Asides

The Shape of Reception

At a dinner party, someone begins telling a story— a story about a flight delay, and a memory of thunderstorms and kids stomping in puddles at recess. The delivery is smooth, almost rehearsed, each sentence arriving after a thoughtful pause, more rhythm than hesitation. People listen politely, nodding along, their smiles faint and fixed. Their eyes drift—to their wine, their plates.

Later, another guest tells a story of their own. It covers similar ground—weather, waiting—but something in the delivery is different. The rhythm is familiar, the nostalgia just as gentle, yet this time the room responds. People laugh, lean in. They ask questions. The story lingers. Moments like these seem forgettable—until they repeat.

Then a quiet question begins to form: why do some voices hold attention while others quietly fade?

The difference is rarely the story itself. What changes is how the room listens. The clearest message can land differently with each listener, shaped less by the words than by the voice delivering them. Some draw attention effortlessly; others strain for the same result. What separates them is often not volume or meaning, but rhythm—a steady cadence, a kind of ease, or a confidence that cues others to listen more closely.

It is not about intent. The slight is rarely deliberate. Most people don’t even realize it is happening. They aren’t trying to exclude or dismiss. Yet, the effect remains—subtle but real, quietly shaping who gets heard, and who ends up just outside the circle of attention.

Some people come to recognize it early. In response, they start to adjust—repeating themselves, softening their language, or editing their thoughts to align with what they sense will be more acceptable.

The shift starts small. Words come more slowly. The delivery changes. Each phrase is chosen with care. Over time, this becomes a habit—not from doubt, but from knowing the voice has to work harder to be heard. This effort often goes unnoticed. Once seen, however, it is hard to ignore.

Some voices command credibility instantly; others must earn it word by word. A confident tone signals authority before any point is made, while a quieter delivery must continually prove itself. The difference is subtle, yet it shapes the entire conversation.

Listening goes beyond silence. Letting someone speak is only the beginning. True listening means being present with both the words and the pauses—the spaces where meaning settles, shifts, or takes shape. A slower, less polished voice is often mistaken for a lack of substance, but the real tension often lies not in what is said, but in the gap between expectation and perception.

Some rooms make it easier to speak—not because of the topic or the setting, but because of who is listening, and how. The same story, told the same way, can fall flat in one space and resonate deeply in another. It is not the story that changes. It’s the reception that transforms it.

People come to recognize which spaces welcome their voices and which ones do not. Some people adapt to these environments. Others grow quiet. Still others learn to speak louder—not simply by choice, but through repetition and necessity. Over time, this becomes a skill, shaped by memory and experience.

Listening is never neutral. It is shaped by habit, assumption, and preference. Noticing who is heard and who is not opens the door to change. The pause is a hinge; a voice can be welcomed or missed.

A voice is often pressured to bend, to echo others in order to be accepted. The answer may lie not in changing how it speaks, but in the stillness of listening—not for perfect words, but for the voice as it is.

A voice doesn’t need to be louder to be heard—it needs room to exist without reshaping itself to fit. When listening becomes intentional, it reshapes not the voice, but the space around it. In that space, something quiet yet powerful begins to shift.

Disability and Aging Services: Examining the Proposal to Eliminate the Administration for Community Living

On April 16, 2025, the Federal Office of Management and Budget released a 64-page draft budget proposal that has prompted concern among some advocates for older adults and people with disabilities.

Among the provisions attracting attention is a proposal to eliminate the Administration for Community Living (ACL), an agency within the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) that focuses on supporting independence and community living.

At its core, this proposal represents more than a structural reorganization. It signals a potential redefinition of the federal government’s role in advancing inclusion, independence, and civil rights protections for millions.

Understanding the ACL’s Role

The Administration for Community Living (ACL), was created to consolidate federal programs that assist older adults and individuals with disabilities. Its mission is to support the development of policies and the delivery of services that enable people to live independently, remain engaged in their communities, and access non-institutional care options whenever possible. Programs administered by the ACL include:

  • University Centers for Excellence in Developmental Disabilities (UCEDDs), which provided services, training, and research to support over 1.3 million people in the last year alone.
  • Developmental Disabilities Councils (DD Councils), which supported more than 900 state-led initiatives focused on improving access to education, employment, and housing, while also fostering public involvement and encouraging active participation in the community.
  • Protection and Advocacy Systems (P&As), which protected the civil rights of 11.5 million people through legal advocacy, investigations, and public education.

These programs do not operate in isolation; together, they create a network of support that reaches into schools, hospitals, workplaces, housing, and family care-giving systems across the country.

Broader Context: Additional Federal Program Changes

The proposed elimination of the ACL does not exist in a vacuum. It comes alongside other proposed budgetary reductions that could disproportionately affect older adults and people with disabilities:

  • Medicaid Cuts: A proposed $880 billion reduction to Medicaid would have major implications for long-term care. Medicaid currently funds care for 63% of nursing home residents and 20% of those in assisted living. Cuts of this magnitude could lead to facility closures, reduced access, and fewer home- and community-based service options.
  • Meals on Wheels and Nutrition Programs: Reductions to funding streams such as the Social Services Block Grant (SSBG), Medicaid, and SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) could limit the reach of Meals on Wheels and similar programs, which provide essential nutrition and social contact to over 2 million older adults annually.
  • Affordable Housing Supports: Proposed reductions to HUD programs and staffing could strain the infrastructure that supports older adults and people with disabilities in maintaining independent housing. Without accessible and affordable housing, the risk of unnecessary institutionalization or homelessness increases sharply.

These simultaneous proposals raise broader concerns about their potential combined impact. There is growing uncertainty about whether they could make it more difficult for communities to support full inclusion, promote self-determination—the opportunity for people to have a say in decisions that affect their lives—and protect the well-being of those who may need the most support.

Supporting Inclusion Through the ACL and Similar Programs

As advocates have emphasized, inclusion is not an ancillary benefit. Inclusion isn’t charity — it is about community. The concept reflects a shared belief that everyone, regardless of age or disability, should have the opportunity to belong, contribute, and thrive.

ACL programs are one of the federal government’s tools for helping ensure that inclusion is intentional and widespread. The programs support efforts that allow a student with a disability to participate in public education, a person recovering from a brain injury to access job training, or an older adult to receive caregiver support at home rather than move into a care facility.

Eliminating ACL would not make these needs disappear. It would simply make them harder to meet, increasing the burden on states, families, and already stretched local service systems.

A Historical Perspective

ACL was created through years of bipartisan efforts aimed at protecting the rights of people with disabilities and improving their day-to-day lives. A major step in this work was the Developmental Disabilities Assistance and Bill of Rights Act of 1975, which laid the foundation for many of the programs the ACL runs today.

Building on this legislative milestone, these programs were specifically designed to address the persistent challenges of exclusion and segregation experienced by individuals with developmental and other disabilities. They strive to foster inclusion and promote dignity and respect, while also working to expand access to education, employment, and a broad range of opportunities that enable participation in community life.

In 2012, the Administration for Community Living (ACL) was established to streamline and unify related programs—an effort to enhance efficiency and accountability while reinforcing the principle that older adults and people with disabilities should have a voice in shaping the policies that impact their lives.

The current proposal would represent a sharp departure from that legacy — and from a long-standing bipartisan commitment to locally driven, inclusive approaches.

Beyond Budgets: A Conversation About Values

Policy decisions are never just about dollars and cents—they are also about values. They reveal who and what we choose to prioritize. As Wiley’s Walk reminds its readers, true access and inclusion aren’t measured solely in budget lines or policy documents.

They are reflected in daily life: Can people of all ages and abilities navigate schools, workplaces, and neighborhoods with confidence and dignity? Are our communities intentionally designed to welcome everyone, or do they, even unintentionally, leave some behind?

The proposed elimination of the ACL cannot be viewed in isolation. While framed as a structural or fiscal decision, it raises broader questions about our shared responsibilities. The programs at risk help shape whether a student is supported at school, whether an older adult can remain in their home, and whether someone navigating a new disability can continue to participate fully in community life. These are not just policy points — they are personal realities.

Inclusion depends not only on the individual, but also on the systems and supports that surround and influence them. Flexible programs that remove barriers and service providers who adapt to diverse needs can make a profound difference in people’s lives. These improvements don’t happen by chance—they result from intentional choices, sustained investment, and a deep belief in the value of every person.

Programs supported by the Administration for Community Living (ACL) help make this possible. They promote not just access, but meaningful involvement—supporting people of all abilities and ages in engaging with and contributing to their communities. Without these programs, the responsibility for care and coordination often falls to individual families, local nonprofits, and already stretched service networks, making inclusion harder instead of easier.

The Urban Institute has warned that dismantling these supports could ‘undercut community-based systems of support, and potentially reverse decades of progress.’ Just as importantly, it could shift the national conversation away from a focus on belonging and interdependence—resulting in a loss not only for people with disabilities and older adults, but for everyone.

This moment calls for reflection: What defines a strong and inclusive community? What ensures that every person feels they belong? What role can public policy play in shaping that future?

A Call to Center People in Policy

Stakeholders across the political spectrum are urging Congress to reject the elimination of the ACL and the programs it funds and oversees. These stakeholders include disability organizations, advocates for older adults, healthcare professionals, and families.

Advocates are united in calling for the preservation of the ACL’s mission. This is not just about keeping an agency in place. It is about preserving what the agency represents—a belief in treating people with respect, ensuring fair access to opportunity, and fostering inclusive, supportive communities.

As policy discussions move forward, it’s essential to focus on the people behind the programs. These aren’t just budget lines—they represent support that individuals and families depend on every day.

Eliminating the ACL would signal a major shift in national priorities. While fiscal debates are expected, decisions about disability and aging services reflect deeper values: promoting independence, inclusion, and recognizing each person’s value.

The proposed elimination of the Administration for Community Living is more than a budget decision — it raises broader questions about national priorities. The ACL supports programs that enable older adults and people with disabilities to live independently, remain connected, and participate fully in community life.

Without these supports, meeting those needs could become more challenging, increasing pressure on families, local organizations, and service systems. This shift could slow progress toward greater inclusion and access. As discussions move forward, it remains essential to keep people at the center — and to consider whether policies reflect a commitment to dignity, opportunity, and meaningful support. Now is the time to reaffirm a focus on inclusion — not just in words, but through deliberate, person-centered policy.

References

Belonging Without Bending

True inclusion requires more than presence—it calls for shared participation.

Equity involves recognizing the different challenges people may face and making sure everyone has the support, resources, and opportunities they need to be fully included. As groups grow, the goal is not just to add more people, but to build an environment where everyone feels genuinely welcome and able to take part.

When a group grows, it is typically with a clear intention—to create space for broader participation and belonging. At times, that intention succeeds. New voices enter the room and are welcomed. A different perspective finds space and is heard. However, even in these moments, subtle dynamics may remain unchanged.

The ways in which people communicate, shaped by tone, pace, and clarity, often continue to reflect the norms established by those who have been present the longest and whose styles of engagement have traditionally set the standard.

New participants often sense this instinctively. Some join in easily and speak with confidence, quickly picking up the group’s rhythm. Others hesitate, observing and noticing the subtle cues that shape the space. They begin to see which contributions are acknowledged and which are quietly dismissed. They pay attention to tone and timing, and to how decisions are made. Over time, they come to understand what the room seems to expect of them.

In response, people may shift their tone or word choice depending on the setting. For instance, a person who typically uses humor to express themselves might suppress that instinct in formal meetings, having noticed that seriousness is more often equated with competence. Someone who tends to think by talking might start filtering out ideas before speaking, choosing only the ones that sound most complete.

These changes may seem small, but they take real effort. They show up in the quiet pause before someone speaks, or in the uneasy feeling that lingers afterward. Over time, inclusion can start to feel less like being welcomed and more like learning to adjust. It becomes less about an open door, and more about who can adapt to fit the room.

What if inclusion didn’t rely so much on individuals learning to fit in? What if the room could shift—even a little—in response to the people in it? It might start with something as simple as leaving more time between agenda items, giving slower thinkers a chance to catch up.

It could mean offering different ways to contribute: speaking aloud, writing afterward, or sharing in pairs instead of in front of the whole group. It might also involve seeing stories as a form of insight, even when they wander. There could be room for ideas still taking shape, without the pressure to rush them to a conclusion.

When spaces allow for this kind of attention, something begins to shift. People feel they no longer have to leave parts of themselves outside. They start to participate in ways that feel natural instead of calculated. The room itself becomes more than just a setting—it becomes part of the conversation, shaped by the people in it and shaping them in return.

This transition requires deliberate focus. It challenges people to pay attention—not just to what is said, but to how it is said, and who is speaking. Which ideas gain traction easily? Who receives credit, and whose words are echoed without acknowledgment?

Some wait before speaking, listening for a tone that feels familiar or safe. These are difficult questions, with few easy answers. Still, asking them creates space for reflection. And reflection, more often than not, is where real change begins. Small adjustments can open the door to broader shifts. A team might begin meetings with a short written reflection, giving quieter members a chance to articulate their thinking before discussion begins.

A facilitator might develop the habit of asking, “Is there someone we haven’t heard from yet?” instead of relying solely on open-ended invitations. Leaders could begin to notice who tends to speak first and who tends to wait. Rather than drawing conclusions, they might get curious. They might ask whether the structure itself favors certain styles of contribution. These actions show that people are ready to listen and engage. Not every idea will be groundbreaking, but something meaningful is more likely to emerge when people don’t feel the need to filter themselves to fit in. Inclusion then becomes less about who is in the room and more about how they are received.

It is not only about who is present. It is also about how that presence is received. Do people feel truly listened to? Are their words met with thoughtful responses? Are they taken seriously? Often, the smallest moments carry the most weight. A colleague pauses, allowing time for a slow-forming thought to emerge. A leader gives space to someone who rarely speaks. They listen fully, without rushing to reply.

Over time, these gestures begin to reshape the culture of a space. The changes may seem subtle, but their impact is lasting. Sometimes, it’s the simple act of being noticed—even when the words come slowly, the story trails off, or the thought remains unfinished.

Attention, when given with care, fosters understanding. It creates an atmosphere that is intentional rather than rigid, grounded in respect rather than control. It allows people to show up fully. It also does not assume there is only one right way to participate.

In some spaces, participation looks like confident debate. In others, it may involve deep listening. Expression takes many forms—sometimes in asking, sometimes in simply being present. Each style brings something valuable, and when a space is willing to stretch, it allows these differences to coexist. These differences can even inform one another.

This willingness to stretch is not about treating everyone the same. It’s about creating space in different ways for different people. The goal isn’t perfect inclusion or the rejection of structure altogether. Rather, it’s the understanding that structure can evolve. That evolution—often slow and sometimes uncomfortable—helps shape a culture of belonging.

Inclusion is not a fixed outcome but an ongoing practice of care. It takes shape through everyday choices—in how people listen, how spaces are designed, and how difference is acknowledged and valued. It calls for openness to change, even when that change is slow or unfamiliar. What might be possible if spaces adapted to the people in them, instead of expecting people to adapt to the space?

Who Gets In? Rethinking Systemic Access and Inclusion

A job application is met with silence. A storefront has steps but no ramp. In conversation, attention bypasses the person with a disability and settles instead on the person beside them. Individually, these moments may seem minor—but over time, they add up. They form patterns that reveal who systems were—and were not—designed for.

For individuals with disabilities, these are not merely isolated frustrations. They reflect recurring, systemic barriers that shape daily experiences and limit access to opportunity.

When Systems Fall Short

Barriers to inclusion often emerge not through intentional exclusion, but through subtle, unexamined routines and assumptions. These are built into systems that were not designed to accommodate the full diversity of people’s needs.

Consider an employee who is overlooked for promotion without explanation. Similarly, consider a student who receives minimal guidance, not due to disregard but because of quietly lowered expectations.

The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) has led to legal protections and improvements in accessibility. Yet legal compliance alone is not enough to ensure inclusion. Many environments are still built on assumptions about what is “typical,” which can unintentionally exclude those whose needs fall outside that narrow frame.

Accessibility demands more than meeting legal standards. It requires intentional design, inclusive culture, and systems that adapt to the diversity of people’s lives.

Employment: A Complex Landscape

Employment environments can illustrate how access and inclusion vary across different settings. As Wiley’s Walk emphasizes, employment offers more than a paycheck; it can provide structure, purpose, and a sense of connection. Still, subtle and often overlooked barriers may limit full participation for many individuals.

For example, an uncaptioned video meeting can prevent participation by screen-reader users. Rigid attendance policies may not accommodate fluctuating health conditions.

Job descriptions that emphasize nonessential physical demands or require only in-person interviews can unintentionally exclude qualified candidates. These individuals may have the skills and experience needed for the role but are screened out by criteria unrelated to job performance. Similarly, outdated software that does not work with assistive technologies can create avoidable barriers to completing routine tasks.

Recent employment data illustrates these ongoing challenges. In 2024, only 37.4 percent of working-age adults with disabilities were employed. The unemployment rate among people with disabilities was 7.5 percent—nearly twice the national average (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, 2024). These disparities point to the continued impact of cultural norms, organizational practices, and technology design that may unintentionally limit access to meaningful employment.

Criteria designed to be impartial may still lead to unintended barriers. Studies show that candidates who disclose a disability are less likely to receive interview invitations, despite having equivalent qualifications (Bonaccio et al., 2020).

Hiring practices that focus on “culture fit” may unintentionally favor homogeneity and limit diversity in teams (Kandiah & Saiki, 2024). Qualified individuals may be overlooked—not because they lack skill, but because they do not match informal expectations.

Access needs may remain unmet even after hiring. An employee who is deaf may not have interpretation services available for meetings or workplace communication. A colleague with a mobility disability may encounter limited access to adjustable workstations or accessible restrooms. These limitations often stem from a lack of proactive planning rather than intentional exclusion.

Implementing inclusive job design, using accessible workplace tools, and providing proactive accommodations can support individuals while also enhancing team performance and retention.

Education and Healthcare: Early and Ongoing Barriers

Inclusion begins with early exposure and support. Educational settings help establish access to opportunities, influence expectations for achievement, and contribute to a student’s confidence over time.

Although more students with disabilities are being included in general education classrooms, only 66% spend most of their school day there (National Center for Education Statistics, 2023). Factors such as limited resources, gaps in staff training, and unexamined assumptions may reduce access to advanced coursework and enrichment opportunities.

These challenges may become more pronounced when students are not consistently encouraged or supported in their learning. Promoting self-advocacy and creating inclusive learning environments can help build the skills and confidence that support long-term success. Without these supports, students may face greater barriers to accessing further education and employment opportunities.

Healthcare settings can involve additional structural barriers to access. These barriers include obstacles built into physical environments, equipment, and standard procedures that may not accommodate all patients’ needs. For example, fixed-height exam tables may make routine physical exams difficult or inaccessible for individuals with mobility disabilities.

The absence of accessible diagnostic equipment can further affect the quality and completeness of care. In some cases, limited availability of language interpretation services can lead to misunderstandings. Symptoms may also be assumed to relate only to an existing disability, which can result in delayed diagnoses and reduced trust between patients and providers.

These ongoing gaps in access and quality have broader implications for health equity. In 2023, the National Institutes of Health formally recognized people with disabilities as a population experiencing health disparities.

This designation is significant because it acknowledges that individuals with disabilities face persistent, systemic barriers to receiving equitable care. It also signals the need for focused research, investment, and accountability to address these disparities within healthcare systems.

This acknowledgment is a step toward equity, but ongoing improvement will depend on targeted investment, provider training, and shared accountability within the healthcare system.

Conclusion: Rethinking Inclusion as a Collective Responsibility

Persistent barriers in employment, education, and healthcare point to a deeper problem: many systems were never built to support the wide range of people’s lived experiences. These outcomes are seldom the result of intentional choices; more often, they stem from entrenched norms, unexamined assumptions, and institutional inertia. Still, their impact is profound.

Inclusion requires more than policy compliance or technical checklists. It begins by asking: Who is being left out, and how can systems respond more effectively?

When environments and procedures are designed to accommodate a wider spectrum of experience, the result is more equitable access, stronger institutions, and communities that support participation for all. Inclusion isn’t a box to check—it is an evolving practice rooted in awareness, action, and collaboration.

Inclusion begins and expands with awareness and through consistent, intentional effort.

  • Listen with care. Trust lived experiences and seek to understand barriers.
  • Reflect on the environment. Ask: Who might be left out, and what changes could make access easier and more inclusive?
  • Make accessibility part of the norm. Use captions, offer flexibility, and choose inclusive tools.
  • Stay open and engaged. Inclusion grows through reflection, dialogue, and a willingness to adapt.
  • Embrace intentional change. Even small actions can shift systems, remove barriers, and create lasting access.

Inclusion is an ongoing commitment, not a one-time action. Leading with intention insight helps create inclusive spaces where everyone can participate fully and belong.

References

“Measure Twice, Cut Once”: The Wisdom of Getting It Wrong First

The phrase measure twice, cut once isn’t just about craftsmanship — it’s a quiet warning against assumptions. A second look can prevent damage that a first glance never saw coming.

In disability spaces, this wisdom becomes more than metaphor. Whenever a button sits just out of reach, a form is poorly designed, or an interface doesn’t fit the user’s needs, it reveals a system that builds before it listens. When things go wrong, the consequences don’t fall on the designer—they fall on the person who was excluded from the process. The impact of a misstep often doesn’t fall where the error occurred, but instead affects the person who was left out of the planning.

A Small Moment at the Checkout

The store was busy when a woman named Dana approached the checkout. She steadied herself with one hand on her walker while using the other to sort her groceries. One by one, she placed her items on the conveyor—bananas, rice, a frozen pizza, a can of beans, and a bottle of aspirin—the bare necessities. Everything was fine until it came time to pay.

The card reader was angled up and affixed to the top of a tall counter. It swiveled, but only slightly, and not nearly enough. Dana reached, stretched, adjusted her grip, and tried to tap. The device blinked, reset, and blinked again.

The clerk leaned forward to help. “Oh, yeah, it’s kind of weird. You just have to hold it at the right angle.”

Dana smiled politely and tried again, twisting awkwardly. Eventually, the tap registered. With the receipt in hand, she turned slowly, her back stiff from the effort. No one had meant to create friction. Still, the friction remained: subtle, repetitive, and quietly exhausting. It was not a barrier exactly, just a quiet, daily inefficiency that had become routine.

When Design Doesn’t Fit Everyone

Everyday design choices reflect values—not always consciously, not always unkindly, but clearly. Devices are built with assumed reach. Doorways are constructed with assumed stride. Websites are designed with assumed speed.

In each case, the design works—until it doesn’t. When it fails, it is the person left bending, stretching, or backtracking to make it work, because the original plan never included them.

The phrase measure twice, cut once suggests there’s a chance to get it right before any harm is done. For many people living with disability, the adjustment often comes after the cut, after the design is finalized and the impact is already felt.

Beyond the Checklist

Accessibility is often treated as an add-on, folded into a checklist or addressed after feedback. That approach assumes the original design was neutral. It rarely is.

Measuring twice means taking a moment to pause before building, not waiting until concerns arise. It means designing with the diversity of people’s needs and abilities in mind from the start. It also means recognizing that meeting codes and compliance doesn’t always guarantee something will work well in practice.

The aim isn’t to get everything perfect. It is to take care where it’s possible, and to avoid creating difficulty that thoughtful design could have removed.

Ordinary Places, Unseen Obstacles

They are easy to overlook—small details, brief interactions, and tasks most people complete without a second thought. Yet for others, these moments are points of friction, shaped by choices they had no say in.

  • A pharmacy with only one accessible aisle, partially blocked by a seasonal display
  • A touchscreen parking meter that doesn’t respond well to prosthetics
  • A school sign-in system that assumes parents speak, hear, type, and see in specific ways
  • An online form that times out before screen readers can finish navigating it

None of these are unusual. Each one is the result of designing too fast, measuring too narrowly, or never checking the angle of someone else’s view.

It’s the Design That Matters

Variation is the rule, not the exception. When design overlooks difference, the friction that follows is often seen as an individual hurdle, something to be met with a little more strength, patience, or grace.

What is really needed is something simpler: a second measurement. Because listening, testing, and slowing down aren’t delays—they’re how design begins to include everyone. They are investments in making things work well for anyone who comes through the door.

A Simple Pause, A Different Outcome

The first cut always carries risk. Taking time to measure again, to consider the many ways people move, think, and navigate, is more than careful planning. It is essential.

Dana didn’t file a complaint or request any changes. She adjusted, as she always did, and moved on. Yet the moment stayed with her. The checkout could have been easier to use with just a bit more attention—a simple pause, a second look, a single extra measurement would have made the difference.

Every builder, designer, and planner—everyone who shapes the spaces we move through each day—holds a quiet power: the power to choose. That power begins with a moment of care, with a pause before the cut and a second glance at the plan. Inclusion takes root in small, deliberate choices. It comes from the decision to design something that works not just for most, but for all.

From Self-Care to Isolation: Recognizing the Turning Point

At first, stepping back from social activities can seem reasonable, even necessary, offering a welcome sense of relief. Over time, though, these small breaks can quietly grow, leading to a gradual distance from friends, family, and the support systems that bring stability. If left unchecked, a temporary retreat can slowly settle into something more lasting, making it harder to find the way back to connection.

Psychological research has shown that withdrawing is a natural response to emotional stress. According to John Bowlby’s attachment theory, when important emotional bonds are threatened or broken, the instinct to seek safety is automatically triggered (Bowlby, 1969).

When faced with stress or threat, whether from a difficult conversation or an unexpected loss, the mind’s protective instincts often push for withdrawal, urging distance to avoid more hurt. Emotional overload can also trigger the urge to pull back from close relationships, strengthening the cycle.

Recent research helps explain why emotional pain can feel so intense and overwhelming. A 2025 study by Durante and colleagues found that social rejection activates the same parts of the brain that respond to physical injury. One area, called the anterior cingulate cortex, sits just behind the forehead and is involved in handling emotions, discomfort, and decision-making.

This area often shows increased activity during times of feeling socially disconnected. Feelings like loneliness and embarrassment aren’t just upsetting — they trigger real pain responses. (Durante et al., 2025). When someone goes through a physical injury or emotional loss, the anterior cingulate cortex signals the brain to seek care and protection.

Emotional pain is deeply built into the nervous system, leaving marks just as real as a bruise on the body. This also helps explain why emotional healing can be slow and uneven: the hurt settles into the nervous system, lingering like a deep bruise that doesn’t fade easily. Even after the sharp pain fades, feelings of restlessness, exhaustion, and hyper-vigilance can still remain (Durante et al., 2025).

Research on trauma supports this. Judith Herman (1992) noted that healing begins with rebuilding safety—feeling protected from judgment, abandonment, and betrayal. Without this foundation, even caring efforts to reconnect can increase and heighten a sense of fear and vulnerability.

Healing often starts with small, steady routines that build comfort and predictability. Returning each evening to the chipped blue door, the scent of laundry soap, and the hum of the old refrigerator can create a sense of stability.

Stepping outside for a few minutes to breathe before finishing a difficult conversation or setting simple routines like Friday night pizza or daily check-ins can slowly rebuild a sense of calm and connection. Small comforts, such as pulling a favorite blanket close, playing a familiar playlist, or walking past the neighbors’ porches at dusk, can help calm the nervous system and bring back a sense of safety.

Yet even as these rituals restore a sense of balance, it is important to recognize where comfort ends and avoidance begins. When chosen with care, solitude can heal; when avoided or left unchecked, it can become a quiet trap. Sometimes, it feels easier to binge-watch television than to face a difficult conversation.

Scrolling through social media can feel like a connection, but it lacks the vulnerability real relationships need. Focusing on organizing or planning can offer a sense of control while covering up a deeper reluctance to reach out. These habits may ease discomfort for a while, but over time, they can quietly strengthen isolation.

Noticing the difference between comfort and avoidance is only the first step. Rebuilding a sense of belonging takes small, deliberate actions—scheduling a weekly call with a friend, chatting briefly with a neighbor, or admitting to someone trusted that the week has been hard. Small moments like these can begin to close the gap isolation leaves behind.

These gestures may seem small at first, but over time they build the foundation for closeness, trust, and emotional resilience. Emotional resilience means adapting to challenges and recovering from difficulty with steadiness and self-awareness. It grows through consistent effort, reflection, and the steady support of close relationships.

Yet the tension between wanting connection and fearing it is real. Bowlby’s attachment theory shows that the need for secure relationships never truly disappears; it remains just beneath the surface, pulling individuals toward others even when fear urges retreat (Bowlby, 1969).

At times, solitude may feel like the safest option. Research, however, shows how damaging chronic social isolation can be: it carries health risks equivalent to smoking fifteen cigarettes a day and contributes to conditions such as heart disease, weakened immunity, and cognitive decline (Holt-Lunstad et al., 2020). Left unchecked, isolation slowly erodes both emotional and physical well-being.

The evidence is clear: just as an injured body needs care, a wounded mind and heart need real connection. Resilience and community are built by small acts that create safety and trust. Choosing vulnerability over avoidance—staying present when it’s easier to withdraw—is hard but essential.

Belonging doesn’t happen by chance; it grows through intentional and consistent effort. Healing appears in the quiet resolve to reach out, even when fear says “retreat.”

Connection both soothes the nervous system and nourishes emotional and physical health. By seeing the difference between solitude and isolation—and still moving toward others, the foundation of well-being is rebuilt: the drive for recognition, understanding, and support.

References

  • Bowlby, J. (1969). Attachment and loss: Volume I. Attachment. The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psycho-Analysis.
  • Durante, E. K., et al. (2025). Biological research on mental pain, social pain, and other pains not primarily felt in the body: A methodological systematic review. The British Journal of Psychiatry.
  • Herman, J. L. (1992). Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence—From domestic abuse to political terror. Basic Books.
  • Holt-Lunstad, J., Robles, T. F., & Sbarra, D. A. (2020). Advancing social connection as a public health priority in the United States. American Psychologist, 75(5), 517–530. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0000103

When Silence Burns

Some moments catch without warning and leave a mark deeper than any mirror can show. A phone rings in the dark, but no one moves to answer it. A hand reaches across a table, but it pulls back at the last second. A final, unfinished laugh lingers between two people who already know it is too late. These moments wound quietly. They root in the body and the blood, refusing to be lived only once.

These wounds ignite something fiercer: the stubborn refusal to let silence have the final word.

From this ignition arises mourning: the slow dimming of what slips beyond reach, the sorrow of connections fraying into silence. The empty chair, the unanswered call, the ache where certainty used to live. Mourning is not only sadness. It is the recognition of what was real, now slipping away.

Yet mourning does not stand alone. Alongside it lives a choice: the decision to stay, to burn, to carry the ache rather than lay it down. Some stories are not meant to fade. Some flare up, wild, bright, and steady, marking the darkness with their own defiant light.

From this act of defiance, three truths rise from the fires we choose to keep alive.

The first truth: presence is a form of rebellion. In a world where leaving has become second nature, choosing to stay becomes an act of quiet defiance. Presence lives in the late hours after an argument, in the fragile work of mending what can still be saved. It breathes in the message sent after long silence, in the chair kept warm for someone still unsure whether to return. Despite countless signals to retreat, presence holds its ground. It refuses to disappear.

The second truth: longing is a kind of gravity. It gathers in silences stretched thin and in conversations that skirt truths too heavy to name. It presses between words, swelling inside half-confessions and carefully worded questions. Longing waits. It moves like a current beneath still water, unseen but powerful. Everything it touches shifts and changes, yet the surface stays still. By the time the trembling is felt, what once was steady has already begun to drift.

These forces lead inevitably to the third truth: some storms are meant for walking into. Not every storm signals collapse; some exist to tear down what was never built right to begin with. A storm can be seen rising from far away — words twisting, rooms filling with too much space — and still the steps move forward.

It looks like making the hard phone call rather than pretending not to notice the silence. It looks like sitting across a kitchen table to say the thing that will change everything. It looks like standing in the doorway, suitcase still unpacked, knowing the conversation ahead will break and remake whatever is left. It looks like reaching for a hand that might not reach back.

No cover sought. No careful retreat.

There are only voices — steady and sure — and a fierce willingness to face whatever lies ahead. Woven through these truths is something quieter, but no less fierce: a fire that fades, yet carries its light into everything that follows.

It is the hand still reaching after the last word has been said; the porch light left burning long after midnight; the silence — no longer empty, but alive with everything once spoken and still remaining. It is a steady blaze against the dark and the silence, refusing to be extinguished.

Finding Steadiness After Loss

Some losses hit without warning, leaving no guide for how to navigate them. A friendship that once felt certain fades without explanation, and the absence shows in the smallest moments. A job that once provided structure vanishes, leaving days empty and unshaped. A diagnosis, breakup, or death strikes without warning, upending everything before there is time to comprehend the loss. Days blur, and time stops making sense.

The mind scrambles for reasons, for patterns, for anything that makes it make sense. It tries to force the broken pieces into a neat story, something that can be understood and filed away. Yet, some changes don’t fit into anything clean. They leave behind a space that refuses to settle, where nothing lines up the way it used to. In this new space, the work isn’t about fixing what is broken. It’s about learning to stand when everything solid has disappeared.

When everything familiar falls away, it’s natural to reach for something—anything—that feels steady. This might mean creating a new plan, making a rushed decision, or stacking up distractions just to avoid sitting in the ache. Moving fast often feels better and easier than staying still. Yet, rushing through the hard parts doesn’t make them disappear. It only makes it harder to see what has really changed. Real steadiness comes from staying still within the mess, long enough for the truth to come into focus.

In the middle of the confusion, staying grounded remains the only reliable support. It is about finding something small and consistent to hold on to, even when everything else feels scattered. It isn’t about feeling calm all the time. It is about choosing actions that make it possible to get through the day when it feels too heavy to manage.

Grounding can take the form of small acts like getting up at the same time, going for a walk, texting someone back even when words are hard to find, or sitting outside. While these actions don’t fix the confusion or erase the loss, they offer a steady point to hold onto when everything else feels uncertain. They may not rebuild what was lost, but they provide something reliable to lean on when nothing else feels certain.

Small routines often have the greatest impact. The simple acts—like washing dishes by hand—bring comfort in feeling the warmth of the water. Writing something as simple as how the coffee tasted a little stronger one morning can create a quiet sense of connection.

After a loss or major change, big goals can feel overwhelming, so focusing on smaller, steadier steps can feel more grounding. Some days, just getting out of bed is enough. These moments lay the groundwork for what comes next, creating space for the future.

After a loss, nothing can undo what’s gone, but in time, everything else reshapes itself around it. The real work and effort involves showing up, staying steady, and doing the work. Progress might be slow at first, but small steps lead to lasting change.

Eventually, a different kind of movement begins. Sometimes, being near others without talking becomes enough—walking through a bookstore, visiting the farmer’s market, or staying at the laundromat longer. It’s not about doing anything special—it’s just about being present. These moments don’t fix what’s broken, and they don’t need to. They offer a quiet reminder that life moves forward, even if it is no longer as it once was.

Hard days will still come. Some mornings feel heavier than others, for no clear reason. Having a few quiet comforts ready—a playlist, a walk, or texting someone who understands—makes it possible to keep going when everything feels fragile.

Coming back isn’t about rushing to replace what’s gone. It involves staying with and managing the uncertainty until something concrete starts to form. Not the previously envisioned life, but the one that is developing—with attention, care, and a consistent effort to progress.

In time, the pieces may not fit as they once did, but that’s not the point. What counts is staying present, even when it feels like nothing is changing. Small acts, steady routines, and the quiet decision to keep moving forward help shape something new—something that, though different, can still carry hope and the possibility of what’s to come.

In the Planning or the Pause: Reflections on Disability and the Shape of Inclusion

Exclusion doesn’t always come as a slammed door. Sometimes it slips in quietly—tucked into rushed decisions, or meetings where a single, unspoken perspective quietly shapes the room.

It lingers in small signals, the unspoken hints about who was counted on and who was overlooked. Sometimes, it’s in the seat left unreserved, the agenda item skipped, or the silence that follows when a voice asks, “Will this work for everyone?” and no one answers. When inclusion comes last—when captions are added late, or when participation is possible only after a barrier is named and navigated—it reshapes the invitation.

It tells the person arriving that they were not part of the original plan. When this happens often enough, it does more than complicate entry—it begins to reshape the experience of belonging itself. Over time, what may have started as a workaround begins to take on the weight of a message: you are welcome, but only if you ask. Only if you wait. Only if you adjust.

Exclusion isn’t always intentional. Sometimes it happens as a result of what gets prioritized first. When accessibility is considered only after everything else—or only when someone brings it up—it can send the message that it wasn’t meant to be included from the start. In those moments, what should be a standard begins to feel optional—like a courtesy extended rather than an expected part of how things are done. When something is treated as optional, it often becomes vulnerable to delay, compromise, or omission.

If inclusion feels uneven, it can slowly form a subtle but persistent pattern. While not always immediately noticeable, it becomes harder to overlook as time goes on. It resides in the margins, in the unspoken silences, and in the moments when someone questions whether their needs are unreasonable, just because they aren’t shared by all.

Earlier reflections on Wiley’s Walk have highlighted how architecture, tone, and timing reflect values and priorities. However, inclusion extends beyond presence—it’s about whether individuals are intentionally considered from the start. It hinges on whether communication, flexibility, and difference are built into the design and function of a space. Even when a space is physically open, it can still feel unwelcoming, and even when the words are right, the feeling may fall short—because something crucial was overlooked when it mattered most.

True inclusion begins with attentiveness from the start. It does not wait for a request to surface. It shapes plans with foresight and recognizes that equity is not achieved by having everyone follow the same path but by honoring diverse experiences.

It moves beyond simply addressing needs to creating spaces where no one is required to validate their right to belong. It notices absences and omissions without being prompted. It invites participation in a way that doesn’t depend on someone’s willingness to explain why they need a different way in.

In the end, what matters most isn’t just that someone arrives—but how they are received once they do. Whether their presence feels expected, whether their needs are anticipated, and whether the space expands around them rather than contracts. True inclusion is never just logistical. It reflects what is built in from the start—what is assumed, prepared for, and made standard. It shows up in what no one has to request. Inclusion holds when belonging isn’t an exception or an afterthought, but a given. Inclusion is strongest when it is part of the foundation, not a later fix.

A Question of Timing: Disability, Access, and the Measures of Inclusion

Not every student starts the school day at eight o’clock. For some, it isn’t a matter of sleeping through an alarm, but rather the presence of medical conditions that make an early arrival to school genuinely unfeasible. This was true for a student in Minnesota, whose medical needs conflicted with the structure of a typical school schedule.

She lives with Lennox-Gastaut Syndrome—a rare and severe form of epilepsy that typically begins in early childhood. The condition involves multiple types of seizures, often occurring in clusters, accompanied by learning challenges and unpredictable episodes. In her case, the most intense seizure activity tends to occur in the morning. By afternoon, her condition stabilizes enough to support focused learning.

In response, her family requested that her school district adjust her instructional hours to begin at noon and extend later into the day. Their request was not for less instruction, but for teaching that matched the times when she was most alert and able to engage.

The district declined to implement the change.

That decision is now under review by the U.S. Supreme Court. On Monday, the Court will hear A.J.T. v. Osseo Area Schools—a case that began as a local dispute over educational scheduling but has since expanded in scope. The outcome may carry significant implications for how discrimination is understood under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973.

At the heart of the case is a question of legal standards: Must individuals with disabilities demonstrate that an institution acted with “bad faith or gross misjudgment” to pursue a claim under the ADA or Section 504?

To understand what is at stake, it is important to consider the purpose of these laws. Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act was the first federal statute to prohibit disability-based discrimination by programs receiving federal funding, including public schools.

It requires institutions to adapt their policies or practices when needed to provide equal access. The ADA widened these protections across public and private settings, affirming its commitment to full inclusion for people with disabilities. Neither the ADA nor Section 504 was designed around proving intent. Instead, both were structured to guard against exclusion—whether intentional or unintentional.

In this case, however, the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals held that because the dispute concerned educational services, the family faced a significantly higher burden of proof. Although the court recognized that the school district had not met its obligations under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA)—a separate statute governing special education—it dismissed the claims under the ADA and Section 504, concluding that the family had failed to show bad faith or gross misjudgment.

This interpretation sets a troubling precedent. It suggests that unless a school district’s failure amounts to intentional harm or serious neglect, students may have no legal options under two of the most important civil rights laws for people with disabilities.

More recently, the school district has broadened its argument. In its brief to the Supreme Court, it claimed that this higher legal standard shouldn’t just apply to education, but to all areas covered by the ADA and Section 504—including housing, employment, healthcare, and transportation. In short, the district argues that unless access is denied in a deliberate and extreme way, there should be no liability.

If this interpretation is adopted, it would weaken federal disability protections. It would shift the focus from whether someone was excluded or denied a reasonable accommodation to whether the institution intended to cause harm. This could make it much harder for people to assert their rights under the law.

This case raises important questions not just about the law, but about how we understand disability, access, and the role of institutions. When the burden shifts to proving intent, it puts legal protection further out of reach for many people with real, ongoing, and well-documented needs.

These laws were designed to open doors—not just in theory, but in practice. They recognize that access isn’t only about ramps and elevators—it’s also about timing, flexibility, and understanding how and when people can fully participate.

This case is ultimately about more than a single student’s schedule. It’s about whether inclusion is actually upheld, or only when intent is undeniable. It also raises a broader question: will public systems adjust to meet individual needs, or will individuals be expected to fit into systems that don’t change?

As the Court weighs its decision, it’s important to remember that civil rights laws were made to protect people—not institutions. Equal access means understanding that one-size-fits-all systems don’t work for everyone. This is a chance to reaffirm what the ADA and Section 504 were always meant to do: make inclusion real, not conditional. Fairness should meet people where they are. And for students like A.J.T., access shouldn’t start with proving intent—it should start with being heard.