The evening descends. The air thickens with unspoken truths. The air carries the weight of what’s unfinished, drifting like memories half-remembered yet elusive. Tonight, the familiar script slips away as daylight fades, giving way to something softer, less defined.
Twilight emerges as a brief pause between the known and the unknown. A tender hour when colors deepen and shadows stretch. It becomes a time of stillness before something new takes shape.
Deep violet seeps into the clouds like ink spreading across fragile paper, blurring the edges. Certainty slips away; in its place, possibility stirs—the first lines of a story not yet told.
When Blue Paused for Purple (the poem)
The sky was meant to be blue— as constant as the first stir of dawn. Yet on some evenings, that dependable hue melts away into something untamed.
A richer shade emerges: deep purple clinging to memory and desire, not fading but lingering like a soft ache, hovering between what was and what might be.
It is a hue that escapes definition, declining confinement — a trick of light softening rigid rules, cradling questions in the pause before formation.
Certainty flickers in the quiet, nurturing possibilities yet to bloom, as the purple sky inquires, insistently:
Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down? What might hands grasp if fear were as light as yearning? Can standing beneath a sky that isn’t blue spark belief in something unnamed?
Reflections on Uncertainty
The opening image—a blue sky promising calm and routine—gives way to something far less predictable as night arrives. Its steady hue dissolves into violet, unsettling and beautiful.
When Blue Paused for Purple captures the feeling when clarity fades into emotional ambiguity. Imagine a sudden detour on a familiar drive that reveals something unexpected along the way. The sky’s change is more than a shift in color. It reflects a deeper transformation. Every subtle change hints at new discoveries.
The poem speaks directly to shifting moods and surprising moments in life. The comforting blue of day can vanish, leaving behind a mix of emotions that open fresh paths for growth and reflection. The poem’s question “Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down?” asks readers to examine the burdens carried.
It suggests that heaviness often comes not from the struggle itself but from holding on too tightly. The invitation is clear: let go of fears, doubts, or memories that no longer serve a purpose. In doing so, a sense of freedom and new beginnings emerges.
Standing under a sky that forgets its usual blue challenges the need for simple labels. There is strength in lingering over questions instead of rushing for answers. Think of it as stepping off your usual path—a brief pause where surprising insights emerge from trying something new.
The purple sky overhead gently nudges you to stop and appreciate the beauty in the unexpected.
A Closer Look: Living with the In-Betweens
The poem begins with the comforting blue of a clear sky, a symbol of routine and stability. Yet as night approaches, that reliable blue softens into an enigmatic violet. Feelings also change gradually, mixing what is known with the possibility of something new. In moments of uncertainty, creativity and strength can emerge.
The poem asks, “Is weight heavy only because it’s never been set down?” This suggests that holding on to burdens can make them feel heavier. By letting go of these weights, the way for new opportunities might be cleared.
Under a sky that defies its expected blue, the urge to label life with simple definitions is challenged. When life defies simple definitions, the impulse to label experiences loses its hold.
Rather than following a single, predictable path, life offers a varied mix of moments and emotions. Embracing uncertainty can reveal a subtle, unexpected beauty.
In the end, the sky’s refusal to remain blue invites the release of long-held certainties. In that pause, as blue shifts to purple, burdens lift and new possibilities emerge. The poem’s final question—”Can standing beneath a sky that isn’t blue spark belief in something unnamed?”—urges reflection on the power of change and the unknown.
The morning felt wrong. The door, always latched before sleep, resisted as it opened, as though something unseen had passed through first. One presence remained, yet the chair by the window had moved—angled slightly, as if someone had left in a hurry.
Nothing changed in the ways that should have mattered. A book lay where it had been left, pages curled from restless fingers. The cardigan lay draped over the chair, untouched. Its folds remained undisturbed, as if still molded to absent shoulders.
The space wasn’t empty—something lingered. The mirror showed its usual reflection until, for a moment, a flicker: a shift, a shape, a presence not meant to be seen. And then it was gone. Could it have been just a trick of exhaustion?
The house held a quiet that felt frayed at the edges, as if echoes of past sounds still clung to the air, unwilling to fade entirely. The clock ticked: steady, constant. Yet nothing had moved. Morning should have come, but time held its breath.
At the window, a familiar mug rested on the sill, the last sip untouched. The porch light, left burning overnight, cast a glow onto the steps. A muted sound disrupted the quiet—hesitant, incomplete.
It wasn’t really a voice at all, just a gentle echo that lingered, leaving a trace of absence where someone should have been.
The Echo of Absence
by Kerry Ann Wiley
The door was left unlocked that night, or so it seemed by morning’s light. No footprints marked the dust-stilled floor, yet something stirred behind the door.
A chair was drawn, though none had sat. A curtain stirred without a draft. A mirror caught what wasn’t there, a movement gone, a hollow stare.
The clock still ticked, though hands stood still. A breathless hush, a nameless chill. The porch light burned in vacant glow, a beacon meant for those below.
A whisper rose, a fractured tune, a hum beneath the thinning moon. Yet when the room was turned to face, only absence filled the space.
What Remains
Some absences leave lasting echoes—a door that closes behind someone who will never return, a chair left askew, a cardigan still marked by a vanished embrace.
In the quiet aftermath, familiar details speak of a presence once cherished: the mug at the window, the steady glow of the porch light, even the half-heard murmur of a voice.
Absence lingers in half‐heard sounds and in the disorder of misplaced objects. It fills a once familiar space with palpable emptiness. In these quiet shifts, the mark of someone who has left remains—a simple reminder that someone was here.
The air carries a quiet hesitation. It is neither warm nor cold, holding onto the last traces of winter while hinting at something new. A jacket feels unnecessary, yet the moment bare skin meets the wind, doubt creeps in.
The ground remains damp, holding onto the memory of last week’s rain. The trees stand bare with their branches reaching toward the sky. Their stillness is not hesitation but patience. They do not resist the cold or grieve for their fallen leaves.
Instead, they stand firm, embracing the natural rhythm of the seasons and trusting in the promise of what is yet to come. The wind drifts through the branches whispering soft promises of renewal. Their strength is in waiting. Beneath the surface, change is already beginning.
Every year, there is a moment when winter loosens its hold but does not fully let go. Spring lingers at the edges, appearing in the sun’s extended path across the sky and the first hint of warmth in the air. Change comes not all at once but gradually, like the trees, like the seasons themselves.
This shift is captured in Almost Spring.
Almost Spring
By Kerry Ann Wiley
The trees don’t rush this year. Their buds stay small, unsure, like they remember last April— the frost that came too late, the blooms that never made it through.
The sky is softer, not bright, just a quiet kind of blue. Grass wakes up in slow motion, more brown than green, more memory than promise.
Still, something stirs beneath it all— not bold, not certain, but enough. A hint of warmth in the air, a whisper of color waiting to rise.
Some things return quietly, not with fanfare, but with patience— the slow reach of roots, the hesitant unfolding of petals, the way the light lingers just a little longer.
Change comes in small ways, a branch bending toward the sun, a petal loosening its hold, the ground shifting just enough to make room for something new.
Not every shift is immediate or obvious. Some changes unfold in the space between what was and what will be. Even when movement feels invisible, something is still happening beneath the surface.
Life keeps moving. The seasons evolve naturally. The trees may remember last April’s frost, yet they still reach for the light. The grass might stir slowly, but it will turn green. There is a comfort in knowing that time moves everything forward, even when the next step is uncertain.
Milestones mark progress, yet life is defined by its quiet moments. Like the roots that anchor a flower before it blooms, these subtle episodes lay the groundwork for steady growth.
Endings and beginnings seldom have clear boundaries. Patience is more than waiting. It is an intentional act of making space for the uncertain and trusting in what is still emerging. The trees understand this, and nature reflects the same truth. Even when movement goes unseen, growth persists.
In the space between goodbye and what’s next, nature softly reclaims its rhythm. A quiet shift carries its promise. Change beckons, inviting a new beginning.
Some moments refuse to fade; they settle heavy, pressing into the quiet. Daylight blurs into dusk, the world’s hum softens, and something unnamed stirs. The mind unthreads memories, tracing unfinished shapes—words left unsaid, choices untouched, moments without closure.
This is how the night works.
Maybe it unfolds in bed just before sleep, in a kitchen lit by a lone lamp, or in a parked car with fingers tapping the wheel as thoughts circle back. What was set aside returns. Memory lingers. It waits.
Some memories emerge as soft whispers, insistent and low. Others burst in raw, sharp fragments. And then there are those that ache—the almosts, the what ifs, the weight of what remains.
What The Night Holds
A Poem by Kerry A. Wiley
The past does not knock. It is already within.
Laughter, half-formed, half-forgotten, spills from an empty room. A voice, sharp as shattered glass, cuts through the hush.
No footsteps announce its arrival, no warning precedes its return, a door left open, or one that never truly closed?
Echoes of laughter, once belonging to someone else, linger like a ghostly caress. A touch remains long after it has faded, the shape of a goodbye never spoken.
No light, only the interplay of shadow and memory. No sound, only the resonant echo of what was.
The weight of what was. The phantom of what could have been. The ache of what still endures.
Not emptiness, but fullness, a silence that breathes, a question without an answer.
A door left ajar, a presence that was never entirely absent. Was it waiting, or did it arrive unbidden?
It does not leave. It does not sleep. It never forgets.
The dark does not speak, it only holds its vigil.
The Shape of What Lingers
Memory arrives unannounced, slipping in when stillness allows. Not every recollection comes wrapped in warmth. Some return like splintered glass. They are fractured and sharp, felt more deeply than understood.
The laughter of another era and a voice out of sync with the present emerge. Each fragment serves as a reminder of something that should have faded, yet lingers. It is a soft ache, whispering of what once was.
Absence is never empty. Sometimes it bears the weight of unspoken words—a goodbye lingering in the gap between past and present. The past does not simply vanish. It shifts, settling into the spaces we leave behind, quietly raising questions about what was and what might have been.
When the Past Stays
Memory cycles through: a song, a name, a place. Each detail lingers, nudging the present with echoes of what was never truly left behind. Some moments retreat into silence; others insist on being noticed.
The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. Not all silence is empty. Some silences cradle the unsaid, holding the weight of feelings never fully expressed.
Sitting with the Silence
Not every thread of our story is meant to be neatly tied up. Some remain loose, raw, and unpredictable, like the night itself, where the past hovers at the edges, quietly restless and defiant.
Night as Keeper of Memory
In quiet corners where the mind wanders, memory stakes its claim. The night holds more than fleeting thoughts. It cradles echoes of laughter, murmurs of farewells unsaid, and every story left incomplete. Each recollection bears the weight of its unfinished truth.
Night does not erase our past; it preserves it in a silence that feels rich and profound. Whether a door is left ajar or never fully closed, our history remains a constant presence shadowing every quiet hour.
Darkness is not an empty void but a keeper of our memories. It is a place where unspoken words echo and lost possibilities linger. It doesn’t grant easy answers, only a place where stories wait.
In these raw, unscripted moments, our story unfolds. Laughter mingles with the echoes of memory, and every unspoken goodbye leaves us wondering about the promise of tomorrow.
The photograph slipped from between the pages of an old book, drifting to the floor like a forgotten receipt. It landed softly, undisturbed, a moment resurfacing without intention. Two faces, side by side, slightly blurred at the edges where the light had softened over time.
The grainy film caught them mid-laugh, heads tilted, eyes squinting, mouths open just enough to show the joke had landed but wasn’t finished yet. A second later, it was gone, lost to whatever came next. Yet here in this faded square of paper, it stays as if nothing ever needed to change.
Conversations unfolded for hours, flowing naturally and without interruption. Weekends centered on one another as if nothing else held significance. Even the tiniest moments, words spoken in passing and silences unspoken, were understood without the need for explanation.
None of that exists now. Not because of a fight or a single unforgivable act, but simply because life moved forward, pulling people in different directions. There is no bitterness, only the acknowledgment that something once so natural has slipped away.
How It Happens
It happens almost imperceptibly at first: a missed call that never turns into a callback, a message left unanswered, a dinner that was supposed to happen but doesn’t, then doesn’t again.
The slow unwinding of a friendship doesn’t always come with a door-slamming fight or a betrayal. Sometimes, it happens through an accumulation of small moments, subtle shifts that go unnoticed at the time.
It starts with a conversation: something is said too sharply or not said at all. A joke lands wrong, revealing an edge neither person knew was there. An offhand comment lingers in the air long after the moment passes, like smoke that never quite clears.
Perhaps it is anger, sudden and sharp. The kind that flares up in a moment of exhaustion, when patience is thin and wounds are raw. Words spill out before they can be measured, before they can be held back. Even after an apology, even after both sides agree it’s fine, something lingers: an invisible crack, small but irreparable. Words can’t be unsaid, and even when the sting fades, the shape of the friendship feels different.
Misunderstandings slip in. Stories form about what was meant, about what must have been thought. A missed invitation starts to feel intentional. A short reply takes on the weight of disinterest. The blanks fill with insecurities, with fears. If enough of these moments gather, if silence lingers too long, finding the way back to how things once were can start to feel uncertain.
A Slow Fading
Some friendships don’t break; they simply stretch. Their shape shifts gradually, almost imperceptibly. Life moves, guiding people down different paths. New cities, new routines, new priorities. Conversations that once lasted deep into the night become shorter, less frequent. Closeness that once felt effortless now requires intention, though neither person can quite pinpoint when that changed.
At first, there are promises. We’ll make time. This won’t slip. For a while, both people try. The space between conversations grows. Soon enough, it has been months. Then a year, then even longer. Life rearranges itself, shifting priorities and paths. Sometimes, people no longer fit where they once did.
The Things That Do and Don’t Hurt
Some friendships end with a single, unmistakable moment. A betrayal or a wound too deep to mend. A confidence is broken, and nothing feels the same after. A choice is made, shifting everything in a way that can’t be undone.
Some relationships fade, not from harm, but from the quiet necessity of space. One person subtly steps back, sensing the need for distance. The friendship no longer feels like a comfort. It shifts into something heavier, something harder to maintain.
More often, friendships slip away because of what isn’t done. A text that isn’t sent. The effort that isn’t made. It is easy to assume there will be another chance, another conversation, another opportunity to reconnect. Yet, time passes, faster than it seems.
Before either person realizes it, absence settles in. What was once a fleeting lull, shaped by time and distance, slowly becomes something both accept. Sometimes, there is no anger, no clear moment of change. Instead, there’s the gradual realization that what once felt effortless now shifts, and not everyone will move with it in the same way.
When Everything Shifts
Life is full of moments that reshape everything—weddings, divorces, the birth of a child, the loss of a parent. After times like these, the world feels different. Some friendships adapt, finding new ways to fit. Others become uncertain, unsure of their place in what follows.
Not every friendship is meant to last. Some belong to a specific time and fade as life shifts. It’s hard to identify the moment things changed, just a quiet awareness later that the friendship is no longer what it was. Someone who once knew every detail now exists only in old messages or a name on a contact list—a person who comes to mind occasionally, but not enough to reach out.
What Remains
The photograph stays where it landed, a reminder of something once certain. Some friendships adjust as life changes, while others fade gradually. There is no clear end, only the realization that what was once familiar has become distant and more fragile.
Still, the photograph remains—a silent marker of a bond that once felt strong. A reminder that even what fades was once unshakable.
Ava knew how to disappear. It started with her voice. Once, she spoke softly, carefully, just enough to be heard. Even that had begun to slip away. At first, she raised her hand, answered questions, and even asked them. Words tangled in her throat, yet she pushed through.
People didn’t wait. They interrupted. They guessed. They finished her sentences, as though her words needed to be completed for her. If she hesitated, someone else spoke. If she struggled, another person took over. Staying quiet meant people stopped expecting her to say anything at all.
By middle school, she had already learned to let others speak first. Whenever a teacher’s gaze landed on her, she lowered her eyes. She silently wished they would move on. By the time high school came, Ava barely spoke. Her silence went unnoticed most of the time, and in a way, that made it feel even more permanent.
The Writing Prompt
In English class, Ava sat in her usual spot, three rows from the back and two seats from the wall. She positioned herself just far enough to remain unnoticed, yet close enough to avoid drawing attention for hiding.
Ms. Carter stood at the front, pacing slightly as she spoke. Her hands sliced through the air in time with her words. Her voice was confident, as if she had never stumbled over a sentence. It was as though she had never lost her words mid-thought. Ava, however, remained silent. She blended in with small motions: a flick of the pen, a turn of the page, while her mind drifted.
One Thursday, Ava slipped into her usual seat. She opened her notebook, letting her pen rest in the crease. She flicked her pen, then turned the page. Each small, steady motion sustained the illusion. The familiar pattern usually kept her presence unnoticed.
Then, Ms. Carter approached and set a sheet of paper on Ava’s desk, its edges rising like a held breath. “Write about something you’ve learned,” she said. She set a hand on the desk, fingers tapping once. “Not from a textbook. Something that stayed with you.”
Ava didn’t reach for the paper right away. Papers rustled, chairs scraped the floor, and the low murmur of noise faded into silence. Her grip on the pen tightened. She hovered over the first blank line. The words were there, just out of reach, but when she tried to write them down, they wouldn’t come.
The bell rang. She folded the paper in half and placed it—blank—on Ms. Carter’s desk before slipping out the door.
The Truth No One Had Said Before
The next day, Ms. Carter said nothing about the missing assignment. Papers were handed back, and notes filled the board. As the class wrapped up, Ms. Carter appeared beside Ava’s desk again. Ava paused, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
“I don’t think you’ve lost your voice,” Ms. Carter said, quiet but certain.
Ava’s breath caught. “I think you learned not to speak, not to share your words — whether out loud or on paper.”
Something stirred inside her. Ms. Carter wasn’t guessing. She wasn’t assuming. She knew. Ava swallowed hard. The urge to look away pressed in, familiar and insistent. Silence settled between them, thick but not unkind. Then—somehow—she found her voice. Small. Unsteady.
“How?” The word wavered, but it was there. Ms. Carter’s expression softened, as if this was the moment she had been waiting for. “One word at a time,” she said.
For the first time, Ava allowed herself to believe it.
What Came After
The next morning, a clean sheet of paper lay on Ava’s desk. There were no instructions and no prompts. She stared at it, the blankness daring her to begin.
Minutes slipped by before she picked up her pen. The first sentence emerged—slow and uncertain. She wrote it, crossed it out, and wrote it again. It was imperfect, but it was hers.
The next day, Ms. Carter handed back the paper with a single note in the margin: Keep going.
A few days later, in Ms. Carter’s class, Ava felt the weight of an unspoken thought pushing to the surface. She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the pen. The words formed but caught in her throat. Finally, she spoke the thought aloud.
Her voice was quiet and unsteady, but it was there. The conversation paused—not from silence, but from recognition. Another student nodded and built on her idea, rather than dismissing it.
Later, as the class discussed character development, Ava traced the edge of her notebook, listening. When a classmate faltered, she leaned forward, the words gathering inside her, waiting. She exhaled and spoke—not loudly, not all at once, but enough.
Ava had spent years pulling back, letting silence take the place of words. It wasn’t empty. The silence carried unspoken thoughts, unfinished sentences, and the weight of everything she had once tried to say. Keeping the words inside had felt safer than risking interruption or being overlooked.
Something was changing. It was subtle at first, but undeniable. A sentence took shape. Words landed on the page, steady and certain. A thought found its voice. Piece by piece, she was finding her way back to the words that had always been hers.
Ms. Carter had been right. Each time Ava spoke, it became a little easier. Gradually, the silence that had surrounded her began to fade. Her voice, quiet but steady, started to find its space.
Belief in one’s ability to grow is a powerful force, yet setbacks can cause that belief to waver over time. At six, Oliver couldn’t zip his coat. Despite his coordination and strength, the task became a symbol of frustration. “I can’t do it,” he’d say, standing still and waiting for someone else to step in. His parents tried everything—encouragement, rewards, even frustration. However, the moment the zipper got stuck, he would drop his hands and back away.
The truth was Oliver could do it. He had the coordination. He had the strength. However, after struggling repeatedly and having an adult step in, he started to feel like his effort didn’t matter—someone would always be there to help.
This is learned helplessness. It happens when repeated setbacks or constant help make a person stop trying because they feel their efforts won’t matter. For children and teenagers with disabilities, this pattern can take hold quickly.
When Trying Feels Futile
Struggling over and over without success can take a toll. Learned helplessness develops when repeated efforts don’t seem to make a difference. When every attempt ends in frustration or someone stepping in to help, a discouraging thought can take hold: “Maybe I’m not capable”. Over time, that doubt can deepen, making it easy to believe: “I can’t do this on my own“.
As this belief takes hold, it can become more limiting than the challenge itself. Children and teenagers may stop trying, not from a lack of desire, but from the growing sense that their effort will not make a difference. This pattern can take shape in many areas of life, especially when frustration outweighs success.
Social Situations
This sense of helplessness doesn’t just affect academic tasks—it can also influence social situations, where the fear of failure often overshadows the desire to try. Some children struggle with social interactions due to conditions that affect communication and engagement.
Anxiety disorders can create persistent fear or worry that interferes with daily activities. Autism, a developmental condition, can impact social interaction and communication. Speech disorders, such as selective mutism, may prevent a child from speaking in certain situations. When others always step in, these children miss the opportunity to practice and build confidence.
For example, an 11-year-old with selective mutism stays silent in class because classmates and teachers speak for her. Each time this happens, she becomes more convinced she can’t do it herself.
Similarly, a 14-year-old with autism avoids ordering food at restaurants. If his parents always place the order, he never gets the chance to develop his social skills and gain confidence in these situations.
What Helps:
Provide supportive opportunities to practice. A child with selective mutism might begin by pointing to an item at a familiar café instead of speaking. Practicing at home through role-play can help build confidence before trying in real-life situations. Rehearsing simple scenarios, like ordering food, allows them to feel more prepared.
School Struggles
Children with learning disabilities may face ongoing challenges in school. Dyslexia can make reading more difficult. Dyscalculia can affect how they understand math. Dysgraphia may create struggles with writing.
Without supportive strategies to help them work through these difficulties, frustration can build. Over time, they may begin to feel that school is simply too hard for them.
For instance, a 9-year-old with dyslexia may hesitate to try reading if she is always offered an alternative instead. If someone reads to her instead of helping her sound out words, she may start to believe that reading is something she simply cannot do.
Similarly, a 16-year-old who found math tests difficult in middle school now hesitates to attempt problems, thinking, “I’m just not good at math.” Each past challenge adds to his uncertainty about trying.
What Helps:
Shift the focus from perfection to progress. A child with dyslexia can gain confidence by pairing an audio-book with visual reading, reinforcing comprehension without frustration. A teen struggling with math might find concepts more engaging through real-world applications. Budgeting for a game or tracking steps during a walk strengthens practical skills and builds confidence.
Daily Tasks
Children with motor delays, such as difficulties with coordination and dexterity, or challenges with executive function, including issues with planning, organization, and self-regulation, may struggle with everyday responsibilities. ADHD, which impacts focus, impulse control, and task completion, can also contribute to these struggles.
When others consistently step in to help, these children miss crucial opportunities to build independence and confidence. For example, a 7-year-old with fine motor delays might struggle with tying his shoes and quickly become discouraged.
His mother, noticing his difficulty, steps in and ties them for him, as it’s faster and easier. With each instance, the child begins to believe that he is unable to do it on his own, further hindering his confidence and independence.
In a similar situation, a 19-year-old with ADHD may never take the initiative to schedule his own doctor’s appointments. He has always relied on someone else, like a parent or friend, to manage this task for him. As a result, when he eventually needs to handle it himself, he feels uncertain and unprepared, unsure of how to navigate the process on his own.
What Helps:
Break tasks into smaller steps and offer guidance instead of completing the task for them. For instance, a child struggling with shoe-tying can focus on one step at a time, perhaps practicing looping the laces today and tying the knot tomorrow. Similarly, a teen with ADHD can start by scheduling one appointment together, gradually taking on the next one independently.
Small Steps, Steady Growth
The goal isn’t to push harder. It is about creating achievable milestones, meaningful challenges, and real responsibility so individuals can experience their own capability.
For young children, brief struggles help them see that effort leads to progress. If a 6-year-old cannot zip a coat, offer guidance: “You hold the bottom, and I will help line up the zipper.” Small responsibilities like pouring juice, feeding a pet, or setting the table reinforce their ability to contribute.
For tweens and teens, shifting their mindset is key. When a child says, “I’m bad at math,” re-frame it: “You’re still learning. I used to struggle with fractions too, but I got better with practice.” Connecting skills to their interests makes learning feel more natural. A child who enjoys video games might be more engaged in writing if it connects to game design or storytelling.
For older teens and young adults, real-world problem-solving builds independence. Instead of stepping in with solutions, ask, “What’s your plan?” Managing a budget, scheduling doctor’s appointments, or applying for jobs all build confidence. If organization is a challenge, let them try different systems instead of enforcing a planner.
The Role of Executive Function
Many children and teens with ADHD, autism, or learning disabilities face executive function challenges, making tasks like organization, time management, and self-regulation feel overwhelming. These difficulties can reinforce the belief that they are unable to manage life’s demands.
For a teen struggling with assignments, simply saying, “Use a planner,” isn’t enough. If they don’t know how to use one effectively, it won’t be helpful. Instead, ask, “What system could help you remember due dates?” This allows them the freedom to experiment and find what works best.
Shifting from helping to coaching is key. Rather than fixing problems, ask questions that promote self-reflection, like, “What would you do differently next time?” This encourages them to view mistakes as learning opportunities, not failures.
Building the Belief That Growth Is Possible
Learned helplessness isn’t about ability—it’s about belief. Belief is shaped by experience.
Struggle, when balanced, teaches children that problems are solvable. A child needs real opportunities to take charge, make mistakes, and try again. Without these, confidence remains stagnant.
Independence doesn’t happen overnight. It is built through trial, error, and persistence. Every success reshapes the belief that effort matters, challenges can be overcome, and they are capable.
The most powerful lesson isn’t about achieving success without struggle. It is about determination and perseverance—the ability to face challenges, learn from mistakes, and to keep moving forward. This is how belief in growth transforms ‘I can’t’ into ‘I can.’
It starts small. A job application goes unanswered. A restaurant lacks a ramp. A stranger speaks to the caregiver instead of the person with a disability. These moments accumulate, shaping experiences in ways unnoticed by those who don’t live them.
Discrimination against people with disabilities isn’t always intentional. More often, it stems from systems, attitudes, and environments designed with a narrow, singular idea of ability in mind.
While laws like the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) have led to progress, gaps remain. Some are subtle, some are glaring, and all serve as reminders that accessibility isn’t a given. It is still a fight.
The Workplace Divide
Employment often provides independence, purpose, and stability. Yet, for many people with disabilities, finding a job and advancing in a career can be an uphill challenge, shaped by barriers that aren’t always visible.
Research shows that when applicants disclose a disability, they receive fewer interview invitations than those who do not (Bonaccio et al., 2020). Many hiring managers assume that accommodations will be too expensive, despite research showing that most adjustments cost little to nothing (Job Accommodation Network, n.d.).
Even after being hired, employees with disabilities may face challenges in workplaces that don’t fully accommodate their needs. For example, a skilled accountant with chronic pain might struggle without an ergonomic chair if HR considers it a “personal expense.” Similarly, a deaf software engineer may attend meetings without an interpreter, making it harder to follow important discussions.
Many employees report feeling overlooked for promotions due to assumptions about their appearance and tolerance rather than their performance (Disabled People’s Association, 2018). In other instances, office cultures unintentionally exclude them, such as through after-work events held in inaccessible venues or colleagues who talk over them in meetings (Disabled People’s Association, 2018).
Laws like the ADA prohibit employment discrimination, yet enforcement remains inconsistent. When “culture fit” is valued in hiring, unspoken biases can shape who gets opportunities and who doesn’t (Kandiah & Saiki, 2024).
The Accessibility Gap
Imagine planning a night out with friends. One restaurant lacks a ramp, another has stairs but no elevator. Finally, an accessible spot—but the menu isn’t screen-reader friendly. Many rarely think about accessibility. For people with disabilities, it is a daily reality.
Accessibility is more than just ramps and elevators—it determines who can move freely, access information, and participate. Nearly 30% of U.S. public transit systems still lack full accessibility, leaving people with disabilities stranded or reliant on limited paratransit services (Bezyak, Sabella, & Gattis, 2017).
Even in cities with accessible infrastructure, broken elevators, missing curb cuts, and unmarked crosswalks turn everyday travel into an obstacle course. These aren’t minor inconveniences; they shape who can navigate independently and who cannot.
The barriers extend beyond the physical. Websites without alt text, videos without captions, and job portals that require a mouse exclude those who rely on assistive technology.
Despite standards like the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines (WCAG), digital spaces remain largely inaccessible (WebAIM, n.d.). Infrastructure and technology should open doors, not close them. True accessibility isn’t just about compliance—it’s about full participation.
Education and Healthcare Barriers
Challenges can arise early for students with disabilities. While education has the potential to be an equalizer, differences in resources, expectations, and policies can create challenges that limit opportunities.
Although research shows that inclusive education benefits all students, only 63% of students with disabilities spend the majority of their school day in general education classrooms (American Institutes for Research, n.d.; National Center for Education Statistics, n.d.).
Teachers frequently underestimate their capabilities, assuming they can’t manage advanced coursework. Without encouragement to self-advocate, many enter higher education and the workforce unprepared.
These challenges don’t end in the classroom. In healthcare, where care and support should be the priority, people with disabilities face significant barriers. Symptoms are too often dismissed as just part of a disability rather than recognized as legitimate medical concerns (World Health Organization, n.d.; Gonzalez et al., 2023).
Physical inaccessibility only compounds the problem. Exam tables that don’t lower, mammogram machines that aren’t wheelchair-accessible, and hospitals without ASL interpreters make essential care difficult—or impossible—to receive.
Without systemic reform, these disparities will persist, reinforcing inequality in education, healthcare, and beyond.
Breaking the Cycle
Discrimination against people with disabilities can often be subtle, woven into hiring practices, city planning, healthcare policies, and unspoken assumptions. Yet, where exclusion is built into systems, so too is the opportunity for change.
Prioritizing inclusive hiring practices, designing public spaces with accessibility in mind, and fostering education systems that nurture potential are key steps in reshaping these systems. Healthcare that treats every patient with dignity also contributes to this transformation.
True inclusion isn’t about meeting minimal standards; it is about rethinking systems to make accessibility the norm, not an afterthought. Removing barriers isn’t just about disability—it’s about creating a space where everyone has the opportunity to fully engage.
References
merican Institutes for Research. (n.d.). Special education. MTSS for Success. Retrieved March 1, 2025, from https://mtss4success.org/special-topics/special-education
Bezyak, J., Sabella, S., & Gattis, R. (2017). Public transportation: An investigation of barriers for people with disabilities. Journal of Disability Policy Studies, 28(3), 52–60. https://doi.org/10.1177/1044207317702070
Bonaccio, S., Connelly, C. E., Gellatly, I. R., Jetha, A., & Martin Ginis, K. A. (2020). The participation of people with disabilities in the workplace across the employment cycle: Employer concerns and research evidence. Journal of Business and Psychology, 35(2), 135–158. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10869-018-9602-5
Disabled People’s Association. (2018). Discrimination faced by people with disabilities at the workplace: Study 1. Disabled People’s Association. https://www.dpa.org.sg/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/Discrimination-Faced-by-People-with-Disabilities-at-the-Workplace-Study-1.pdf
Gonzalez, D., Kenney, G. M., Karpman, M., & Morriss, S. (2023). Four in ten adults with disabilities experienced unfair treatment in health care settings, at work, or when applying for public benefits in 2022. Urban Institute. https://www.urban.org/research/publication/four-ten-adults-disabilities-experienced-unfair-treatment-health-care-settings
Job Accommodation Network. (n.d.). Workplace accommodations: Low cost, high impact. AskJAN. Retrieved March 1, 2025, from https://askjan.org/topics/costs.cfm
Kandiah, J., & Saiki, D. (2024). Hiring and workplace employment: Perceived aesthetic biases by individuals with physical disabilities. Journal of Postsecondary Education and Disability, 37(3), 257–272.
National Center for Education Statistics. (2022). Inclusion and student outcomes. https://nces.ed.gov
U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. (n.d.). Disability-related resources. EEOC. Retrieved March 1, 2025, from https://www.eeoc.gov/eeoc-disability-related-resources
WebAIM. (n.d.). The WebAIM Million: An accessibility analysis of the top 1,000,000 home pages. WebAIM. Retrieved March 1, 2025, from https://webaim.org/projects/million/
World Health Organization. (n.d.). Disability. World Health Organization. https://www.who.int/health-topics/disability#tab=tab_2
The bus stop has no bench, just a cracked stretch of pavement where the curb slopes unevenly into the street. Heat shimmers off the asphalt, pressing down on the small crowd. A woman checks her watch, sighing loud enough to be heard. A teenager shifts from foot to foot, restless. No one speaks.
The bus is late. The crowd sways in quiet impatience, adjusting bags and shifting weight. A step in any direction requires calculation: how long to stand, how to stay steady when the ground works against balance.
At last, the bus hisses to a stop. The doors fold open, and the driver barely glances up before looking past to the next in line. The step is high, higher than necessary, but the driver doesn’t lower the bus. Doesn’t ask. Just waits.
“Hurry up,” someone mutters from the back.
A pause is all it takes. Eyebrows lift. A throat clears. The woman with the watch makes a sound in the back of her throat, something between impatience and disapproval.
Stepping up takes effort, more than it should. Mobility isn’t just about movement. It’s about whether the world makes space for it. A bench at the stop. A driver who notices. A bus designed with the assumption that not every body steps up the same way.
Inside, a seat opens up. Sliding into place, shoulders square, the heat of the window presses against skin. Conversations resume as if nothing happened.
“People just expect special treatment these days.”
Not loud. Just loud enough.
No one responds. No one needs to. The message lands, a quiet verdict passed in the rhythm of a public space. Disapproval without confrontation. Dismissal without words.
Mobility is tolerated as long as it doesn’t slow things down, as long as it doesn’t require adjustment, acknowledgment, or patience.
Outside, a teenager darts across the street, light and unburdened, the city bending to meet her rhythm.
The bus lurches forward. The sun burns on, unyielding. There will be another stop, another crowd, another moment when the world expects stillness, silence, disappearance.
But disappearing isn’t an option. The world isn’t designed for every body, but every body still moves through it. Still stands. Still takes up space.
The heat presses down. The sun remains. So does the person sitting by the window, shoulders squared, unshaken.
The ride continues, one stop after another, the city unfolding in patterns of movement and pause, rush and resistance. Another bus stop. Another set of passengers. Another unspoken test of who will be given room and who will have to carve it out for themselves.
How many unspoken exclusions must pile up before belonging becomes nothing more than an illusion? How many times can someone be quietly shut out before they start to believe they were never meant to belong at all?
The bookstore smells like fresh coffee, a blend that invites pause.
I move with small, deliberate adjustments—shifting my weight, using my walking poles to navigate the floor. Every step is a negotiation. I gauge the slight unevenness beneath my feet, the tables set just a little too close together, the throw rugs that catch at my poles, the tight spaces that require careful maneuvering.
The shelves hold a mix of neatly arranged and slightly askew books, nudged out of place by browsing hands. Soft voices weave through the air, accompanied by the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Some people move through the space without a second thought, weaving easily between shelves and tables. Others take their time, adjusting with each step, aware of the small negotiations required to move comfortably.
At the counter, the cashier finishes with a customer, the last book slipping into a paper bag with the soft rustle of paper. She looks up, her gaze lingering just a moment longer than usual.
“I can help who’s next,” she calls, her voice carrying across the space.
A pause. Small, almost imperceptible, but I feel it. The line shifts—not in movement, but in awareness. A subtle realignment. The walls haven’t moved, but the room has changed.
“It’s me,” I say, stepping forward—without hesitation. The space adjusts, and for a moment, it fits.
The Unspoken Boundary
Accessibility isn’t just about renovations or redesigns. It’s about the details that shape how easily a space can be moved through, and whether it welcomes or creates barriers.
I think of a musician I know, whose performances stay with you long after the last note fades. Yet for her, each set carries an undercurrent of frustration. The stages are too cramped, the lighting never quite right. Worst of all, there are no railings. During long sets, she has nothing to steady herself, nowhere to lean when fatigue takes hold.
Each time she steps onto a stage, she scans her surroundings. She isn’t just taking in the crowd but assessing what will keep her steady. She notes the mic stand, the edge of a monitor—anything that offers a point of stability. Most wouldn’t think twice about these details. For her, they define the space.
She could have fought for accommodations and demanded change. Instead, she made a quiet decision: no rail, no gig. Not a protest—just a choice. She didn’t need to explain why. She simply refused to perform in spaces that didn’t account for her needs.
I think of another friend who faced a similar choice. He spent too many flights squeezed into tight seats, navigating narrow aisles, feeling like an afterthought in a system that never accounted for him. One day, he stopped accepting discomfort as the price of travel. He took control. A simple, direct message to the airline: this is what works for me. He wasn’t asking for permission to belong in the space. He was claiming it.
Both stories share a common thread: the refusal to disappear. No dramatic confrontations. No raised voices. Just an unspoken assertion of presence—a quiet but firm boundary.
The Empty Spaces
The power of these moments is in their subtleties. A glance. A shift in posture. A pause before stepping forward—small movements that change the shape of a room.
A space may feel full until you notice the gaps: the musician who doesn’t take the gig, the traveler who avoids the flight, the person who hesitates at the door. Once seen, those absences can’t be ignored.
The bookstore, for example, hasn’t changed. The shelves still lean with age, the aisles remain narrow, the scent of coffee lingers. Yet something is different. There’s a moment of tension, the kind that isn’t spoken but is felt. A brief stillness, like a song poised for its next note. Then, with a small shift, and it is gone. The space eases. The cashier looks up, our eyes meet. No hesitation. No glance away. She sees me.
A small moment, but it matters. Recognition, even unspoken, changes the room.
Redefining the Environment
Small adjustments—whether in a bookstore, on a stage, or in a crowded airport—reshape our surroundings. By stepping forward, setting boundaries, and holding firm, we change the spaces around us.
The world doesn’t always make room, but that does not mean space can’t be claimed. The gaps—the unfilled spaces—are reminders that even the smallest act has the power to create change.
Shifting with Purpose
There is power in the unspoken. The world may not always anticipate the needs of those who move through it, but that doesn’t mean those needs should be invisible.
Not every shift requires confrontation. Sometimes, it’s a quiet insistence—a steady presence that refuses to be overlooked. It is a small but certain claim to space, a quiet assertion that cannot be ignored. Because once space is claimed, once presence is acknowledged, the balance shifts, and the world begins to make room.
