myself that didn’t start with a diagnosis.” She looked at me then—and there was so much heat in her gaze I could barely hold it.
“I wanted to get back to you.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she was already past the point of interruption.
“I tried, Julian. I’ve been clawing my way back up. Every time I think I’m gaining ground, something gives out—a nerve, a joint, or some doctor with a brand new name for the same goddamn pain.”
Her voice caught then—just slightly, a fracture beneath the fury.
“I don’t want another new baseline. I don’t want another version of ‘functional.’ I want the one where I can walk into a room without doing the math. I want to stop holding my breath every time I stand up.”
Her chest rose in sharp, uneven bursts. Her voice—fractured, raw, stripped bare—cut straight through the silence like a blade.
“I want the job. The stairs. The feeling in my calves when I walk too far in bad shoes. I want to stop living like I’m made of glass. I want my body back.”
I didn’t speak right away.
I let the weight of her words settle between us—like dust after a collapse. I waited until her eyes found mine again. Not looking past me. Not through me. At me.
Then, quietly—like a confession: “I saw your fire again, Ker.”
The words left my mouth soft, deliberate, almost sacred.
“You haven’t lost that. We can work on the physical.”
She didn’t respond. She only stared down at her legs, as if trying to remember the last time they had felt like part of her. The silence dragged on, dense with everything she didn’t have the words to say.
Then, she said: “If this is just another thing I have to learn how to live with… then say it.”
I let the breath out slow, trying to find steady ground.
“You didn’t lose everything.”
Her eyes closed.
“It feels like I did.”
Grief settled into her body like a weight she didn’t know how to carry. Her shoulders curved inward, drawn tight by something deeper than pain. Her arms wrapped around her middle, as if bracing for a blow that had already landed. She leaned forward, not collapsing, but folding—as though trying to hold herself together before she unraveled completely. It moved through her like a storm—quiet, relentless, unstoppable.
I winced as I leaned in, my ribs still sore and bruised, but I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, holding her as she shook against me, while my own body trembled just to keep her safe.
We weren’t at zero, but we were at the bottom of something—something raw and heavy. I wasn’t going to let her stay there alone.
XIII. Something Like Steady
I can’t say when the change began.
I saw it in the way Kerry slept. Her breathing had deepened, grown steady. The tension in her jaw eased. When she moved, it was still with care, but no longer with fear.
The house helped. The house wasn’t big, but it didn’t need to be. It had two bedrooms and a single floor. The kitchen counters were built at just the right height. The hallway was wide enough to pause in without feeling confined. There were no stairs. That detail alone let us breathe a little easier.
One afternoon, I watched her make tea. It was a simple, everyday task, yet every movement was measured and intentional, dictated by the quiet demands of her body. One hand braced against the counter for balance while the other stirred the cup with slow, practiced care.
As a tremor started to rise through her body, she shifted her weight, bending her knee slightly to stay balanced. When the kettle turned off, she let out a quiet, strained breath, as if just standing had taken more out of her than she showed.
You don’t truly understand strength until you witness someone choose movement inside their pain. Not in defiance of it—inside it.
The cabin had been crowded with our past, filled with our routines, our history, and the ghosts we hadn’t yet laid to rest. The bungalow was different. It held something else entirely: space, safety, the quiet suggestion of a truce.
We chose not to hang any photos. Maybe because neither of us had decided which memories we could bear to see every day. Some were still too tender. Some still ached when you dared to give them names. We weren’t okay, not all the way. The bungalow, though, felt like a place that might carry us in that direction.
The bungalow wasn’t about a clean slate. Nothing about what we’d survived could be called fresh. It was weathered. Complicated. There’s nothing simple about watching someone you love fight to exist in a body that keeps shifting the rules.
Even so, the bungalow offered room for the mess, the in-between, the parts that didn’t fit anywhere else.
XIV. She Didn’t Turn
I knew the pain had gotten worse before she said a single word.
There were always signs. There always are.
In the kitchen, her hand pressed firmly against the counter, fingers spread like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside out. The brace helped, sure, but not in that way. Her weight shifted without thinking, always to the right now, as if the left side had failed her too many times and she no longer trusted it.
I stood in the doorway, quietly watching. She hadn’t seen me yet, and a part of me wanted to keep it that way—just for a moment more. I wanted to see her without being seen, to catch a glimpse of the truth she never put into words.
“Don’t hover,” she said, not turning. Just knowing.
“I’m not.”
She sighed, a quick exhale like she didn’t have the lung capacity for more. She adjusted her stance, then flinched.
“You’re watching me.”
“I am.” I hesitated. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t. We both knew it. Still, denial has its own kind of gravity, and she stood at the center of it, as if staying there might keep everything from falling apart.
“You’re not.”
She pulled herself straighter, spine rigid and shoulders drawn tight, a silent performance meant to convince us both that she was still in control.
“Don’t do this, Julian.”
“I see it,” I said, softer now. “You’re in pain.”
She went still. Then, without turning around, she said, “It’s worse.” Her voice was flat.
I stepped into the room slowly, each movement careful, like anything too sudden might shatter whatever fragile thing was holding us in place.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
Her fingers tightened around the counter, the skin over her knuckles stretched pale and taut. “Because I thought if I treated it like every other pain, it would fall in line,” she said. “It doesn’t. It’s different—deeper, longer.”
I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I wanted to reach for her, to offer something. Everything about her felt edged, braced.
The way she spoke held that deep kind of tiredness pain leaves behind—the kind sleep can’t touch. It wasn’t just being worn out. It was like something inside her was slowly being ground down, a little more each day. She shifted again, her fingers brushing beneath the edge of her cardigan where the brace sat. There was a small flinch. She adjusted it, winced, tried again.
“I hate the brace,” she said, her voice sudden and sharp, as if the words had been waiting just beneath the surface. “It digs in when I sit, rubs when I walk, and makes me feel like I’m not even living in my body anymore—just stuck inside it.”
Her voice faltered. It was just a break, barely a tremor, but I caught it. The kind of crack you only notice if you’re listening closely. Her fingers uncurled from the counter, slow and stiff, and when she pulled her hand away, five pale marks remained—faint reminders of how tightly she’d been holding on.
She turned away and adjusted the strap on her shoulder, wincing as she did. Then she walked out, without looking back.
That, too, carried meaning. It was a line drawn.
If she had nothing else—not comfort, not control, not even the mercy of quiet—then she deserved, at the very least, the space to hurt without having to explain it.
One afternoon, I heard her in the kitchen, each movement quiet and deliberate. The kettle clicked off, and I expected her to return with one cup. Instead, she brought two. She placed mine in front of me without a word. When I looked up, her eyes were already on me.
“It’s worse in the mornings,” she said softly.
I nodded. “I know.”
She looked away first. Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be felt. Some silences also leave bruises.
XV. The Return
Light pooled in the kitchen, soft and golden. Kerry stood at the counter, stirring with one hand, her movements slow and deliberate. She shifted her weight slightly. The brace rested on the chair beside her—unused now. That steadiness had taken time.
I stepped in behind her, close enough to feel the warmth rising from her back. She stayed still at first. Then, gradually, she leaned into me—just enough to let me know she had noticed, and that she didn’t mind. When my hand touched her skin, it was warm in a way that couldn’t be explained by the room alone.
Last night lingered between us, silent but palpable. I felt it too.
“You’re early,” she said.
She turned slightly, met my eyes. “You caught me.”
I nodded. “You didn’t make it easy.”
She smiled.
“They green-lit the imprint,” she said. “It’s mine. Start to finish.”
I watched her, trying to gauge just how much it meant. “An imprint,” I repeated. “So… your own label. Under the main publisher. Your vision. Your calls.”
“Exactly.”
There was pride in her voice—quiet, but unmistakable.
I touched her side—not out of habit, but in recognition. “They saw what you’re building.”
She looked up. “You always did.”
“I’ve got something for you,” I said.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the envelope I’d been carrying all day. She opened it carefully, unfolding the letter inside. Her eyes moved down the page, slow at first, then faster. A smile tugged at her mouth, growing as the words sank in. When she looked up, her eyes were bright—still surprised.
“You’re a Lieutenant?” she asked. “Division lead?”
I nodded. “National operations. Multi-state teams. Training, coordination—everything. It’s federal now. I start next month.”
She went quiet. “Julian… this is huge.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
She stepped in closer, her fingers brushing mine. “You stayed. When everything shifted.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something we were trying to outrun. It felt like something we might finally build.
XVI. No Longer Falling
Kerry stood at the stove, making dinner, the quiet rhythm of her movements filling the space. A faint mix of rosemary and something richer moved through the kitchen—warm in the background.
She reached for the dial and turned the heat down, her hand steady. She still moved with care, but it no longer looked like caution. Now, it looked like control—like she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I used to think healing meant going back,” she said. She moved the spoon in slow absent circles through the pot. “Like if I just tried hard enough, I could find my way to the version of me who never second-guessed anything.” Something shifted: the tone of her voice, the way she stood the ease in her movements. I stepped beside her, leaned my elbows on the counter, grounding myself in the stillness between us.
“And now?” I asked.
She turned. “Now I think it’s about becoming someone new. Not in spite of what happened. Because of it.”
The quiet between us felt settled. We had already made it through the hardest part. Even without speaking it aloud, we both knew—we could handle whatever came after this.
Author’s Note:
This story grew from conversations around invisible disability, recalibration, and the quiet negotiations that happen in the space between diagnosis and identity. While the characters are fictional, their experiences are shaped by lived realities—mine and others. If you’ve ever felt your body shift beneath you, or questioned how to stay present through that change, this piece is for you.
Note:The medical condition portrayed—length-dependent sensorimotor polyneuropathy—is based on real diagnostic criteria, and while I’ve taken care to reflect both the physical and emotional impact with accuracy, this remains a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real individuals is purely coincidental.
If you would like to hear more about Kerry and Julian, feel free to leave a comment. Thank you for following www.wileyswalk.com! K.A. Wiley
