Asides

Reclaiming Her Voice, One Word at a Time

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.

Unlearning ‘I Can’t’: Fostering Independence

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.’

Everyday Exclusions: How Discrimination Shapes Life for People with Disabilities

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 Slow Wait

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?

Shifting Spaces

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.

The Weight of Proof

A friend of mine, a writer, once told me that every idea she pitched had to come with justification—proof of its merit—before anyone would take it seriously.

She had spent years refining her craft, letting her narratives speak for themselves. Yet, time and again, the question came: Where’s the evidence? It was never enough to create. Never enough to trust in the work itself. Her voice only mattered when she defended it, when she proved that her instincts were worth believing.

How many times must something be explained before it is believed? How often is truth undone—not by its own weakness, but by the ease of doubt?

The Weight of Proof exists in the space between certainty and recognition: between reality and refusal, between knowing something is real and needing someone else to say it is. The question lingers, caught between silence and demand: What happens when proof is never enough? When truth stands undeniable, yet unseen?

The Weight of Proof — The Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

What happened?
The question folds in on itself,
creases where breath once fought for space,
a tether wound tight in the hush of arrival.

A weight pressed against the threshold,
a ribbon of consequence, a knot in the script,
braiding silence into the first inhale—
was that the first mistake?

No evidence of what isn’t missing.
The whisper circles, slippery and thin,
like a thread pulled loose from fabric
that never needed mending.

Having to prove the truth, never cheated.
Each step echoes on glass,
a trail of proof left behind,
yet still, the demand persists.

Walking in evidence.
The weight of what should be evident
is stitched into the seams of every motion,
woven into the rhythm of each pause.

If truth is only valid when believed,
let the air hold the name without question,
let the hands that measure learn
that proof does not need performance.

What happened?
The question lingers like a breath withheld—
perhaps nothing, perhaps everything,
perhaps only what refuses to be seen.

The Burden of Explanation

The poem starts with a question that twists back on itself, like a thread pulled tight. What happened? The words exist in the space between memory and defense, between knowing and needing to justify.

Breath becomes a metaphor for containment. The body holds truth before releasing it, before shaping it into something presentable, something acceptable. Yet, is the breath itself enough? Or does it, too, need proof?

“No evidence of what isn’t missing.”

What proves something exists when its absence was never acknowledged? When the loss was never counted?

A thread pulled loose from fabric that was never torn—doubt unraveling what was always whole. The stage of glass is fragile, yet it does not break. Each step is deliberate, careful. The trail of proof is left behind, not to be noticed, but because it must be. To prove, again and again, what should never have been questioned.

A Truth That Does Not Need Performance

Exhaustion anchors the poem. The kind that sinks deep, threading through muscle and marrow. The kind that turns certainty into effort, presence into explanation.

“Let the hands that measure learn that proof does not need performance.”

The line resists. What if truth did not have to be shaped into something presentable? What if it could simply be?

Some move through life without a second glance, their presence accepted without question. Others carry the weight of explanation, stitched into their words, their gestures, and the spaces they navigate. It is not truth that sets them apart, but the demand to make it legible to those who never have to prove their own.

Truth does not shout. It does not vanish when ignored. Yet silence is rarely empty. It holds weight, thick with meaning, thick with waiting.

There is a labor to being seen, to being believed. A labor that some will never be asked to bear. To move through the world unquestioned is a freedom so seamless it goes unnoticed, an absence of friction mistaken for simplicity.

Those asked to explain, to justify, move through life with expectation pressing against them. The weight of proving, again and again, is a burden that never fully lifts.

The Truth That Stands Without Permission

Some truths remain whole, untouched by doubt. They do not require validation to exist, yet without recognition, they remain unseen.

The poem moves through the space between presence and acknowledgment, between what is known and what is allowed to be known. It asks: If proof is always demanded, when does certainty begin? If truth stands firm yet remains unseen—what, then, is truly being measured?

Perhaps proof was never the point. Perhaps the weight was never in the truth itself, but in the willingness—or unwillingness—to see it. Truth does not vanish in silence. It does not dissolve under doubt. It waits—unshaken, unyielding, whether or not it is seen.

And so the question lingers, softer now, but no less certain:

When will truth be seen?

The Space Between Motion and Stillness

Movement is neither effortless nor certain. Spastic CP is a neurological condition that disrupts the signals between brain and muscle, creating stiffness, rigidity, and involuntary contractions. Movement becomes a negotiation, each step a conversation between intention and limitation.

The hamstrings tighten too soon, bracing for movement that has not yet begun. Knees hesitate, caught between stiffness and release—never fully straight, never fully bent.

Tension settles deep, winding through the backs of my legs, twisting into the hamstrings like a knot that will not come undone. A knee locks mid-step. Feet drag. Movements jerk. The body does not resist in defiance. It resists because release is not the same as control.

In the sterile quiet of a Doctor’s office, hands press into tendons, measuring, stretching, noting. I become a case. A treatment plan emerges: four injections per leg. Four months of silenced nerves. Spasticity gone? Maybe. Maybe not.

The needle presses in. The machine crackles with static, a hum caught between white noise and electricity. They call it spasticity, the misfiring nerves made audible. Each pulse of current sends muscles flaring, twitching, resisting. Then the injection.

Cold spreads deep. The hamstrings should loosen within hours. The knees, caught between tightness and release, should find a middle ground. Yet expectation does not always match reality.

Sometimes, the body resists less. Other times, it does not resist at all. A knee that once held firm buckles. A leg that once pulled tight gives way. Muscles do not just relax. They let go. What was once certain is now unsteady. Steps falter, strain, slip.

I wait for the return of tightness, rigidity, movement—but it does not come. Nine months pass. It becomes necessary to relearn movement in the absence of what was once familiar. To wait for sensations, though no one can say if feeling will return.

Waiting is not a pause. It is a stretch of time, filling space, forcing adaptation. Movement is more than motion—it is expectation, rhythm, trust in the body’s response. The poem below explores what happens when that rhythm breaks.

Between Stasis and Step — The Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Waiting is not empty.
It takes shape, fills space,
lingers in what was.

No before. No after.
Only time stretched thin,
where a step is no longer certainty
but a question.

Somewhere between resistance and surrender,
this is not stillness,
but something close.

The night does not break.
It takes.
It presses in, quiet and full,
heavy with what was,
what wasn’t,
what never found its way to words.

Movement is not gone.
It lingers,
threaded through what remains,
folded into absence.

Footsteps vanish into rain.
Breath unwinds into dark.
Nothing moves except time,
slow, indifferent,
dragging what remains through the cold.

Even beneath the surface, something lifts.
Even the lost hear the pull of their name.
Even now,
wind, tide, shifting sky
trace something just beyond the edges.

Not mercy.
Not promise.
Not yet.

But somewhere, still,
a thread, a spark,
a hunger that refuses to close its hands.

And that will be enough,
until enough becomes more.

Recovery and the Space Between

Botox cannot erase years of tension. It interrupts it. It creates a space where movement might return—if the balance is right. If the dosage is precise. If the body adapts as expected.

Expectation is not certainty. The risk of Botox is not just whether the injections will work. It is trust. Relinquishing control to an unseen drug, measured in units and vials. Balanced on guesses and adjustments.

After treatment, the body waits. It lingers between hope and hesitation, between relief and uncertainty. Sensation shifts. Muscles quiet. Yet the question remains: What will settle? What will return? What will be lost?

When the body does not respond as it should, when waiting stretches from weeks into months, adaptation becomes something else. The absence of movement becomes its own weight, its own kind of resistance.

This is what nine months of recovery feels like. Time slows, dragging everything with it. Each day feels like a breath held too long, a hesitation stretched past its breaking point. Recovery does not feel like progress. It feels like grasping for a threshold that has dissolved.

Until movement, hesitant but returning, becomes its own momentum once more. It lingers in muscle memory, in the quiet rhythm of balance—waiting to return.

Poem Analysis

The poem opens with the assertion that waiting is not passive—it takes up space. Even in stillness, something remains: sensations, the imprint of movement that once was.

The line “No before. No after.” disrupts linear time. Recovery exists in limbo, where movement is no longer a guarantee but a question.

“Somewhere between resistance and surrender,” speaks to the tension of uncertainty. The body does not fully move, but it does not fully stop. It lingers.

“The night does not break. It takes.” Darkness becomes a metaphor for loss, absence pressing in. The inability to move is not just physical—it is emotional. The weight of unspoken experiences fills the silence.

“Movement is not gone.” Here, the poem shifts. While motion is absent in the present, it still exists in memory, in the subconscious patterns the body once knew.

“Footsteps vanish into rain.” This deepens the contrast between motion and stillness. Steps dissolve into something intangible, leaving only time—dragging everything forward, indifferent.

“Even beneath the surface, something lifts.” This is the first sign of hope. Though movement is lost, something stirs—perhaps muscle memory, will, or something deeper than physical ability. Even in uncertainty, there is a pull toward motion.

“Not mercy. Not promise. Not yet.” There is no certainty of recovery. The waiting is neither a gift nor an assurance. It simply is.

Even in limitation, something lingers—a refusal to close one’s hands around absence. Even in uncertainty, there is a thread, a spark, a pull that does not let go.

Closing Thoughts

Movement is more than motion—it is certainty, rhythm, trust. When that trust falters, what remains is harder to define. The space between stillness and motion is not empty. It holds tension, uncertainty, the persistence of what once was.

Between Stasis and Step explores this in-between, where the body lingers but does not move with ease. Waiting is not passive; it is something tangible. It carries the weight of absence, the slow drag of time, and the quiet pull of hope that refuses to be extinguished.

Recovery is not linear. It moves in fragments, shaped by tension and release. The body does not simply let go—it recalibrates, searching for balance where none exists. Muscles, once rigid, loosen beyond expectation. Stability shifts. A step that once held firm wavers.

Stillness is not the absence of motion. It carries its own weight, its own kind of resistance. The muscles quiet, but tension lingers. Expectation wavers. Time stretches.

In that stretch of waiting, something stirs. Movement shifts at the edges, unsteady but present. It lingers—until, finally, it returns.

Edges Unseen: The Photo and the Spoon

The drawer opens. A hand searches as it did years ago, when a photograph rested at the edge of a mirror. Always there, until one day, it wasn’t. It must have slipped, fallen behind the dresser, or perhaps ended up in a forgotten box. At first, its absence went unnoticed. Only later, when fingers reached for it, did something feel amiss. A second search, slower this time. Still nothing. There are others. Another photograph will do. Yet, something lingers.

The Weight of What Isn’t There

Some things quietly fade—a name, a photograph, a voice once close, now distant. Many absences go unnoticed. A hand reaches for what was, only to find the space it once filled.

It is not just the spoon that once stirred coffee, now gone. Like the photograph, once resting at the edge of the mirror, always in place—until it slips away.

Some losses arrive sharp and sudden: a farewell at the door, a train pulling away, an empty chair at the table. These absences have names and carry rituals, final goodbyes that echo long after they have passed. Some moments linger long after they’ve gone. The reminders stay, hard to forget.

Others slip away unnoticed, their absence felt only later No sound, no final touch—just a gradual unraveling. A childhood home, now in someone else’s care, its floors creaking under unfamiliar steps.

A friendship, once vibrant, now stretches thin. It fades like a photograph left in the sun too long, its edges curling until it’s no longer recognizable. The moment of change is elusive—hard to pinpoint, yet undeniable: one day, it’s simply gone.

What the Silence Holds

The missing object carries echoes of a life once lived, its absence a quiet reminder of what’s no longer there. A spoon that once clinked against a coffee mug in the quiet of morning, stirred soup as conversation filled the air, and rested between hands during late-night confessions.

It isn’t about the spoon. It never was. The drawer closes, and a fork is taken instead—a quiet substitution, but it never fills the same space. The rhythm of the day continues, steady and unchanged.

For a moment, something lingers—not in the absence itself, but in the memory of what once was. The weight of the photograph once resting at the edge of the mirror, the spoon that stirred more than just coffee, the quiet comfort of what had always been there.

It cannot be fixed, only felt—the echo of what once was, still present.

The Future of Access: What’s at Stake for Section 504

The framework of access is rarely dismantled all at once. More often, it shifts in ways that go unnoticed—until the supports many rely on are no longer guaranteed. That is the conversation unfolding around Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, a law that has shaped disability rights for over 50 years. Seventeen states are challenging recent updates, raising the question: What happens if the foundation of access is weakened?

What Is Section 504?

Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 was a landmark law that prohibited discrimination based on disability (National Education Association, 2019).

It laid the groundwork for later legislation, including the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). Unlike the ADA, which applies broadly to both public and private entities, Section 504 specifically protects individuals in programs and services that receive federal funding. This includes public schools, universities, hospitals, and government agencies.

It also applies to employers with federal contracts. These protections ensure that individuals with disabilities are not discriminated against in these federally supported settings (National Education Association, 2019; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, n.d.).

At its core, Section 504 ensures that people with disabilities have equal access to education, employment, and healthcare (National Education Association, 2019; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, n.d.). It prohibits policies and practices that exclude or limit participation (U.S. Department of Education, n.d.). The law also requires reasonable accommodations to remove barriers (National Education Association, 2019).

These protections did not come easily. Disability advocates fought for years to secure Section 504 regulations. Their efforts culminated in the 504 Sit-in of 1977, one of the longest federal building occupations in United States history. Activists, including Judy Heumann, pressured the government to issue enforcement regulations, which solidified the law’s impact.

For many, Section 504 is more than legal text. It is the reason a student receives necessary support in school. It allows a patient to communicate clearly with a doctor (Northeast ADA Center, n.d.). It ensures that an employee can perform their job without unnecessary barriers. This law requires schools to provide accommodations so students with disabilities can learn (U.S. Department of Education, n.d.).

It compels employers to create accessible workplaces. It holds hospitals accountable for offering accessible medical equipment (Northeast ADA Center, n.d.). It also applies to digital spaces (ADA Site Compliance, 2024). Websites and online platforms must be designed so that blind and low-vision users can navigate them with assistive technology (ADA Site Compliance, 2024). Digital accessibility ensures that critical information, communication, and services are available to everyone, regardless of disability.

The Legal Challenge to Section 504

A lawsuit is challenging Section 504 (TER Staff, 2025), arguing that recent updates proposed by the U.S. Department of Education (www.ed.gov) and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (www.hhs.gov) impose new and costly obligations on states.

These updates clarify and strengthen existing protections. They reinforce modern accessibility standards and set clearer expectations for how schools, workplaces, and healthcare providers serve individuals with disabilities. Supporters believe these changes protect rights already established by law. Opponents argue that they add financial and administrative burdens.

Seventeen states are behind the lawsuit, claiming the updates expand federal authority too far. If the challenge succeeds, enforcement could weaken, leaving individuals with disabilities with fewer options for recourse (TER Staff, 2025).

The states challenging these updates include Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Georgia, Idaho, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Missouri, Nebraska, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, and West Virginia (TER Staff, 2025). Their lawsuit could reshape how Section 504 is enforced and interpreted in the years ahead.

Moving Forward: Advocacy and Action

The discussion around Section 504 reaches beyond courtrooms, shaping conversations in communities, workplaces, and organizations across the country. As legal proceedings continue, staying informed helps individuals understand potential changes and their impact.

Government agencies provide valuable updates on this evolving discussion. Checking in with the U.S. Department of Education (https://www.ed.gov/) and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (https://www.hhs.gov/) offers insight into proposed revisions. At the state level, residents in the 17 states involved in the lawsuit can reach out to their Attorney General’s office, where public comments are often welcomed.

Keeping others informed also makes a difference. Sharing updates with colleagues, educators, healthcare providers, and disability advocates helps build awareness and prepare for what may come next.

Section 504 was born from advocacy. Its protections remain in place because individuals continue to speak up. The choices made now will determine the strength of these protections in the years ahead.

Access is not static; it shifts as people recognize barriers, revisit policies, and advocate for change. Each effort, whether quiet or bold, contributes to a broader movement. The direction of these conversations will shape the future of inclusion.

References

The Unseen Thaw

The morning carries a sharper chill than expected. Winter’s air stings, crisp and unrelenting. The world lies still beneath its white cover. Snow clings to branches, intricate and crystalline. Yesterday’s hurried footprints are gone.

The night’s snowfall has erased them, leaving no trace. The landscape feels cleansed. Yet, there is an unease in that kind of erasure, a sense of loss that lingers.

A moment of almost—but not yet—readiness: waiting, suspended breath, for something just beyond reach. A single drop falls from a branch, catching the faint morning light. Another follows, then another. The thaw begins. Ice creaks softly, loosening its grip.

The thaw arrives whether it is welcomed or not. Readiness does not delay it. It arrives unbidden—just as it always does. This moment, the quiet dissolving of certainty, feels familiar. The buried thought, the echo of a conversation, the grip on an old belief: each loosens its hold. Even winter cannot hold on forever.

The Unseen Thaw — A Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

The thaw arrives, unseen, unasked,
melting the once-unyielding past.
A stillness untangles what has hardened within,
a whisper in the quiet light.

Diamonds weep from bending trees,
as beauty trembles, caught between
the weight of loss and the hope unseen.

Each frozen word, each silenced plea,
encased in frost, they linger, still,
vanished footprints the snow does fill.

Yet within the quiet, a stirring sigh
weaves through the hollows where memories lie.
Not all that fades is truly gone;
some things endure, some move on.
Not all that vanishes is lost.
Not all that remains is real.

What melts, what lingers, what slips away,
the thaw unravels what was before,
revealing truths that lie at its core.

The Unraveling

There is something unsettling about the thaw.

It is simple to prepare for the storm, to brace against the cold. There is a certain comfort in anticipating the challenge ahead. No one teaches how to get ready for the thaw—how to let go, how to release what was once solid. The undoing does not break but bends. It does not strike; it erodes, steady and unspoken.

The poem lingers in that delicate space. Yet the thaw is more than just a moment—it is a force, shifting beneath our lives in ways both seen and unseen. When the thaw begins, it takes what once felt certain. Frozen footprints disappear. Sharp edges blur. Delicate patterns melt away.

There is beauty in the breaking. Before something is lost entirely, it lingers, fragile, shimmering, holding on for just a moment. The space between presence and absence, between what was and what is to come, is where The Unseen Thaw finds its meaning.

“Not all that vanishes is lost. Not all that remains is real.”

These words hover, asking:

Is it the holding on that gives something its weight?

Or is it the letting go that sets it free?

Everyone has stood here. Watching as something they thought would last begins to fade: a relationship, a phase of life, an unspoken certainty. The thaw reaches them all, in different ways. Each time… it comes as both an ending and a beginning.

As the ice melts, the weight lifts, and the air feels lighter. What emerges next is uncertain.

What is Left Behind

Certain feelings defy easy expression. The Unseen Thaw captures the fleeting moment when something begins to dissolve. It lingers in the space between holding on and letting go.

The opening lines remind us that change arrives unbidden:

“The thaw arrives, unseen, unasked, / melting the once-unyielding past.”

Control is an illusion. The thaw is inevitable, moving silently through our lives, dismantling what we thought would last.

In the second stanza, “diamonds weep from bending trees” evokes both beauty and sorrow. More than a description of melting ice, it speaks to the grace in endings—the way release can be both painful and exquisite. There is no resistance to the thaw. It simply happens.

Regret weaves through the lines:

“Each frozen word, each silenced plea, / encased in frost, they linger, still.”

The words never said, the opportunities left untouched—they remain, frozen. Until the thaw. It forces them to the surface, briefly… before they slip away. The thaw does not just take; it reveals. The shift is soft.

The fourth stanza introduces a whisper, a forgotten trace, stirring beneath the surface. The thaw is not just an ending; it also uncovers what lies beneath, waiting to be noticed.

Finally, the poem’s closing lines reflect on impermanence:

“What melts, what lingers, what slips away, / the thaw unravels what was before.”

These questions invite reflection. What truly endures? What was never really there at all? The thaw does not merely dissolve; it illuminates, revealing both what has been and what still lies ahead.

The Space Between

Letting go is a gradual shift, a subtle release, a quiet easing. Sometimes it feels like relief; other times, it is wrenching. More often, it is both. The thaw does not erase what came before. It reveals what remains.

The thaw is neither sudden nor merciful. It does not wait. It moves in silence, undoing the edges of certainty. Footprints fade. Ice weakens. What seemed immutable gives way—not all at once, but in pieces, in moments, in the slow surrender of what no longer holds.

There is no clear line between what remains and what changes, only the quiet space between them. Not all that disappears is gone. Not all that softens is broken. The thaw carries both release and renewal, making way for what comes next, even if it is not yet visible. Perhaps the weight is not in what is left behind, but in the waiting. In the moment before something new takes shape.