Asides

Mirrors in the Mundane

Life often follows familiar patterns: keys dropped on the counter, shoelaces tugged tight, coffee poured and left to cool. Small rituals shape the day, predictable and automatic. Then, something shifts.

It is not dramatic—just a subtle change, like stepping onto uneven ground. The shoelace remains untied. The coffee sits untouched. Nothing appears wrong, but something feels different. A quiet unease settles in: pay attention.

Most days, the unease fades. It gets buried under distractions and tasks. But sometimes, it lingers. When it does, questions begin to surface: Does this matter? Is this enough?

These questions aren’t obvious, but they linger. They quietly disrupt the rhythm, revealing cracks in routines that once felt unshakable. The usual response is to push them away. A task, a notification, or some distraction often fills the silence.

When nothing works to drown them out, the stillness takes hold. It brings buried doubts and forgotten memories into focus—uncomfortable truths that have remained hidden for far too long.

It often starts with work—not just how it’s done, but whether it holds any meaning. Milestones that once inspired urgency may now seem empty, their purpose eroded. Effort begins to feel disconnected from the reward, as if the balance has shifted. The cycle itself starts to resemble motion for its own sake, leaving behind only exhaustion in place of fulfillment. Awareness offers no immediate answers. It simply asks: Is this what matters?

From here, the questions get harder. Beneath the packed schedules and endless tasks, something becomes clear: stopping doesn’t help. Even with a break, the fatigue lingers. Yet the drive to keep going remains, fueled by something unspoken. The discomfort doesn’t demand resolution. It waits to be noticed.

Questions don’t stay confined to work. They seep into other areas, especially relationships. Some connections remain steady, like an effortless conversation. Others strain. Obligations pile up, pulling people apart. Silences stretch long, heavy with unspoken words. Cracks become hard to ignore. Once unshakable connections now feel delicate, bearing too much weight.

Clarity doesn’t force decisions or solutions. It means seeing things as they are, like noticing a forgotten receipt in a cluttered drawer. Patterns become clearer. Goals once chased with urgency now feel mismatched, like shoes that no longer fit. Dreams aren’t gone—they are paused, waiting for the right moment. This isn’t failure. It is life reshaping itself. Clarity offers a chance to let go of what doesn’t fit and hold onto what still does.

Awareness doesn’t clean up the mess or eliminate discomfort. It creates space to uncover what is hidden beneath the noise—the imperfections, the beauty, the weight of it all. A forgotten receipt becomes a moment to reflect, not ignore.

Together, clarity and awareness guide us forward. A forgotten receipt, an untied shoelace—small disruptions that seem inconsequential—can reveal what’s been overlooked. These moments hold the power to refocus attention, allowing meaningful change to take shape. In this space, letting go becomes intentional, and holding on feels deliberate. Life isn’t waiting to be perfected—it is asking to be noticed.

These subtle shifts interrupt the predictable, inviting reflection. Recognizing them transforms routine into revelation, turning ordinary moments into opportunities for growth. The forgotten receipt isn’t just clutter—it is a reminder to pause, to reevaluate, and to choose presence over perfection.

Moving with the Pull: Understanding Spastic Cerebral Palsy

As a child, I was fascinated by rubber bands—the way they could stretch, snap, and return to their original shape. Over time, they became more than just objects of curiosity; they offered a powerful metaphor for understanding my experience with Spastic Cerebral Palsy.

For years, doctors used the rubber band analogy to help me make sense of my condition.

“Think of your muscles like a rubber band,” they would say. “When you pull on it, it stretches.” My muscles function in much the same way—they tighten with certain movements. However, unlike a rubber band that easily snaps back into place, my muscles don’t always relax. Sometimes they remain tense, refusing to let go. Other times, they lock up completely, without warning or clear reason.

This phenomenon, called spasticity, occurs when the signals between the brain, spinal cord, and muscles become scrambled. These misfires create stiffness and involuntary contractions, producing a tension that’s difficult to describe. While the rubber band comparison offers a useful glimpse into my condition, it oversimplifies something far more intricate.

Understanding Spasticity

Spasticity happens when muscles receive conflicting signals from the nervous system. Imagine trying to open a sliding door while someone else is simultaneously pushing it shut. The result isn’t movement—it is resistance. That is how my muscles feel when spasticity sets in: caught between the urge to contract and the need to release, leaving me stuck in between.

For me, this tightness is like trudging through thick mud—every movement, no matter how small, requires significantly more effort than it seems. It is not fleeting; it is a constant force that shapes every step I take.

According to the Mayo Clinic (2023), spasticity occurs when disrupted communication between the brain, spinal cord, and muscles causes stiffness, spasms, and fatigue. These symptoms make everyday activities—walking, sitting, even sleeping—more challenging. Yet, this clinical definition only scratches the surface; additional factors can amplify its effects.

Stress: The Invisible Amplifier

Stress operates like an invisible magnifier, intensifying the impact of spasticity. It is not just mental strain—it’s physical. For muscles already impacted by rigidity, stress is like pulling an already stretched rubber band even tighter.

When I’m stressed, my legs stiffen, and walking loses its natural rhythm. Every step feels mechanical, requiring more effort. Stress compounds the stiffness of spasticity, making movement harder. As the Mayo Clinic notes, stress can exacerbate muscle tightness and reduce the energy available for mobility (Mayo Clinic, 2023).

Stress can sometimes be obvious, like the pressure of a deadline or the buzz of a crowded room. Other times, it’s quieter, like an unresolved worry. Regardless of the form it takes, the outcome is the same: mental tension manifests as physical strain—a heaviness in my calves and a tightness that’s impossible to ignore.

Recognizing Limits

These moments of stiffness and rigidity remind me that I might be pushing myself too hard. Ignoring these signals doesn’t make them go away; it only increases the strain. Research shows that stress and overexertion can worsen muscle tension, creating a feedback loop. In this cycle, increased muscle tension leads to more stress, which then amplifies the tension further. Over time, this pattern becomes progressively harder to break (PubMed, 2013).

This cycle mirrors how rubber bands function, revealing a simple truth: everything has limits. Stretch a rubber band too far, and it won’t snap back—it will break. Spasticity works the same way. Pushing harder doesn’t ease the tension; it only increases it. Sometimes the result is subtle—a dull ache that lingers. Other times, it stops me mid-movement, forcing me to pause.

Respecting Limits

Over time, I’ve learned to honor my limits. For years, I saw resting as a weakness, believing that resilience meant pushing through challenges no matter what. However, resilience in this context, isn’t about relentless perseverance—it is about adapting to challenges while respecting your body’s boundaries. Slowly, I began to view those signals not as setbacks, but as my body’s way of offering guidance.

When the body signals it’s had enough, it’s not just a suggestion—it’s a clear message. Resting isn’t about giving up; it is about preventing further strain. The Mayo Clinic emphasizes that pacing and rest are not indulgences but essential strategies for managing conditions like spasticity (Mayo Clinic, 2023).

Moving with the Pull

Living with spasticity is like working with a rubber band stretched to its limits. Over time, I have learned that resilience doesn’t come from fighting the tension but from moving with it. Each movement requires attention—not just to how far I can go, but when to pause and let my body reset.

Like the rubber bands I admired as a child, my muscles have their own boundaries. Resilience in this context is not about pushing past those limits; it’s about adapting within them.

By honoring these boundaries, I have come to see that resilience isn’t about how far I can push—it’s about recognizing when to pause and adapt. This perspective extends beyond spasticity. We all encounter limits, whether they stem from our bodies, thoughts, or feelings. Stepping back is not a sign of weakness; it is an act of strength. It is how we sustain balance, conserve energy, and move forward with intention and grace.

References

Ember and Thunder: A Conversation About Change

Change often arrives unexpectedly. It alters familiar landscapes in ways both subtle and seismic: moving to a new city, starting an unfamiliar job, watching a relationship unravel, or facing the challenges of living with a disability. These moments force a confrontation with the unknown. The ground shifts beneath what once felt steady, leaving us to ask: how do we rebuild?

When the familiar begins to slip away, transitions can feel relentless. Ember and Thunder captures this space and the forces which reflect the messy, transformative nature of change.

The Poem—Ember and Thunder
By Kerry A. Wiley

Whispers faster than shadows fleeing the light,
Fire meets thunder in a silent fray,
Heat ascends where shadows play.

Temperature climbs in the heart’s hidden space,
Flames flicker beneath a veiled embrace.
Only rain can soothe the searing night,
Cooling fires in the absence of light.

Silent sparks clash with echoes in the night,
Rising flames entwine with fleeting light.
Only rain can mute the fervent cry,
Quenching fires where whispered secrets lie.

A restless pulse beneath the stillness breaks,
Swift as whispers carried by storm-wracked winds.
Flames clash with thunder’s jagged roar,
Heat sears the air where shadows twist.

Blaze consumes the silent night,
Lightning’s bite ignites the darkened sky.
Only rain can quell the fervent blaze,
Drenching fires where secrets lie concealed.

Examining the Tension

Ember and Thunder illustrates the contrasts of change: fire and thunder, light and shadow, destruction and renewal. These forces are not merely external; they reflect the inner storms that shape and unsettle us during transitions and transformations.

Fire rages, consuming what once felt familiar, while thunder reverberates unpredictably, a reminder of the chaos that change can and often brings. Rain, meanwhile, arrives not as a solution but as a force cooling the intensity without undoing its impact.

The fleeting sparks and echoes throughout the poem represent brief moments of insight. These flashes of understanding come and go quickly, often leaving us with more questions than answers. The fading light suggests clarity that slips through our fingers, challenging us to make sense of the transitions and feelings of chaos even as it unfolds.

Transformation is not a simple process. It is not linear either. Instead, it is a collision of elements—fiery destruction, rumbling chaos, and renewal. These elements shift and reshape everything in their wake. The poem lingers in this discomfort. It asks readers to reflect on how change unsettles them. Ultimately, change reshapes them.

A Silent Clash

“Whispers faster than shadows fleeing the light,
Fire meets thunder in a silent fray.”

The opening lines suggest an understated confrontation. Fire and thunder, two intense and opposing forces, collide with quiet but undeniable tension. This mirrors the way many transitions begin—subtle at first, simmering just beneath the surface. Slowly, the growing instability begins to unsettle what once felt stable and secure.

This clash reflects the beginning of transformation, where the first tremors signal that something is shifting. Have you ever felt that moment, when the familiar begins to fray and you sense the storm building, even before it breaks?

The Hidden Fire

“Temperature climbs in the heart’s hidden space,
Flames flicker beneath a veiled embrace.”

The poem turns inward, exploring the private intensity of change. Here, fire becomes a dual symbol—not just of destruction, but of the hidden heat of transformation, simmering beneath the surface, yet unseen.

The “veiled embrace” suggests tension within relationships, self-perception, or even the expectations we hold of the world. It raises the question: What happens when the things meant to comfort us instead heighten our discomfort?

The hidden nature of this fire raises a question: how much of our struggle burns unseen, even to ourselves? And when that fire can no longer be contained, how does it reshape what remains?

Sparks and Echoes

“Silent sparks clash with echoes in the night,
Rising flames entwine with fleeting light.”

This stanza conveys a sense of unrest. Sparks and echoes suggest brief moments of understanding, appearing for an instant and possibly slipping away. The imagery reflects how clarity can emerge during turmoil, though its fleeting nature makes it uncertain and difficult to hold onto.

The passage uses sparks and echoes as metaphors for insights or realizations that surface in chaotic or challenging times. These moments of clarity feel vivid yet fragile, offering the possibility of lasting insight but just as easily fading before they can be fully understood.

Do these moments show a way forward, or are they just pieces of a larger storm, hinting at meaning but never fully forming? In the chaos of change, we’re left unsure whether to hold onto these insights or let them fade.

This uncertainty mirrors the tension in the poem’s next lines, where restlessness and upheaval take center stage.

A Restless Pulse

“A restless pulse beneath the stillness breaks,
Flames clash with thunder’s jagged roar.”

Beneath the surface, tension builds until it bursts. This breaking point is raw and inevitable. Fire and thunder, once restrained, collide with full force. What does this moment reveal? Is it simply destruction, or does it clear space for something new to emerge? Perhaps the answer lies not in resolution but in the act of enduring the storm itself.

Rain and Its Quiet Work

“Only rain can quell the fervent blaze,
Drenching fires where secrets lie concealed.”

Rain arrives, soothing the blaze without removing its mark. The secrets remain, no longer fueling the flames but still present, reshaped by the quiet work of cooling and renewal. Rain doesn’t erase the damage; it creates space for reflection and healing to begin.

Have you ever experienced this kind of quiet reprieve? The storm passes, but its marks linger, leaving you to decide what to nurture in the stillness it leaves behind.

Sitting in the Storm

The forces in Ember and Thunder—fire, thunder, rain—remind us that transitions rarely bring resolution. We are asked to stay with the uncertainty, to remain in the fire and thunder until the rain arrives. Even then, when the storm passes, we are left to ask: what will fill the spaces the fire has cleared?

Ultimately, Ember and Thunder resists easy answers. It reflects the complex, often uncomfortable experience of change—not as something to solve but as something to move through.

Transformation is not about finding neat solutions—it is about navigating the shifting ground, letting the fire burn, the thunder crash, and the rain cool. True change is not found in what is settled, but in our ability to withstand the storm and rebuild from its wake.

Dark Slips In: When Grief Whispers

What does grief sound like in the stillness of dawn? In the quiet spaces of a room once filled with laughter, it lingers—a presence unspoken but deeply felt. Grief doesn’t announce itself; it slips quietly into daily life, shaping emotions and actions with a force both subtle and profound. These unguarded moments—a creak of the bed, the curve of a sheet—become vivid reminders of what’s missing. This is where “Dark Slips In” finds its resonance.

The poem doesn’t just observe grief; it embodies it. It unravels how loss weaves into the fabric of existence, reflecting not dramatic sorrow but the quiet persistence of absence. With vivid imagery and restrained emotion, Dark Slips In captures the intangible ways grief shapes us.

The Poem: “Dark Slips In”

By Kerry A. Wiley

Dark slips in, unspoken,
limbs folding, sheets gathering their creases.
A trace of touch lingers—
not sharp, not whole,
just the ache of what once was.

The bed sags,
its corners loosening,
threadbare from the slow pull of motion.
A weight rests low in the chest,
not pressing, but present—
a shadow that hums without sound.

Memory drifts upward,
soft as fog,
its shape shifting before it settles.
Edges blur in the stillness,
but the ache remains,
a murmur that deepens with the dark.

And yet, beneath it all,
a stirring—
a rhythm.
Not escape,
but the quiet refusal to disappear.

A Subtle Weaving of Loss

At its heart,”Dark Slips In“ is not about dramatic expressions of grief but its quiet endurance. Loss doesn’t erupt like a storm; it seeps in, settling into the folds of sheets, the creak of a bed, or the weight in one’s chest. These details evoke the slow, steady rhythm of grief as it becomes part of daily life.

The opening line—“Dark slips in, unspoken”—sets the tone. There is no loud declaration, only an intimate recognition of grief’s silent arrival. The imagery of “limbs folding” and “sheets gathering their creases” mirrors the natural, almost involuntary process of living with loss.

These moments invite readers to linger, to notice how absence leaves its subtle mark. As the poem unfolds, its rhythm reflects grief’s presence—constant and unhurried. The sagging bed and threadbare corners evoke the weariness of loss, while the “shadow that hums without sound” captures grief’s paradoxical nature: both heavy and intangible, palpable yet elusive.

Memory as Fog: A Shifting Ache

One of the poem’s most evocative moments is the metaphor of memory as “soft as fog.” Like fog, memory drifts, blurring edges and softening contours. Memories seldom emerge with sharp clarity—they shift, settle, and fade, their outlines blurred by time. Yet even softened, they carry the ache of absence.

This portrayal of memory moves beyond nostalgia, emphasizing its duality. While it may offer comfort, it also deepens the ache: “Edges blur in the stillness, but the ache remains.” Grief doesn’t resolve neatly; it coexists with memory, shaping the quiet moments of our lives.

A Quiet Resilience

The final stanza introduces a subtle yet profound shift: “And yet, beneath it all, a stirring—a rhythm.” This rhythm is not about triumph or healing but about the quiet, unyielding persistence that allows one to move forward. It’s not an escape from grief but a defiant refusal to disappear—a reminder of life’s insistence on continuing, even in the shadow of loss.

These lines suggest that grief, though heavy and enduring, coexists with movement—not dramatic, but steady like a heartbeat. The poem mirrors this rhythm, offering a poignant truth: grief doesn’t erase life; it becomes a part of it. It is not victory over sorrow but the steady pulse of existence within it—a heartbeat refusing to stop.

A Space for Stillness

In “Dark Slips In”, the lines and imagery carve out a space to confront grief head-on, refusing to soften its edges or compress it into resolution. There’s no pretense of mending the loss or containing it within neat borders. Instead, the poem invites readers to linger in the quiet, unyielding presence of absence.

Anchored in the tangible—creases in sheets, the hum of a shadow—the poem offers a deeply human perspective on grief. Its focus on the small, persistent moments captures what many experience but struggle to express: grief is not a single event but a way of being, a steady rhythm that permeates and reshapes everyday life.

Conclusion: Grief’s Presence

“Dark Slips In” does not seek to explain grief or resolve it. Instead, it offers a quiet space to inhabit its weight and texture, honoring absence without rushing to fill it. Here, “weight” refers to grief’s persistent, heavy presence, while “texture” captures its nuanced, tangible details—the creases in sheets, the hum of a shadow—that make it feel real and inescapable.

The poem transforms grief from an abstract concept into a lived experience. It lingers in the folds of sheets, the weight of memory, and the unspoken hum of absence. These small, persistent details remind us that grief is not an event to be marked and moved past but a rhythm that shapes how life continues.

In its final lines, the poem gestures toward resilience, not as triumph but as the quiet persistence of life. It acknowledges the paradox of grief: its presence heavy yet intangible, its ache sharp yet softened over time. This is not a story of healing but of coexistence, where loss and life move forward together. “Dark Slips In” reminds us that grief doesn’t end. It lingers, shifts, and settles—unspoken but always present—yet life continues, shaped by its presence.

When the Ice Bends: On Fragility and Strength

Resilience and fragility are not opposites but partners—both essential in navigating the complexities of life and relationships. They form a dynamic tension, revealing strength through moments of adaptation and vulnerability.

In The People Factor, I explored how lives intersect, how growth blends with the complexities of mutual dependence. Relationships, like many aspects of life, are shaped by moments of expansion and by the challenges they face. They adapt, stretch, and grow over time, reflecting how living things respond to pressure and change.

This theme resurfaced in a recent poem, Winter Drapes Itself in Glass. At first glance, the poem captures winter’s severity. However, beneath its starkness lies something deeper: the weight of time, memory, and the bonds that shift, strain, and persist. Both the poem and earlier reflections ask what it means to carry the marks left by connection, to hold the balance between bending and breaking.

Winter Drapes Itself in Glass

By Kerry A. Wiley

Winter drapes itself in glass—
a world caught mid-collapse.
Trees wear brittle skins,
their branches laced with silver,
but still they bow, heavy with the burden.

Underfoot, the ice groans,
a warning, or perhaps a dare.
Stepping forward,
a shadow trailing like a thread.
A treacherous promise
that ends in the crack of bone.

Falling slow—
a quiet rebellion against time.
The air, cold and sharp,
clings like regret.
A lover’s cruel embrace.

Winter is unyielding—
it swallows the sound,
leaves only silence.

The ice does not weep.
Winter holds bone and frost entwined,
both aching under the weight
of things that cannot be undone.

Fragility in Stillness

The poem captures the tension between stillness and fragility. Trees, cloaked in brittle skins, carry the weight of silvered ice, bowing but not breaking. This image holds a certain grace—a quiet strength—but also a reminder that everything has its limits.

Observing trees bending under ice offers insight into strength: not loud defiance, but the ability to adapt and absorb. True strength lies not in resistance, but in flexibility.

This dynamic mirrors the weight of relationships—the unspoken moments, shared histories, and silences that press quietly on the bonds we build. Trees wear their burdens openly, but people carry theirs in shadows, revealed only when tested.

Fragility isn’t a flaw—it’s the mark of connection. In bending, things find a way to survive. Perhaps that is resilience: the capacity to bend without breaking.

The Weight of What Remains

The groan of ice beneath each step speaks to inevitability. The crack of bone, the fall—it is already embedded in the moment. Some forces press forward, unrelenting: time, change, and loss.

Life’s challenges and transformations rarely arrive with grand fanfare; they emerge quietly, shaping everything over time. These shifts aren’t catastrophic but fundamental, leaving traces that become part of the whole.

The image of branches bending under ice illustrates this. The weight is not only of the present but also of past storms. The branches flex and adapt, holding what cannot be avoided. This quiet accumulation shapes and strengthens, not through resistance, but through adjustment.

This same truth exists in relationships. Each moment carries the history of what came before—the joys, misunderstandings, and silences. None of it disappears; it lingers as evidence of what remains. The weight of connection, even in its heaviest form, is a sign of persistence—bonds that hold, even under strain.

Reflection on Weight and Connection

The themes of Winter Drapes Itself in Glass—fragility and inevitability—echo the truths explored in The People Factor. Both works linger in the spaces between individuals, tracing the quiet strain of unspoken moments and the weight of what cannot be undone.

The trees in the poem bow under their burden, but in their bending, they catch the light. Similarly, human connections hold under strain, reshaping without breaking. The question isn’t how to avoid the weight but how it will transform what it touches.

What ties these reflections together is the idea that fragility is not weakness but a natural state—one that invites adaptation, connection, and growth. Whether it is branches bending under ice or relationships evolving under unseen pressures, the ability to stretch and shift is what allows things to last.

It is not the absence of strain that defines resilience, but how that strain is carried and reshapes what it touches. Fragility and inevitability aren’t problems to solve—they are conditions to live through. Both poems shift the focus from avoidance to persistence. Resilience lies in adapting to strain, in finding ways to bend and reshape.

The People Factor explored how lives intersect, leaving traces that shape us. Winter Drapes Itself in Glass continues this exploration, asking what it means to carry those marks—to hold the balance between fragility and strength.

How does the weight of what’s carried reshape what is left behind?

Moonlight And Shadows

A new job introduced unfamiliar systems, routines, and faces, each navigating the space with the fluid ease of someone who had long mastered the rhythm. Every hesitation—forgetting a name, pausing too long before asking a question—felt like a spotlight on my uncertainty, magnifying my every misstep and making them seem larger than they truly were.

By the end of the first day, the exhaustion had shifted from physical to mental—a quiet strain from over-analyzing every moment. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, the constant click of keyboards filled the air, and conversations drifted just beyond reach, their words faint and elusive. Each decision felt like a careful calculation, every action weighed with the knowledge that there was little room for error.

As I walked home, the streets felt different. The cracked sidewalks and jagged curbs stretched ahead, familiar yet subtly altered, as if the evening itself had shifted the air around me. The hum of distant cars, rustling leaves, and far-off voices blended into a low, unshakable murmur.

Yet, the evening eased the sharpness. The imperfections remained but no longer carried the same weight. They simply existed, no longer demanding attention. And from that shift, a poem began to take shape:

Moonlight And Shadows
By Kerry A. Wiley

The path softens where the silver lies,
A veil of quiet drawn across the skies.
Edges vanish, harshness wanes,
The night absolves what day explains.

A shadow leans, its meaning blurred,
A breath unspoken, yet deeply heard—
Does it cradle, or constrain?
Each curve a question, each line a chain.

The world demands what it can see,
But moonlight humors mystery.
A step that falters, a hand unsure,
Becomes a dance that shadows endure.

No voices here to carve a name,
No mirror bright to cast its blame.
The body bends, but so does light,
A quiet pact beneath the night.

In softness, strength begins to grow,
Not sharp, but steady, a gentle glow.
What lingers in the moon’s embrace
Is neither flaw nor need for grace.

The soft quiet of the evening didn’t erase the mistakes of the day. The cracks in the sidewalk and the pauses in conversation remained. What changed was how they felt—less glaring, more part of a larger whole. The day’s edges, so sharp in the light, no longer cut quite as deeply.

“The night absolves what day explains.”

Daylight sharpens everything, turning even the smallest flaw into something exposed. A hesitation, a pause, or a misstep under its glare feels monumental, leaving no space for imperfections to hide.

Evening brings a softening, where a misstep no longer feels like failure but becomes part of the rhythm—a quiet acceptance that growth involves learning, adjusting, and feeling along the way. When starting something new, like a job, everything feels uncertain at first. These feelings aren’t setbacks but part of the process of adapting to change.

“A step that falters, a hand unsure,
Becomes a dance that shadows endure.”

Shadows reflect the emotional landscape of uncertainty, offering a space where imperfection and ambiguity can simply exist. Unlike the harshness of daylight, which amplifies emotions and creates pressure to resolve or overcome them, shadows allow doubt, anxiety, and discomfort to linger without the need for immediate resolution or judgment.

Not every emotion needs fixing. Sometimes, feelings like frustration or confusion simply need time to exist. Whether it’s the awkwardness of learning a new task or the discomfort of adjusting to a new environment, these moments don’t need to be rushed or solved immediately. They are part of the experience.

Shadows, free from expectation, allow emotions and imperfections to remain. They remind us that it’s okay to feel uncertain, to be unfinished, and to exist in discomfort without rushing to change it.

Daylight demands clarity and resolution. Evening, on the other hand, creates space for emotions—whether anxiety, exhaustion, or frustration—to simply exist. In the quiet of night, these feelings can be experienced, free from the need to fix, escape, or understand them all at once.

“The body bends, but so does light,
A quiet pact beneath the night.”

Light bends and shifts, flowing around obstacles with ease. Similarly, moments of doubt, missteps, and pauses in confidence don’t stop progress—they reshape it, creating new paths and possibilities. Just as light adjusts its course without force, growth often comes through subtle shifts, not rigid direction.

This isn’t about ignoring flaws or pretending mistakes don’t exist. It’s about understanding that not everything needs immediate resolution. The calm of evening doesn’t erase what’s unfinished; it simply allows space for it.

“In softness, strength begins to grow,
Not sharp, but steady, a gentle glow.”

These lines capture the essence of resilience. Resilience is not loud or forceful; it is a quiet, steady process. Strength doesn’t always make a visible entrance. It appears in the moments where things don’t have to be perfect to keep moving forward.

In the stillness of evening, there’s no rush to fix what feels incomplete. The cracks in the sidewalk, the unfinished tasks, the lingering doubts—they don’t disappear, but they lose their sharpness. They no longer demand immediate attention, instead becoming parts of a larger whole that doesn’t need resolution right away.

Resilience isn’t about rushing to fix what’s undone. It is about giving things time to develop on their own. Strength isn’t forced. It is found in the quiet acceptance of what is and what isn’t.

On my first day, every mistake felt amplified, like a spotlight on my uncertainty. The unfamiliar systems, new faces, and small missteps made everything seem bigger than it was. By evening, the sharpness of the day began to ease. The forgotten names, the pauses in conversation—what once felt heavy—were simply part of the experience.

As the world’s sharpness fades, it becomes clear that these moments aren’t failures. They’re part of the process, finding their place. There’s value in what’s unfinished, grace in imperfection. These incomplete moments hold meaning.

Acceptance of things as they are brings clarity without needing immediate resolution—just a gentle recognition that every part, even those in progress, has its place.

Resilience isn’t about fixing everything right away; it’s about letting things unfold in their time. Growth isn’t perfection, but understanding that uncertainty and imperfection are necessary. In those still moments, it’s clear: strength comes from accepting things as they are, knowing that even the smallest step forward is progress.

Moving Through the Maze

The gallery hummed with a low murmur of voices and the soft shuffle of footsteps. Quinn’s walking poles tapped lightly against the polished floor, each sound deliberate, each step precise. She moved between exhibits at her own pace, pausing when something caught her attention.

The pieces invited her in, but what fascinated her most wasn’t just the art—it was the space itself. The way the rooms flowed into each other. The way movement and perception shifted with every turn.

One weekend, she attended an exhibition on perception, designed to challenge ordinary ways of seeing and navigating. Among the installations, one caught her attention: The Shifting Maze.

The maze was a carefully constructed labyrinth, designed to disrupt the familiar sense of footing and balance Its pathways tilted and dipped unpredictably, with sloped floors that forced visitors to engage their weight with every step.

Low beams and narrow turns required careful maneuvering, while subtle shifts in texture underfoot added another layer of disorientation. The exhibit seemed less like a test of skill and more like a negotiation between the body and the space—a reminder that movement was rarely as straightforward as it seemed.

Unlike the stillness of the surrounding galleries, the maze demanded motion, precision, and focus. Visitors navigated it in their own ways—some laughing as they stumbled, others moving carefully, with hands brushing the walls for balance. For Quinn, it was something more—a quiet opportunity to tune into the rhythm of her thoughts and movements, to adapt and engage on her own terms.

She stopped at the maze’s entrance. b Her walking poles often drew glances in public spaces, and today was no different. She caught the flicker of a stranger’s eyes—a brief moment of curiosity followed by a careful look away. It wasn’t unkind, just familiar. A subtle reminder of how her presence often carried an unspoken question.

Quinn adjusted her grip on the poles, pausing at the entrance. Skipping the maze would have been easy—no one would have questioned her choice. This experience wasn’t about meeting expectations or proving anything. It was curiosity that drew her in, a quiet invitation she felt compelled to accept.

She stepped forward.

The ground tilted almost immediately, the incline catching her off guard. Her knees wobbled for a moment before she adjusted, planting her poles firmly to steady herself. The movements were small, deliberate. She paused, exhaled, and let her body respond to the floor’s shifting demands.

A few steps later, a low beam cut across the path. Quinn stopped to assess the space, angling her shoulders and adjusting her poles to fit through the narrow passage. The effort demanded focus, yet it felt deliberate—a measured response, practiced and steady, to the challenges in her path.

Each turn of the maze absorbed her completely. The uneven terrain demanded focus, not just on where to step but on how she moved through the space. She felt the pull in her calves, the subtle strain in her shoulders, the rhythm of her poles tapping against the ground. The maze didn’t frustrate her; it drew her in.

It reminded her of her favorite paintings—layered canvases in deep blues and muted grays, where light and shadow blended into something whole. The beauty wasn’t in erasing the difficulty but in moving through it, letting it exist without apology.

“Do you need help?”

The voice startled her, pulling her out of her focus. She looked up to see an older man standing a few feet away. His expression was kind but uncertain, his hands hovering at his sides as if unsure whether to reach out.

“No, thank you,” Quinn said, her tone calm but firm. She adjusted her grip on the poles and shifted her stance, steadying herself.

The man lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking between her and her poles. Then he nodded, muttering something about being careful, and walked away. Quinn exhaled, the interruption leaving behind a familiar weight.

The offer wasn’t unwelcome on its own—but the presumption within it was. Moments like these carried an unspoken weight, a narrative of fragility and limitation she knew too well.

As Aubrecht (2020) notes, disability is often framed through a lens of vulnerability or dependence, ignoring the complexity of individual experiences. For Quinn, these moments felt like uneven terrain—manageable, but requiring energy she’d rather use elsewhere.

She let the thought drift and returned her focus to the maze. The uneven path ahead drew her in again. Each step asked her to adjust and adapt, but none of it felt unnatural. By the time she reached the exit, her muscles ached, but it wasn’t fatigue she felt. Nor was it triumph. It was something quieter—a sense of satisfaction, not just from completing the maze but from experiencing it on her own terms.

The maze hadn’t been an obstacle to overcome. It had been a reminder: that balance wasn’t about mastery but about attention, about adapting to what lay ahead. Each shift in the ground, each careful adjustment, had called her to notice not only where she moved, but how.

The polished floor beneath her feet felt solid again, but her steps carried the memory of the maze—not as a lingering challenge, but as a quiet rhythm she had made her own.

The unseen exhibits stretched out before her, their spaces open and inviting. She moved forward at an unhurried pace, each step a quiet reminder that balance could be found in many ways, each path hers to claim.

References

  • Aubrecht, K. (2020). The cultures of precarity: Disability, care, and justice. Routledge.
  • Dolmage, J. T. (2017). Academic ableism: Disability and higher education. University of Michigan Press.
  • Titchkosky, T. (2015). The question of access: Disability, space, meaning. University of Toronto Press.

Threads of Gratitude: What Remains At The Table

The aroma of roasted turkey drifts through the air, rich and inviting, intertwined with the warm, spicy notes of cinnamon and cloves. Beyond the window, the November sky stretches pale and wintry, bare branches reaching skyward while golden leaves scatter softly across the ground like whispered secrets.

Inside, the table overflows with steaming bowls and heaping platters, laughter bubbling warmly above the rhythmic clink of silverware. A child’s small hand stretches eagerly toward a towering mound of mashed potatoes, while across the table, an uncle leans back in his chair, its creak punctuating the start of a well-worn tale.

Groans and grins ripple through the room as his story unfolds. These moments, vibrant and brimming with life, etch themselves into the heart, like sunlight preserved in glass. Yet, like seasons turning, they inevitably change. The table grows smaller, the faces fewer, the rhythm quieter but no less meaningful.

Nostalgia rises not with the sharp sting of loss but with the soft ache of remembering. The gatherings may look different now—fewer voices, or perhaps new traditions—but the gratitude for those memories remains steady. What was shared then carries forward, shaping today in quiet, unspoken ways.

As Ann Voskamp (2011) writes in One Thousand Gifts, it’s the unnoticed details—the golden slant of light, the quiet hum of family—that ground us in gratitude. Her practice of listing blessings transforms fleeting moments into moments of meaning, reminding us that “life-changing gratitude doesn’t take hold unless it is anchored one specific moment at a time.” It is through these small, deliberate acts of noticing that the beauty of the present unfolds.

Robert Emmons and Joanna Hill (2016) delve into this idea in The Little Book of Gratitude. Gratitude doesn’t require life to be perfect, they explain, nor does it depend on constant happiness. Instead, it invites us to accept life as it comes—layered with joy, marked by sadness, and rich with meaning. Even the simplest pleasures—a kind word, the aroma of fresh coffee—can steady us when life feels uncertain. Gratitude, they suggest, isn’t about the size of what we remember but the simple, gentle practice of remembering itself.

This connection between memory, gratitude, and nostalgia is echoed by Constantine Sedikides and Tim Wildschut (2018), who describe nostalgia as a bridge connecting the past to the present. Sitting at a Thanksgiving table, it is easy to see how traditions—stories retold, recipes passed down—carry forward the richness of what came before.

Nostalgia, they argue, isn’t mere sentimentality—it is about discovering deeper meaning in our memories. While sentimentality often romanticizes the past, nostalgia creates a richer, more intentional connection, helping us engage with the past in a meaningful way.

Even small, everyday rituals can become anchors of gratitude. Research published in The Journal of Positive Psychology found that noticing three simple blessings each day—whether the first sip of coffee or a kind exchange with a stranger—significantly increased well-being (Seligman et al., 2018).

It is not the magnitude of what is appreciated but the act of appreciating itself that makes the difference. Gratitude, practiced daily, turns even the smallest moments into something meaningful.

Memories of the Thanksgiving table often drift back at unexpected times, carrying both the warmth of connection and the gentle weight of change. The faces around the table may shift, the voices may soften, but the essence remains.

The stories retold, the laughter shared, even the quiet moments of reflection—they continue, woven into the present. Gratitude does not erase what is different or lost. Instead, it expands to hold both the joy of what was and the beauty of what is.

Gratitude is also not about recreating what was; it is about honoring it through today’s quiet joys. In the glow of a candle or the taste of a familiar recipe, we find the threads of memory and connection, weaving the past and present into something lasting. It is these small joys that remind us: what remains is enough.

References

  • Emmons, R. A., & Hill, J. (2016). The little book of gratitude: Create a life of happiness and well-being by giving thanks. Gaia.
  • Sedikides, C., & Wildschut, T. (2018). Finding meaning in nostalgia. Psychological Review. https://doi.org/10.1037/gpr0000109
  • Seligman, M. E. P., Steen, T. A., Park, N., & Peterson, C. (2018). Positive psychology progress: Empirical validation of interventions. The Journal of Positive Psychology.
  • Voskamp, A. (2011). One thousand gifts: A dare to live fully right where you are. Zondervan.

A Corner of Connection: Finding Belonging Through Words

Quinn’s fifth-grade year began with a rhythm of quiet routines and unnoticed struggles. Living with Spastic Cerebral Palsy often made new experiences feel like stepping into a room where no seat was saved for her—a mix of hesitation and exhaustion. One day, however, an unassuming invitation quietly shifted her view on belonging—not with drama or triumph, but through the gentle nudge of possibility.

A Corner of Connection

The school cafeteria buzzed with energy during the annual activity fair. Tables crowded the space, each adorned with bright posters vying for attention: robotics, debate, soccer, baking—and so much more. Overlapping conversations and bursts of laughter created a wall of sound that made Quinn instinctively clutch her bag tighter near the doorway.

Noise was Quinn’s greatest adversary, turning the world into an overwhelming blur. Still, she lingered, scanning the room for a place where she might fit—or at least not stand out. The robotics table intrigued her; its quiet, logical precision seemed judgment-free. However, the thought of managing wires and soldering irons with unsteady hands made her hesitate. Debate felt even less inviting—a whirlwind of rapid-fire arguments she couldn’t imagine keeping pace with.

Then, she noticed a table tucked in the back, its plain banner reading: Creative Writing Club: Tell Your Story. A teacher with kind eyes and an easy smile waved her over.

“Do you like to write?” the teacher asked, her voice calm and steady against the clamor. Quinn hesitated, her fingers brushing the table’s edge. Writing had always been her quiet escape—a way to tame the chaos in her mind. Sharing it felt risky, almost like giving a piece of herself away.

“It’s pretty relaxed,” the teacher assured her. “You don’t have to share unless you want to, and there’s no wrong way to do it.”

By the end of the afternoon, Quinn’s name was on the sign-up sheet. She couldn’t quite explain why, but for the first time in a long while, the static in her mind seemed a little less oppressive.

Words Take Shape

The club’s first meeting was relaxed—just a handful of students gathered in a loose circle, notebooks and laptops open. The teacher began with a simple prompt: “Write about a memory that makes you smile.”

Quinn stared at the laptop screen and her shaky handwritten notes, the noise in her mind pressing in, louder than before. Slowly, her fingers found their rhythm on the keyboard. She wrote about her brother teaching her to bake cookies and the chaos that followed when they accidentally doubled the salt in the dough.

When the teacher invited volunteers to share, Quinn surprised herself by raising her hand. Her voice trembled as she read, but the group listened intently.

When she finished, a student across the circle glanced up with a small smile and said, “That was great—it felt like I was right there,” his tone quiet but thoughtful. Quinn’s cheeks flushed, a blend of pride and uncertainty bringing warmth to her face.

Over the weeks, the club became a space where Quinn felt at ease. She wrote stories and poems, her confidence growing with each meeting. In that circle, Cerebral Palsy didn’t define her; she was simply a writer, her thoughts finding shape in the words she shared.

Re-imagining Inclusion

Quinn’s experience highlights a deeper truth about inclusion. True inclusion, as Booth and Ainscow (2020) describe, is about more than just creating spaces—it’s about embedding diversity into shared experiences. In this context, diversity means embracing the different perspectives, backgrounds, and experiences that everyone brings to the table. It’s about recognizing what makes each person unique and making sure those differences are valued and included, so everyone feels respected and part of the group.

Creative writing was a natural fit for Quinn. The club emphasized personal expression over speed or physical precision, making it a level playing field for all participants. Johnstone (2018) notes that storytelling amplifies voices that might otherwise go unheard, giving individuals a platform to connect and be understood.

Unlike more structured or competitive activities, the writing club offered Quinn and the other students a sense of freedom through its flexibility. There were no rigid expectations or comparisons—just the space to explore thoughts and emotions through writing. This approach echoes Meyer et al. (2016), who highlight the value of environments that encourage self-paced growth and genuine connections. The club’s open structure empowered each participant to express themselves authentically, on their own terms.

Belonging Without Barriers

The writing club didn’t bring about a dramatic or sudden change in Quinn’s life. Instead, it offered something quieter yet just as meaningful—a place where she could belong, without the need for explanation or adjustment.

One Thursday, as she packed her notebook and laptop, Quinn found herself smiling as she called out, “See you next week.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of recognition. In that space, she had discovered something profound: belonging was not about fitting into someone else’s mold but being valued for who she was.

In the quiet circle of the club, Quinn found more than a love for writing. She discovered the power of being seen, heard, and embraced—a reminder that true inclusion begins where every voice is welcomed.

References
  • Booth, T., & Ainscow, M. (2020). The Index for Inclusion: A Guide to Developing Learning and Participation in Schools. Centre for Studies on Inclusive Education.
  • Johnstone, B. (2018). Discourse Analysis. Cambridge University Press.
  • Meyer, A., Rose, D. H., & Gordon, D. (2016). Universal Design for Learning: Theory and Practice. CAST Professional Publishing.

Exploring “Echoes in the Shatter”

Transformation is rarely gentle. It is an experience both familiar and unknown, much like standing at the ocean’s edge. There is a rhythm, a back-and-forth, yet the way forward is often elusive.

In writing “Echoes in the Shatter“, I was drawn to the imagery of waves—breaking, mending, shifting. These movements reflect how change is experienced: not all at once, but in fragments, echoes, and as an ongoing process.

Echoes in the Shatter

The sky wears its mourning in layered hues,
Gray light bruises to black—an endless ruse.

A roar shakes the bones of silence to fray,
Waves weaving blue and black in their sway.

The rocks, jagged, like truths left unsaid,
Pierce through the foam where dreams have bled.
I stand, or am I a shadow here?
The ocean unravels; I disappear.

The wave breaks—
On rock. On air.
A shatter as ancient as time’s decree.
Each fragment a whisper, a truth unbound,
Gray to black, to blue profound.

Am I the storm, or the calm it denies?
A howl that divides, or what division ties?
The wave breaks,
Splinter into shards the tide won’t deny.

The sky wears its mourning in layered hues,
Gray light bruises to black—an endless ruse.

The ocean unravels; all disappears.

The wave breaks—
On rock. On air. On time.
A shatter that hums the horizon’s rhyme.

Finding Meaning in the Layers

“Echoes in the Shatter“ is about transformation, especially when it comes to identity and change. A line that resonates is:


“The sky wears its mourning in layered hues,
Gray light bruises to black—an endless ruse,” it suggests complexity rather than sadness.

The sky reflects how change isn’t just one emotion, but a mix of resistance, adaptation, and release.

The Dual Nature of Challenges

The waves breaking “on rock, on air” show how challenges vary. Some are solid and unmovable, others are subtle but still there. Identity, particularly in the context of disability, is shaped by both struggle and growth (Goodley et al., 2019).

Tension and Reflection

“Am I the storm, or the calm it denies?” explores the balance between action and reflection. The storm is force and upheaval, while the calm invites quiet contemplation. Margaret Price’s “crip spacetime” shows how transformation doesn’t follow a straight line—it’s a messy, non-linear experience (Price, 2024).

Dismantling and Renewal

“The ocean unravels; all disappears” hints at how transformation is both destruction and creation. It’s about making space for what comes next.

“Echoes in the Shatter” reflects on those in-between moments where breaking and becoming meet. The rhythm of the ocean remains steady, but its form keeps changing, just like life.

The echoes of change linger, like the fading sound of waves—a transformation still unfolding. Each wave represents ongoing change. What is broken doesn’t disappear, it shifts and creates space for growth.

Transformation isn’t a one-time thing but a constant process. The past always leaves pieces behind, but they help shape what’s coming next. The power lies in the tension between what is lost and what is found.

To rebuild, destruction is often necessary. Through this, resilience is forged—a reminder that loss makes space for renewal. The poem serves as a reminder that even in loss, there is rebirth, offering the quiet promise that transformation, though difficult, ultimately leads to something new.

References

  • Goodley, D., Lawthom, R., Liddiard, K., & Runswick-Cole, K. (2019). Key concerns for critical disability studies. International Journal of Disability and Social Justice, 1(1), 27-49.
  • Price, M. (2024). Crip spacetime: Access, failure, and accountability in academic life. Duke University Press.
  • Garland-Thomson, R. (2020). Becoming disabled: Narratives of transformation and identity. Oxford University Press.