Asides

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

There’s a tension that arises when your voice meets silence or when you’re misunderstood. It doesn’t just pass by—it reaches inward, testing your sense of worth and belonging.

Often sparked by others’ biases or doubts, this feeling can lead to a choice: quiet your voice or hold it steady. In these moments, self-trust becomes an anchor, something steady and unbreakable, free from the need for validation. This piece is, in part, a response to Voice Unbound: Rediscovering and Reclaiming My True Voice, a post from Wiley’s Walk that explores the deep impact of finding and trusting one’s voice even when it stands alone.

For those who know what it feels like to be unseen or misinterpreted, this “voice unbound” is as vital as it is freeing. It doesn’t need to be understood by everyone to be worth holding onto. The journey to reclaim it is subtle and complex—a quiet process of building the inner resolve to keep showing up fully, whether or not the world is ready to meet you there.

The experience of feeling misunderstood is not unique. Disability advocate Keah Brown writes about it in The Pretty One (2019), where she shares how her self-worth isn’t built on others’ approval but on embracing her own life fully. For Brown, strength isn’t about others seeing her but about trusting her own truth, even if the world responds with indifference. Her self-worth becomes a steady, inner resolve to keep moving forward, regardless of the assumptions or misunderstandings surrounding her (Brown, 2019).

A Quiet Resolve

Strength often arrives quietly, without grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s simply the resolve to stay grounded in what feels true, even when it goes unseen by others.

Those navigating hidden challenges know this well. For people with disabilities, the world often fails to make space, and unspoken assumptions can cloud even the clearest intentions. Yet in these moments, a quiet resilience emerges—a strength that holds firm, independent of others’ acknowledgment.

This resolve is echoed in Judy Heumann’s reflections in Being Heumann. A lifelong advocate for disability rights, Judy Heumann describes purpose not as an external achievement but as something grounded in connection and inclusion.

Her purpose, she notes, didn’t depend on others’ recognition; it was anchored in her own values and commitment to others. This kind of purpose isn’t about proving anything to anyone else—it’s simply something she chose to live out, quietly and fully (Heumann & Joiner, 2020).

Redefining Purpose Beyond Productivity

For many, purpose doesn’t come from measurable success or productivity. Purpose often blooms in quieter spaces—in the depth of a relationship, in a creative moment, or in sharing something meaningful. For people living with chronic illness and other disabilities, purpose may look nothing like society’s traditional expectations, yet it’s no less real.

All the Weight of Our Dreams, edited by Lydia X. Z. Brown, redefines purpose by challenging narrow ideas of worth, presenting it as something that arises from fully and freely living one’s own story. Here, purpose is about living authentically rather than pursuing external achievements (Brown, 2017).

Judy Heumann, too, describes purpose in a way that isn’t bound by others’ expectations. For her, purpose is about being part of something larger than herself, about belonging to a community of shared values and progress. It is about connection and impact, not recognition. Heumann shows that purpose can be something simple yet deeply fulfilling, a sense of self that doesn’t need external approval to feel complete.

Finding Voice Through Connection

Sometimes, the power of a voice isn’t in how loudly it stands alone but in how it resonates with others. For those who often feel unseen or misinterpreted, finding a space where others truly understand can be grounding. In these shared spaces, voices don’t just exist in isolation; they connect, grow, and create something that transcends individual experience.

In her memoir, Haben: The Deafblind Woman Who Conquered Harvard Law, Haben Girma reflects on the profound role of meaningful connections in shaping her journey. Born deafblind, Girma describes how finding a community that understood her experiences gave her a vital foundation—a place where her voice was embraced and respected (Girma, 2019)​.

Through these connections, she illustrates how resilience often grows quietly, rooted in empathy and shared experiences. Here, listening becomes more than just hearing; it is an act of respect, a where each voice finds value, even when it’s subtle (Girma, 2019)​.

In these spaces, listening is the foundation. It isn’t about trying to be heard or seen; it’s about connecting deeply. Listening—both to ourselves and to each other—creates resilience, grounding each person in an empathy that doesn’t need outside approval.

When voices are silenced or identities are questioned, reclaiming that voice requires personal courage. It is a quiet, resolute choice—one that’s not about seeking approval but about staying true to oneself despite outside opinions. Trusting in one’s own voice isn’t meant to change others’ minds or shift their perceptions. Rather, it’s about honoring a truth that stands on its own, whether or not others understand it.

In Being Heumann, Judy Heumann shows the strength of her inner resolve. Reclaiming her voice wasn’t about fitting in or changing how others saw her. It was about staying true to a purpose that didn’t need outside approval. Her story reminds us that self-trust can be quiet yet unwavering, a decision held firmly without expectation.

Reflecting on this, one question remains: what does it really mean to stay true to ourselves and speak up, even when others may not fully hear us? Maybe it’s about trusting, listening, and sharing anyway—understanding that every voice has weight, matters, even if it’s only partly understood.

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References

• Brown, K. (2019). The Pretty One: On Life, Pop Culture, Disability, and Other Reasons to Fall in Love with Me. Atria Books.
• Brown, L. X. Z. (Ed.). (2017). All the Weight of Our Dreams: On Living Racialized Autism. DragonBee Press.
• Girma, H. (2019). Haben: The Deafblind Woman Who Conquered Harvard Law. Twelve.
• Heumann, J., & Joiner, K. (2020). Being Heumann: An Unrepentant Memoir of a Disability Rights Activist. Beacon Press.

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The sting of disbelief still lingers. I recall standing there, motionless, as my teacher’s harsh words pierced the classroom silence: “Kerry, you couldn’t have written this.”

That single sentence felt like everything unraveling at once—a complete dismissal of all I had invested. Hours of effort, each word carefully chosen and every sentence meticulously crafted, erased in an instant. The accusation hung thick in the air, wrapping doubt around my words as though they belonged to someone else.

The classroom lights buzzed overhead, their cold fluorescence casting a harsh glare. The air smelled faintly of chalk and anxiety, making me feel isolated despite the crowded room. My classmates’ eyes darted down, pencils fidgeting against notebooks. No one met my gaze as the teacher’s words echoed, an accusation branded onto my spirit. My mind raced to defend myself, but the words froze, stuck somewhere between disbelief and shame.

Maybe my words didn’t sound like mine at all.

This wasn’t just about the writing itself; it was about my voice, the authenticity of each thought I had painstakingly put down. The piece had been a reflection of my work, now suddenly that effort felt hollow. Every chosen phrase and meticulous revision had been stripped of meaning by a single judgment. The classroom air felt heavy, tight with silence where trust or encouragement might have been.

Back at home, the atmosphere shifted as my family enveloped me in warmth and reassurance. “You know your own work. Don’t let someone else’s doubt drown out your voice,” they reminded me. Their support steadied me, affirming that the effort and every word was mine. Yet, even their encouragement couldn’t fill the hollow absence left by that one missing ally in the room. I had needed someone to stand beside me, to see the words as I had, to trust the voice behind them.

Gradually, the sting of accusation and rejection faded, and was replaced by a quiet question: Could I trust this voice, my voice, even if no one else did? This question lingered, urging me to understand what it truly means to believe in myself. Trust doesn’t demand attention; it appears when you choose to keep going, even when it feels futile and doubt is near.

Each time I picked up my pen and wrote another line, my voice grew stronger, steadier, like roots finding their way through stone. Slowly, the voice I had almost abandoned began to feel like my own again. In reclaiming it, I found a new purpose: to support others as they find their voices too.

I began to understand that some of the most powerful choices are quiet ones—to be present, to listen, to honor someone’s story without judgment. It’s about seeing others clearly, even when they can’t yet see themselves. Imagine a friend sharing a story, something fragile and untested.

In that moment, you have a choice: to listen fully or let it pass. Listening deeply, without rushing to respond, tells them: Your voice matters. Or think of someone passed over because they don’t fit the mold. Recognizing their worth becomes an act of quiet trust.

These small choices create something lasting—a foundation of trust and belief, built one quiet moment at a time. It doesn’t need to be seen; it asks only that we show up, listen, and help others learn to trust their own voices.

Real learning, I’ve realized, often lives in these quiet acts. It goes beyond classrooms and tests. True understanding comes from setting aside our own perspectives to make room for others. By doing so, we allow them to be heard as they are. Growth happens when we take the time to see through someone else’s eyes, honoring their experience without rushing to respond. In each moment of listening, another voice finds its place.

Looking back, I understand that finding one’s voice isn’t about breaking silence but about having the courage to listen—to yourself and to others—in quiet moments. That sting of disbelief became a catalyst for resilience, turning my voice into something steadier and stronger. It sparked a belief in myself I hadn’t fully known, and with it, a purpose: to stand beside others as they uncover and strengthen their own voices.

In the end, finding your voice isn’t about being loud; it’s about the courage to keep going, to listen deeply even when it’s hard. That moment of doubt with my teacher taught me not just to trust in my own voice but to help others find theirs. By being there for each other, we create a space where every voice matters.

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The reunion hall was filled with laughter and voices, faces blending into a buzzing crowd. I stood back, watching, feeling a quiet uncertainty I couldn’t shake, as though my life had slipped off course.

Then, across the room, I saw Sarah—a friend whose calm strength I’d long admired. Her presence here was unexpected, and she seemed unchanged, moving through the crowd at her own steady pace. Sarah had always faced life’s challenges with quiet resilience, never asking for attention or applause, just pressing forward, true to her values. Her courage, I realized, was a kind that didn’t need to be seen to be real.

As I watched her, I started to rethink what courage looked like. It wasn’t just in bold actions or grand gestures. Sometimes, it was in a steady step or a calm presence, in staying true to oneself even when no one else noticed. Sarah’s quiet persistence showed me that courage could exist without needing an audience.

Feeling inspired, I wrote a poem about this kind of strength:

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Shapes of Courage
By Kerry A. Wiley

Bravery wears no single form—
it’s shapeless, shifting, thin.
It is found in steps we cannot see,
in battles kept within.

Strength can live in stillness, too,
not only in the fight;
it moves beneath what others know,
not always bound to sight.

For some, it’s speaking through the noise,
for others, silence held—
courage wears its secret face,
in voices never quelled.

Sometimes it’s holding to the ground,
sometimes letting go,
sometimes naming shadows there
and truths we cannot show.

It can mean refusing walls,
or making peace with them—
or bending in the quiet dark,
or finding light again.

It’s woven in the way we move,
in whispers, waves, and tides—
bravery the quiet pulse
that settles deep inside.

So here’s to strength that wears no name,
that breaks or lets us be,
a courage that remakes itself,
untethered, wild, and free.

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Until then, I’d thought of courage as something bold and unmistakable, something you couldn’t miss. But watching Sarah, I saw courage could also be quieter, private, but no less powerful. I realized that courage could be as soft as it was strong.

This moment inspired Shapes of Courage. I wanted to honor a kind of bravery that doesn’t draw attention—a quiet resilience that carries people through their everyday struggles. In the poem, I tried to reflect how courage isn’t just a bold act but can also be a quiet, lasting strength.

Lines like “shapeless, shifting, thin… found in steps we cannot see, in battles kept within” were written for people like Sarah. Disability scholars like Clare (2020) and Wendell (2019) remind us that courage isn’t always about grand gestures; for many, it’s the small choices to keep going, even when no one notices.

When I wrote “strength can live in stillness, too, not only in the fight,” I wanted to capture this quieter form of resilience. Siebers (2018) describes this hidden strength, often missed because it doesn’t fit traditional images of bravery. Sometimes, though, courage is simply staying steady, a persistence that deserves to be honored.

In Shapes of Courage, I wanted to explore how we face limits and live with them. Goodley (2017) suggests resilience isn’t about overcoming every obstacle; it’s about learning to live alongside them. Shakespeare (2018) writes of resilience as a balance between holding on and letting go. My poem pays tribute to this kind of strength, courage that adapts and meets us where we are.

In the final lines, “strength that wears no name” refers to courage beyond recognition. Siebers (2018) notes that the courage tied to disability often goes unrecognized because it doesn’t fit the usual idea of bravery. Yet this hidden courage matters; it exists without needing an audience.

Writing Shapes of Courage changed how I understand courage. Disability research encourages us to look beyond visible acts of resilience and recognize the strength found in everyday, quiet decisions (Goodley, 2017; Clare, 2020; Siebers, 2018). Through this piece, I hope to honor that quiet, unbreakable courage that shapes lives, even when it passes unseen or unnoticed through a crowded room.

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References

• Clare, E. (2020). Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure. Duke University Press.
• Goodley, D. (2017). Disability Studies: An Interdisciplinary Introduction. Sage Publications.
• Shakespeare, T. (2018). Disability: The Basics. Routledge.
• Siebers, T. (2018). Disability Theory. University of Michigan Press.
• Wendell, S. (2019). The Rejected Body: Feminist Philosophical Reflections on Disability. Routledge.

Grace often feels elusive, like trying to catch raindrops or hold snowflakes. Over time, I’ve come to see grace as a steady support during life’s uncertainties and challenges.

In childhood, grace was natural and effortless. Hurts and disappointments didn’t linger; trusting and forgiving came easily. Letting go happened instinctively, without the burden of past hurts.

As I transitioned into adulthood, the simplicity of grace became more complex. Life’s disappointments lingered longer, requiring me to actively choose grace instead of it being an automatic response. Grace is no longer automatic but a deliberate practice developed through challenges and setbacks. Accepting imperfections requires effort, turning grace into a cultivated strength.

Grace does not appear during easy times. Instead, it emerges in our darkest moments, reminding us that every stumble offers a chance to start anew. Embracing grace means seeing life honestly, recognizing both its beauty and flaws, and holding space for both. It takes courage to acknowledge, “This is hard, but I’m still here,” and to find peace in that resilience.

Living with Cerebral Palsy has deepened my understanding of grace. It is not a fragile or passive quality but a resilient strength, especially on days when expectations can feel overwhelming. As a child, I never considered my limitations, but as I grew, I became aware of how the world measures abilities and sets standards. Embracing grace has been essential in honoring my unique journey and finding beauty in its rhythm, even when it differs from others.

Through each challenge and setback, grace has become the resolve that keeps me grounded on tough days. It is the inner voice that says, “Yes, this is hard, but I’m still moving forward.” When frustration arises, grace helps me see my strength and gives me the determination to say, “This is challenging, but I am here.”

Practicing grace means embracing patience and acceptance. It allows for mistakes and releases the need to adhere to others’ timelines, creating a sense of freedom. Grace doesn’t demand flawless progress but supports moving forward and recognizing challenges.

Everyday actions can reflect grace in many forms, such as staying calm during tough conversations or reaching out to mend relationships despite discomfort. This kind of grace requires humility—overlooking flaws, offering forgiveness, and letting go of past hurts to preserve peace. It recognizes that life is inherently messy. Ultimately, grace is a steady peace that carries us through life’s challenges.

Grace also means embracing my journey with its unpredictable twists and varied terrain, approaching each step with intention. By choosing grace, it becomes a guiding strength, propelling me forward one imperfect step at a time.