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.
She stared at the scars, her gaze fixed as though they belonged to someone else—someone she had never meant to be. One mark traced her calf, uneven and still raw, the other curving over her wrist, faded but stubborn. Her fingers moved over them repeatedly, like she was reading a line in a story that wasn’t hers.
She shifted in the chair, pulling her sleeves down over her hands before rising slowly.
“I’m very cold,” she said, her voice quiet, distant. “I’m going to try to warm up in the shower.”
She was already halfway up the stairs when she added, “Can you get the heavy blanket?”
“Yeah,” I replied, watching her as she disappeared out of sight. “I’ll grab it.”
I waited until I heard the bathroom door click closed, then went upstairs to open the linen closet. The blanket was in the third drawer. As I reached for it, something shifted beneath the pillowcases. I froze, my hand hovering, uncertain of what I had disturbed.
A slip of paper rested there, not hidden, just slightly out of place. It was a plain envelope with my name written on the front in fast, familiar handwriting. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it as the sound of running water filled the air, the pipes hissing behind the walls.
I opened the envelope. Her handwriting spilled across the page, fast and raw, like she was trying to outrun the truth.
J—
Everything the doctors said is still stuck in my ears. “Idiopathic.” “Degenerative.” “Stable but progressing.” I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t. Not then. Maybe not now.
You looked at me like I had already gone somewhere you couldn’t follow. Remember the crack in the ceiling of that city apartment? It cut through the paint, like something shifted when no one was looking. That’s what my body feels like now. I don’t know if I can be who I was before this.
This isn’t who I meant to be with you. The one testing which hand shakes less. The one afraid to fall in her own hallway.
I keep wondering what it means for you. Not just the appointments. Or the mornings I can’t get the brace on.
Everything feels far away. I want to reach for you like I used to. But I don’t know what version of me you’ll get.
The ACL tear was just the beginning, but it wasn’t the real story. The true story unfolded after that. It had happened nine months ago.
The aftermath of the ACL tear lingered, stubborn and unfinished. Six months later, the first round of tests hinted at something deeper. Four months after that, the second round confirmed it.
The crisis never really ended. It just changed shape. It stopped screaming and settled into the background, like a low-grade hum. Easy to ignore until you really start listening.
She hadn’t gone back to the city apartment. I knew she didn’t want to. The thought of returning to that space, the same view, the same routine, was more than she could bear.
I offered to go for her, to gather her things—manuscripts and pages, half-edited and curling at the corners. She said she would do it herself. But when she finally returned, it was only for a few clothes and her laptop. She left the rest behind without saying a word.
She also left the ring by the coffee maker. Not tossed aside, but placed—carefully enough to look accidental. No note, just the symbol of everything we were supposed to be, sitting where she knew I would find it.
She had been a full-time editor at a city press—long hours, in-house meetings, print schedules. Then everything moved online. Her condition made that permanent. She never said it, but I knew she missed the noise, the back-and-forth, the red ink. Her world had shrunk to laptops and couriers. She used to bring work home. Now, home was the work.
Ten days passed before I heard from her again. I called once, tried twice. Then stopped.
On the seventh morning, my phone rang. It was her brother.
“Julian,” he said. “She’s running.” There was static in the background—wind or traffic. “She’s not okay. She’s holding it together the only way she knows how.”
We met behind his office—neutral ground. The wind whipped between the buildings, sharp and restless. We weren’t family, but we were supposed to be.
“How is she, Scott?” I asked.
He didn’t waste time. “She’s broken,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“She’s lost. And scared.”
Still, I stayed quiet.
“She needs you, Julian. Not just the safety net.”
Later, I messaged her: You can still go to the cabin, if it helps.
She didn’t reply. She just showed up. When I opened the door, I said, “Hi,” and she stepped inside slowly, her eyes moving across the space like it had shifted without her. She didn’t take off her coat.
To make it easier, I said, “Please sit down.” We sat. After a long moment, she asked, “Why did you message?” then looked at me and added, “I didn’t come to start anything.”
“I know,” I said.
“I have Scott. My dad,” she said. I nodded.
“If you want help with the appointments—whatever you need—I’m here.”
She repeated it—“Help with the appointments”—like that was the line she wouldn’t cross. “Whatever you need,” I said again.
“The next set starts Tuesday,” she said. That was her answer.
She acted like a guest and stayed in the spare room. She lived out of the duffel bag she had brought months ago, the same one that held her clothes, a backup brace, and her laptop. She kept her things packed, as if she might leave at any moment. Still, she never went back to the city.
She began leaving me notes—brief, practical: Tuesday: Orthotic fitting. Thursday: Labs.
She added appointments to the calendar without a word. She allowed me to drive, but offered nothing beyond that. She let me wait, never inviting more than my presence. Her silence set clear boundaries: there would be no engagement, no further participation, nothing beyond what was necessary.
We had lived together for over five years, in more than one place, but now she moved through the house like it belonged to someone else. She folded blankets that didn’t need folding, wiped down counters that were already clean.
She tucked her things into corners instead of unpacking. Her coat stayed draped over the same chair. Her bag never fully opened. She never said it, but the way she moved—everything about her presence felt temporary. I felt it too.
Later, when the house had gone quiet, she closed her laptop with a soft click and leaned back into the couch. Her sleeves slid down over her hands as she settled deeper into the cushions, the fabric brushing against her fingers like a reminder of how long she had been sitting there.
The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound left, low and steady, as if the silence needed something to anchor it. She looked at me—not quickly, but steadily—as if deciding whether to speak or let the moment remain unspoken.
“Julian.”
Her voice broke the silence, not with hesitation but with gravity, as if the word had been held inside her for a long time before she let it out. Then, after a beat, she asked, “What’s been the hardest part for you, through all of this?”
I didn’t answer right away. I watched her. She wasn’t guarded, just open in a way that felt rare lately. I let the silence settle before saying, “When you tore your ACL.”
She didn’t move, just waited.
“It felt like…” I paused, searching for the right words. “Like the beginning of something we couldn’t name yet. You were in pain, frustrated—but it wasn’t just your knee. Even then, I could sense it. Something had changed.”
She gave a small nod, slow and almost imperceptible.
I took a breath. “It wasn’t just the injury. It was everything after. The way you started pulling away. Quietly, at first.”
Her eyes stayed on mine.
“And then you stopped letting me help,” I said. “You were there, but not really. In the room, but not with me.”
Her expression didn’t change, but I saw it land—somewhere deep.
I let the silence stretch again. Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, I said, “And then one day… you were just gone.”
She looked down. My voice dropped, barely a whisper: “Why?” I couldn’t keep it in. “Why did you leave?” She didn’t answer immediately. Her breath came slow, deliberate, like she was carefully constructing the truth in pieces.
“I thought it would be easier—for both of us,” she said. “I thought I was protecting you. Protecting us… by leaving.” Her words fell—clean, final, heavy.
Lately, she moved through the house like a guest, careful not to disturb anything. Her steps were quiet and measured. She closed doors with the softest click. Even in the mornings, the sound of her spoon against her coffee cup had changed. It was no longer the sharp clatter of metal on ceramic; instead, it became a tentative swirl.
The fridge stayed spotless, her shoes never appeared by the door. She didn’t ask where things were anymore; she simply went without or waited until I wasn’t around.
Sometimes, late at night, I heard her in the bathroom, opening drawers slowly, as if the sound might disturb something fragile that lay dormant between us. We still hadn’t spoken about the letter, but I’d memorized it—the slant of her handwriting, the weight in the strokes where the pen dug in deeper, as if putting the truth on paper had cost her something.
She sat across from me, tucked into the corner of the couch. The brace was gone for now, but the skin around her knee still looked bruised, faintly inflamed. She hadn’t noticed me watching. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care anymore.
I wanted to ask—anything, just to break the distance. Instead, I said, “You didn’t eat much.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t really hungry.”
“You never are anymore.” She didn’t respond. The silence that followed was still, but far from comfortable. I let my voice drop.
“We still haven’t talked about the letter.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket in her lap. Subtle, but I noticed. She stared past me, out the window. I waited. Then she turned and met my eyes.
“Julian,” she said quietly, “I can’t do this now.” And that was it.
I didn’t reach for her. I didn’t argue.
I just watched as she stood, slowly, like her bones had grown heavy all at once. She gripped the banister with her left hand—the steadier one—and climbed, step by step, until the house went still again.
When I opened the letter, it no longer felt new; it felt familiar, like grief does when you’ve lived with it long enough. It still said the same thing: she left because she didn’t want to be seen like this. Letting me watch her unravel felt more dangerous than disappearing altogether.
When she came back down, she moved slowly, her body heavy with fatigue. I was making eggs. Neither of us had eaten much earlier. She sat at the table, her hands trembling. We ate in silence. The space between us stretched.
I risked it, setting my fork down. “We never talked about the day you left.”
She met my statement with silence.
“I kept playing it back,” I went on. “The way you walked out. Like you were sure you weren’t coming back.”
After a while, she pushed back her chair. Tried to stand—winced. I rose too, instinctively. She took a breath and came to me, slow, deliberate.
“I never wanted you to be a caretaker,” she said—not sharp, just tired. “Still don’t.”
I cleared our plates and set everything in the sink. I was tired.
“Kerry, it’s late. We’re getting nowhere,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”
As I passed her, my hand brushed from her shoulder to the small of her back. She inhaled sharply, a tremor moving through her. Behind me, I heard her footsteps—quiet, then slower, as if she were thinking with each step.
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and narrow, a quiet space dividing the rooms we used to share from the ones we now claimed alone. She paused in the doorway. The spare room sat behind her, impersonal and empty. Ahead was the room that had once been ours—full of plans, of what we thought the future might look like.
She stood there for a moment, her hand grazing the frame. Then she stepped inside and sat on the edge of the bed, slowly, like she wasn’t sure whether she was returning or simply passing through.
I stayed still beneath the covers. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.
She slid beside me, careful, quiet. Her presence unsettled something, but the space between us held—cool, stretched thin, untouched. She shifted slightly, her fingers moving to the hem of her t-shirt. The fabric clung as she lifted it over her head, catching at her arms, her shoulders. The motion was quiet but uneasy, as if she were shedding more than just clothes—something heavier, something that didn’t come off easily.
She lay beside me in the dark.
“Julian.”
Her shoulder brushed mine. A faint contact, but I felt it. I didn’t move. Neither did she. Still, something in the room felt different. She shifted again, softer this time. Her leg found mine beneath the covers. Her hand rested lightly at my side, fingers barely touching skin. Not bold. Not unsure. Just there.
I turned, just enough, and she didn’t pull away.
She came down late, her hair still damp from the shower. She paused at the kitchen entrance, as if unsure she belonged there. I had left her sleeping, and my side of the bed was a mess of twisted sheets and half-folded blankets, still holding the shape of where we’d been—tangled, close.
She wore one of my T-shirts and a pair of shorts. The shirt hung a little loose on her frame, the sleeves rolled once. She hadn’t asked. She didn’t need to. Her steps were careful. Not hesitant, exactly—just measured, as if she were testing whether the night before had carried over into morning. Then she crossed the room and sat down.
I kissed her—soft, certain. My mouth found hers the way it always had. This wasn’t a beginning; it was what never left. As I turned for the coffee, my hand drifted to the space between her shoulder blades and rested there. She didn’t move. Then, slowly, she leaned into the touch.
When I set the mug in front of her, she wrapped her hands around it, holding it like something steadier than she felt.
“Some days it’s my hands,” she said. “Other days, balance. Stairs are harder now. It keeps changing.”
I nodded. She looked at me again—held it longer this time. As if something had cleared, and she was finally allowing herself to see it. I didn’t move. She leaned in, not just toward me, but into whatever had started to form between us again.
The days gradually began to find their rhythm again.
The first signs were small but unmistakable. Her handwriting returned on calendar notes stuck to the wall. A grocery list appeared on the kitchen counter. Her hoodie was once again draped over the back of the couch.
We never spoke directly about what had changed. The shift revealed itself in quieter ways—in the unhurried way she moved through the house, and in the way I stopped watching her so closely during her silences, no longer worried about what they might mean.
One evening, as I walked past the spare room, I noticed the door was slightly open. Her duffel bag was no longer there. The closet in what had become our shared room now held more than just my clothes, and her charger was plugged in next to mine on the nightstand.
She had unpacked—not only her belongings but something more personal and profound: herself.
I stood in the doorway, resting my hand on the frame, allowing the moment to settle around me. There was a weight to it, but also a deep, quiet peace. She was here now—fully, finally—and she wasn’t going anywhere.
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
I sat at the rented table, its surface scratched and scarred, much like my legs. I pressed my fingers into one of the grooves and didn’t pull away.
Julian’s voice came soft, questioning. “Come to bed.”
I didn’t move.
“Hey,” he said again, “come to bed.”
I looked at him. “Jul…?”
“What?”
Tension hung between us. I wanted to tell him.
“I—I hurt.”
It wasn’t a lie, exactly.
He waited.
I rose, and my balance slipped. The table caught me just in time.
He took a step forward, but I waved him off.
We hadn’t been home in ages. Weekends had melted into motels with someone else’s linens, short-term rentals with rules taped to the fridge, coffee shops that closed too early. Cups went cold between us. The closest thing to lasting was Julian’s car. Motion was easier.
The cabin was our latest try.
The fire burned low. Julian read, but I didn’t ask what. I sat with my back to the wall, watching everything resist change—even the fire. He added a log. It hissed, smoked, then caught.
On the first night, I crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn, but his breath shifted, just enough to show he felt it.
Later, his hand moved to the back of my knee, just above the scar on my bad leg. His touch was tentative, listening for something unsaid. My leg seized. He felt it, waited, then fell back into a steady rhythm. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The fire dwindled to embers. Wind scraped at the windows. I shifted.
Neither of us spoke. It felt safer that way.
The next morning, we left without a plan. The walk stretched longer than expected, distance mattering more than direction. The cold felt cleaner than the silence. The path led us, unintentionally, to a beach. Gray water stilled beneath a heavy sky. The sand gave way too easily beneath our feet. Julian walked ahead—close enough to hear, not enough to speak.
I carried the poles. Carbon, newer than they looked. I didn’t need them for the distance. By then, neither of us was talking much. I knelt, set the poles behind me. The tide hadn’t turned, and rain held off. The beach felt in-between. I stepped back, scanned for footing, and started to rise. That’s when it happened.
The left pole slipped behind a dip. I reached too fast. My hip twisted. The pole buckled. I went down hard. Pain broke through me. My knee gave with a snap. My shoulder hit next. My breath left before I could brace.
Julian’s voice cracked through the air—sharp, panicked—before he sprinted toward me, dropping to the sand beside me, hands reaching. Gentle now, but too late.
“I need to look,” he said.
I nodded.
“I need to touch you.”
Another nod, shallow.
His hands moved over the joint—slow, skilled, familiar. He touched my leg like someone who knew it before it betrayed me. His fingers found the swelling and paused. “Lateral laxity,” he said.
“It’s an ACL tear,” he added. “Could be partial, but with this instability, more likely full.”
By the time he got me up, rain had started. The walk to the car felt longer than I remembered. He helped me in the back and climbed in beside me.
I shook. He gripped me, sensing the cold—but it was more than that. He reached for the emergency blanket tucked in the corner, draped it over me. It smelled faintly of the back of his trunk.
After he treated the tear, he moved to hold me. He couldn’t drive yet. The rain was too heavy. He knew I needed medical treatment, but his mind raced, retracing the signs that had been building up, lining up like pins knocking the next one down.
Missed a curb. Paused on stairs. Braced near walls. Offloaded weight. Hesitated before rising. Dropped a glass I didn’t mean to.
Somewhere in the list, he stopped being the EMT. He saw me—Kerry—fighting my body. I hated tears. I was trying so hard to hold it together.
He’d already done what he could. He’d stabilized the joint with a compression wrap from the kit under the seat, elevated my leg with a folded jacket beneath my knee, and braced it with foam wedges. He checked my pulse, monitored for shock, keeping pressure firm but not tight. Rudimentary, temporary, but it would hold long enough.
He adjusted without disturbing the leg, holding me. When his arms came around me again, something broke—not in him, but in me—as I stopped holding it all together. I let it slip, and the tears came—hot, deliberate, silent.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Enough. Talk to me.”
His tone didn’t rise.
“It’s not just the tear.”
Julian waited.
“Peripheral neuropathy. It’s the result of years of moving wrong, joints pushed too far, muscles too tight, nerves trapped in between.”
It explained the heat crawling down my shin, the jolt in my calf when I turned too quickly, the numb spots I couldn’t feel anymore, the burning that came without warning.
“It’s been building,” I said. “Sharp in places, easy to ignore until it wasn’t.”
“I’ve seen the signs.”
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t pull away, just let the silence settle. Then his arm came around me again—unhurried, certain. He held me like someone who wasn’t afraid to see the whole thing—not just the brace or the scans, but what lay beneath.
“You were compensating.”
“I didn’t see it,” he said quietly, then uncharacteristically sharp, “How could I not see it?”
He caught himself and looked away.
“I didn’t want to be looked at like that,” I said.
There was no reply.
When it felt safe, he drove.
The clinic lights were too bright. After that, everything moved quickly: intake, exam gown, questions I couldn’t answer. He was still with me, too still. Like he was afraid to move. And that’s when I felt it—the past circling back.
I sat on the edge of the table in a paper gown, legs drawn close, skin cold, while Julian leaned against the counter in silence, his mind already ticking off the list: vein testing, pinched nerve, gait instability, cold feet, hand tremor, sensory ataxia—confirmed.
He hadn’t known. I hadn’t let him.
The door clicked shut behind the doctor.
“You didn’t tell me about the tests,” he said.
“When?”
“Last month.”
He looked down—tired, angry, maybe scared.
Julian pulled the rolling stool beneath him and sat close—near, but not touching.
“They’ll want to immobilize for now,” he said. “No stairs. Assisted mobility. Brace. You know this.”
I nodded.
“The long term—”
“Don’t.”
He paused.
“I tried to work through it,” I said. “Until I couldn’t.”
He didn’t answer. Just sat there.
“Jul.”
He reached for my hand and held it.
Three weeks later, the swelling eased. The bruises slowly shifted, dark purple fading to dull yellow. They blurred and lost shape but never fully disappeared. Even as the surface healed, something beneath stayed tender.
The cabin came three weeks after discharge. The bruises had yellowed, but the memory hadn’t. It smelled like smoke, fabric, and silence. I moved slowly, the brace pulling with every step. He opened the door and stepped aside.
I sat on the couch, stiff with exhaustion. He adjusted the pillow behind me, then turned to leave. I caught his wrist, and he paused. This time, when he sat beside me, he was close—unreserved and unguarded.
The fire held.
Julian sat with me a while, then rose without a word. He crossed the room, returned with my winter crutches—cleaned, adjusted, straps re-tied.
“These will hold better than the poles,” he said.
I looked at him. “Where are we going?”
“Rochester. Neuromuscular clinic. They’re running diagnostics we couldn’t get scheduled locally.”
“You planned that?”
He nodded once, focused on the grips, steady and precise. I watched, realizing how much he’d already done before asking.
“This place always feels like a pause button,” I said.
Julian looked up. “Then let’s stop pausing.”
He helped me up. The crutches held. I moved—one step, then another.
We didn’t pack that night.
He already had.
In the morning, we would go.
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
