Wheels On Down the Road

Author: Levi

  • Cheers to Clarity: What Grief, Generational Patterns, and a Non-Alcoholic IPA Taught Me About Choice

    Cheers to Clarity: What Grief, Generational Patterns, and a Non-Alcoholic IPA Taught Me About Choice

    Author’s Note:
    This began as a casual Facebook post. It was just me, a can of non-alcoholic beer, and a quiet summer evening on the patio. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized this moment wasn’t casual at all. It was part of a larger story about grief, generational patterns, and learning to choose—really choose—what supports me best. Sometimes that looks like a cold drink. Sometimes it looks like not having one. And sometimes, it looks like sitting still with what hurts, and making a mindful choice anyway.

    A Quiet Evening, A Different Kind of Cold One

    It’s a quiet evening on the patio. The sun’s fading out slow and golden, and I’m sitting with a cold one in hand.

    But not that kind of cold one.

    This one’s a Free Wave Hazy IPA from Athletic Brewing Company. Non-alcoholic, but every bit as satisfying as the real deal. Bright. Citrusy. Complex. It hits all the right notes—just without the mental fog or emotional whiplash.

    These days, before I drink anything alcoholic, I pause. I check in with myself. And I ask a question that’s become surprisingly important:
    Why do I want this?
    Is it for the taste? To unwind? Or… am I trying to dull something I don’t want to feel?

    When Grief Shatters

    After Dempsey passed in the summer of 2022, something in me broke.

    Not just cracked—shattered.

    He wasn’t just a dog. He was my service dog. My companion. My lifeline. Dempsey was the one creature on this earth I could trust completely. I trusted him with my safety and with my disability. I relied on him with the quiet parts of me that don’t always have words.

    Grief wasn’t kind. It wasn’t poetic. It was heavy and raw and relentless. And in the middle of it, I found myself craving alcohol. It wasn’t to celebrate or relax, but to feel less.

    Less pain.
    Less loss.
    Less of that deep, marrow-level heartbreak that doesn’t let up just because the world keeps spinning.

    But I knew that craving. I knew its edges. And I knew where it could lead.

    Because I come from a family with a history of alcohol misuse. Even though the people I love found their way to sobriety, those patterns still echo. That kind of history doesn’t disappear. Instead, it lingers in the background. It shapes how you respond to stress, grief, and loss. Even if you never pick up a bottle, you still inherit the instincts.

    So when I felt that whisper—Just one drink. Just take the edge off—I recognized it. Not just as a moment of grief, but as part of a longer story. A story I want to write differently.

    Choosing Wisely: The Power of Options

    That’s where drinks like this come in. That’s why I sing the praises of Athletic Brewing like they’re saving lives. Sometimes, having a non-alcoholic option helps me stay sober in spirit. It is not just about alcohol content. It helps me stay grounded. Stay honest.

    And let’s be clear: I’m not anti-alcohol. I’ll still have a drink now and then. But the rule I’ve made for myself is simple—if there’s even a fraction of hesitation, even a 0.00001% chance that I’m reaching for it to numb instead of enjoy, I choose something else.

    That isn’t weakness. That’s wisdom. That’s clarity. That’s care.

    Even now, Surley is by my side. My mental health is better supported. There is more stability and joy woven into my days. Still, those urges whisper sometimes. That itch still sneaks in.
    And when it does, I don’t shame it. I meet it with honesty.
    I ask the question again. Why do I want this?
    And if I’m not sure, I choose the option that keeps me rooted.

    My Choices, My Rules

    You might think all this sounds excessive. Or overly cautious. Or dramatic.

    That’s okay.

    You’re not living my grief. You’re not carrying my history. You’re not holding my DNA or my memories or my triggers. I am.

    These are my choices. My rules. My safety nets. Built not just to keep me upright, but to keep me honest with myself.

    So tonight, I raise a glass—a cold one, sure, but one that supports the life I want. The healing I’ve worked for. The clarity I’ve chosen.

    Cheers. 🧡🍻
    To grief. To growth. To generational healing.

    If you’ve been affected by grief, loss, or struggles with alcohol, you’re not alone. Feel free to share your story or thoughts in the comments below. Let’s support each other with compassion and understanding.

  • Always Becoming

    Always Becoming

    A Pride Month Reflection

    I had written the meat of this post over a month ago but hadn’t published it yet. The reason I’ve been sitting on it is simple.

    I was nervous.

    I know I’ve shared a lot of my life here. However, there are some things I’m still working through with my therapist. Even at my age, I’m learning there’s always more to discover about yourself.

    Pride Month is nearing its end. The Twin Cities Pride Festival is upon us. It feels like the right time to share. Pride is often associated with the LGBTQ+ community. However, I believe it’s for anyone who has ever struggled to find themselves. It is also for those who now live in their authenticity.

    Pride isn’t just about rainbows, parades, or a single community. It’s about the courage it takes to live authentically, no matter how long the journey. It’s about the quiet moments of realization. It’s about the words we finally find for ourselves. It’s about the love we give and receive along the way.

    Whether you’re part of the LGBTQ+ community or simply someone learning to live more fully as yourself your story matters. You matter. And I hope, like me, you’ll keep becoming.

    A Journey Through Identity, Writing, and Self-Discovery

    In the recent months I’ve learned more about myself than I expected. Therapy has helped me feel more comfortable exploring who I am. Having family and friends who listen without judgment has made a huge difference.

    Writing has opened the door even further. It’s allowed me to think about things on a deeper level, to connect dots I hadn’t known were there. And through that process, I’ve started to see myself more clearly.

    Childhood & Disability

    As a child growing up in a small Minnesota hometown, I quickly learned that I didn’t quite fit. Disability was rarely visible, and the world around me wasn’t designed for bodies like mine. Navigating that space taught me resilience and adaptability. I became skilled at adjusting—at molding myself to fit into places that hadn’t anticipated my presence. I bent without breaking.

    But I wasn’t just molding to fit into the world—I was also molding to meet my family’s expectations. I performed the version of myself that felt safe and acceptable. That pressure, though quieter, was heavier. It was about survival. And sometimes, it came at the cost of my authenticity.

    What I didn’t realize at the time was how deeply these early experiences would shape my understanding of self. Learning to adapt to a world that wasn’t built for me didn’t stop with disability it became a pattern.

    That same instinct to “pass,” to suppress discomfort, followed me into every part of who I was becoming. Into how I loved. How I moved through gender. How I showed up—or didn’t—in my full identity.

    I’d spent my childhood learning how to bend myself to fit into other people’s definitions. It would take me years to learn how to define myself on my own terms.

    Coming Out, and Coming Into Myself

    At a young age the early signs of queerness began to surface even if I didn’t notice. I remember a relative who adored New Kids On The Block. I must’ve been five or six when I casually mentioned liking Danny from the band. At the time, it felt natural, but looking back, it was a small rebellion. A quiet truth surfacing.

    At a similar age, starting in kindergarten, there was always a girl, or girls, I liked. I never thought girls were “yucky;” I just knew there was something about them that drew me in.

    In fifth or sixth grade, there was a boy in Sunday school. He gave me the same fluttery feeling in my stomach that I’d felt around certain girls. In my early teens, I attended summer camp. That was the first time I truly felt something deeper for another boy my age. Still, I could not fully say the word “gay” to myself until high school. Even then, it felt more like a question than an answer.

    In high school, I wrote a paper on same-sex marriage. It stirred up a lot of conversation first among classmates, then with some family members. Questions about my own sexuality began to surface. I deflected by saying I had a lesbian aunt, which was true, but also conveniently deflected the spotlight. It gave me a way to speak up without fully stepping out. A shield wrapped in truth.

    I didn’t come out to most of my family until college. It wasn’t a big, cinematic moment. There were no joyful embraces or heartfelt cheers. There were tears, but not the kind that come with relief. It was raw and complicated, tangled in confusion and unspoken expectations.

    At first, identifying as gay gave me something solid to hold onto a label, a sense of belonging. But as time went on, I realized that label didn’t always fit. While others seemed to find a home in their identities, mine kept shifting, stretching in different directions.

    I’ve felt attraction to people of different genders and across age differences. Some connections were romantic or sexual, others weren’t. There were also times I felt no sexual attraction at all. Those patterns gently opened the door to the asexual spectrum. They showed me there was more room to explore than I’d once believed.

    Gender, Clothes, and the Words I Didn’t Have

    As a teenager, I remember my sister had a pair of maroon faux leather pants. I thought they were the coolest thing. I wished boys could wear something like that without question. It wasn’t just about fashion—it was about the freedom that came with it.

    In college, I found myself drawn to musicians like Ani DiFranco, Ellis Delaney, and especially Melissa Etheridge. Her look leather jacket, worn jeans, quiet confidence hit a nerve.

    I did a drag performance as Etheridge in college. When I stepped into that outfit, and out onto the stage it didn’t feel like a costume. It felt like stepping into something honest. Something that had been waiting to be seen.

    In my mid-twenties, I started questioning my relationship with gender. I felt discomfort in my body and wondered if I was transgender. I’m thankful I had a therapist who, though not an expert in gender dysphoria, helped me work through those feelings. Through deep conversation, I realized that I was mostly comfortable in my body. There were parts I didn’t love, like body hair or the physical complications of being in a wheelchair.

    I wasn’t seeking to transition from one binary to the other. I was seeking something outside the binary entirely. At the time, term non-binary wasn’t yet in the common language within the queer community.

    When it became common to share pronouns in bios or intros, I hesitated. He/him didn’t feel right. They/them felt a little closer, but still not quite it. I didn’t feel like a he or a they—I just felt like me. Just Levi. And for a long time, that made me feel like an outsider. But slowly, I began to understand that being just Levi was enough.

    As pronouns became more common, the concept became clearer. Friends came out as non-binary. It was like a crack in the door I didn’t realize I needed to walk through.

    The Mirror of Writing

    Writing has always been a mirror. A way to show myself back to myself. Characters with ADHD tendencies, with anxiety, trying to figure out where they fit in the LGBTQIA spectrum. Characters who are hesitant, loyal, or unsure of where they belong. They’re all extensions of me. These characters emerged from my subconscious before I ever had the words to describe those parts of myself.

    These stories have helped me process, understand, and articulate feelings that were once nebulous. Through storytelling, I’ve found a deeper clarity and a quiet acceptance. I’ve realized I don’t need to chase a destination. I only need to keep chasing the road.

    Becoming

    I’m not sharing this as a final declaration. I am not sharing this as another coming out. I’m sharing it as a snapshot. A step in the process. A truth for today. Because identity isn’t fixed it evolves. It deepens. It grows with us.

    I’ve never had one label that felt like home. Maybe I was never meant to be defined by a single word.

    Maybe I’m not a noun.
    Maybe I’m a verb.

    Always becoming.

    You’re Not Alone: LGBTQ+ and Mental Health Resources

    If you’re navigating identity, struggling with mental health, or just looking for community—these resources can help:

    Image Disclaimer:
    The featured image was created using DALL·E. It is OpenAI’s legacy image generation model. ChatGPT provided conceptual guidance and design direction for this collaboration.

  • When the Beat Doesn’t Match the Burden: Situational Anxiety, Disability, and the Song That Hits Too Close

    When the Beat Doesn’t Match the Burden: Situational Anxiety, Disability, and the Song That Hits Too Close

    Disclaimer:

    Songs, like stories, can mean different things to different people. The way I interpret Anxiety by Doechii may not be how you hear it and that’s okay.

    In this post, I’m sharing my personal reaction and reflections based on my own lived experience with anxiety and disability.

    If this song resonates with you differently, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. We’d love to engage in conversation rooted in empathy and curiosity.

    You might be struggling with anxiety or your mental health. Know that you are not alone. Support is available. Please check out my previous post from Mental Health Awareness Month. It contains additional thoughts and resources.

    When the Beat Doesn’t Match the Burden

    Lately, I’ve seen a surge of reels using Doechii’s Anxiety. Catchy. Rhythmic. Visually clever. And also, unintentionally, a little unsettling. There’s a growing trend. Creators use the song in a way that feels like it makes light of a real, raw experience.

    That experience? Living with anxiety.

    Anxiety doesn’t always look like shaking hands or visible panic attacks. For me, it’s more often quiet. Slow-burning. And always lurking.

    What Anxiety Really Looks Like…for Me

    Social media loves a dramatized version of anxiety: loud, obvious, and aesthetic.
    But real anxiety, the kind I live with? It’s quieter. Heavier. Trickier to explain. To me, anxiety looks like this:

    • It’s that feeling in the pit of my stomach as I wait for the bus. Will it come? Will it pass me by because I’m in a wheelchair?
    • It’s wondering. I went to the bathroom two times before leaving the house. I still worry if I’ll have an accident while I’m out.
    • It’s walking my service dog through the mall, worrying: he hasn’t pooped yet today. Will I miss his signal? Will he have an accident indoors? What will people think?
    • It’s questioning my friendships: Do they really want to help me? Or do they pity me?
    • It’s the constant churn: Will I ever stop worrying about money? Will I ever find a job that sees me for who I am? Will they view me beyond just being “that guy in the wheelchair with the dog?”
    • And yes, weekly if not daily, it’s the gnawing fear: What if my power wheelchair breaks down? Will I be stranded? Will someone help? How will I get home?

    This is situational anxiety. It doesn’t come from nowhere it comes from real, lived experience. From systems and barriers and histories that teach disabled folks like me that help isn’t guaranteed. That our presence is often inconvenient. That our independence is fragile.

    The Weight of Situational Anxiety

    Situational anxiety is the kind that grows out of lived experience. It’s not imagined. It’s not abstract. It’s knowing your support system might not show up. It’s remembering every time it hasn’t.

    It doesn’t always manifest in panic attacks or spiraling thoughts.

    Sometimes, it’s a list of backup plans running on loop. It’s scanning for exits, double-checking elevators, hoping that someone nearby will care enough to help if something goes wrong.

    It’s the subtle, exhausting labor of planning for a world that often overlooks you.

    And still, it gets minimized.

    People hear “anxiety” and think inconvenience. Nerves. A personality quirk.
    Your basic safety or dignity depends on systems. These systems frequently fail you, creating a pressure cooker situation.

    Beyond the Filters and Feeds

    So when I hear Doechii sing:

    “It’s my anxiety / Can’t shake it off of me…”

    I don’t hear a vibe. I hear a mirror.

    And when that same song is used to make light of anxious experiences, it hurts.
    Because I know how hard it is to speak up about these things to name them.
    I know the courage it takes to share the ugly parts, the raw parts, the unphotogenic parts of mental health.

    So when a song like Anxiety is reduced to a joke or aesthetic, it’s not just careless.
    It’s a silencing act. It says: your pain is only valid if it’s entertaining. Your story only matters if it’s edited down to something easy to consume.

    We can do better than that.

    What the Song Gets Right

    Doechii sings:

    “Anxiety, keep on tryin’ me / I feel it quietly / Tryin’ to silence me.”

    Yes. That. Right there.

    Anxiety is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a hush that follows you into every room. A voice that questions every decision. A hand that rests just a little too heavy on your shoulder.

    Later, she sings:

    “I get this tightness in my chest / Like an elephant is standing on me / And I just let it take over.”

    It’s visceral. Real. A truth we don’t always see captured in public conversations about mental health—especially those involving disabled bodies and disabled minds.

    This Song Isn’t Just a Soundbite

    This post isn’t about gatekeeping art. I’m not here to tell anyone to stop using the song.

    But I am inviting us to pause. It’s about honoring the people who see themselves in it.To consider that behind the beat is a person who wrote those lyrics from a place of pain. And behind the screens watching your reels? There might be people who live those lyrics every day.

    If you’re someone who hears Doechii’s Anxiety, and you feel it in your chest instead of your content calendar, this is for you.

    Your anxiety, whether clinical or situational or both, is valid. Your fears, rooted in real-world experiences, deserve to be named without shame. You deserve space not just on the feed, but in the conversation.

    So the next time you hear that chorus play, pause for a second.
    Listen. Really listen. And if you can, hold space for those of us who can’t just shake it off.

    Because for us, Anxiety isn’t a trend. It’s the background noise of daily life. And we’re doing our best to live above the volume.

    Let’s use music as a bridge, not a punchline.

    Let’s honor art by honoring the realities it comes from.

    And let’s talk more about what anxiety really looks like.

    Because it keeps on trying us.

    And we keep on trying back.

    If you’d like to share how Anxiety by Doechii resonates with you, I’d love to hear your perspective. This could be whether it resonates the same, differently, or not at all.

  • Thoughts in the Woods

    Thoughts in the Woods

    This morning, I started to pack up my camping gear. My friends were still sleeping. I found myself pausing…grateful. I’ve been camping with this same crew of friends for almost four years now.

    From Bare Bones to Built Up

    When I started, I had nothing but a sleeping bag. And honestly? That was intentional. If I had an accident in the night, I wanted my bag to get wet. I didn’t want someone else’s borrowed gear to be affected. Everything else I used back then was borrowed.

    Fast forward to 2025, and now I’ve got a full kit of my own. I’ve grown. I’ve built something. And I’ve done it with the support of some really incredible people.

    The Kind of People You Want Around a Campfire

    You never know how folks will respond when someone needs a little extra help. It might be setting up camp or tearing it down. It could involve navigating uneven ground or just figuring out the best way to sleep without pain.

    This group?

    They’ve been nothing short of amazing. I don’t think I could ask for better camping buddies. If anything, they yell at me for not asking for more help. And every year, I get a little better at asking. I’m a Midwesterner at heart stubborn by nature. But with time, I’m learning.

    Maybe by the end of this life, I’ll ask for help without hesitation. Maybe.

    A Place for Me, A Place for Him

    They’ve also been incredible when it comes to my service dogs.

    I remember the first trip I took with Dempsey. My friends made sure I had the right setup for him. A couple of them brought their dogs too, so we had a three-way dog party around the fire. I’ll never forget that trip. It wasn’t just because the raccoons stole Dempsey’s food. It was also because my friends jumped in without missing a beat. They shared their dogs’ leftover kibble and scrambled extra eggs for breakfast so D wouldn’t go hungry.

    Surley is a bit different. I brought him last spring and it went well, even with some rain though he’s not much for storms.

    This trip, I needed some time away. He spent the weekend with the folks who helped train him to become the incredible service dog he is today. I think it was a good thing for both of us. There will be camping trips where he joins me, and others where he stays behind. But what I know for certain is: when he does come along, this crew will have my back, and his.

    Where Comfort Meets the Campground

    One of my friends, who also uses a manual wheelchair, was in the market for a tent. Naturally, I sang the praises of my Big Agnes Blacktail 3 Hotel Bikepack tent. Fancy name, but it’s been an absolute game-changer. It fits everything I need. I’ve got a picnic blanket on the floor for extra cushion and dog-paw protection. There’s a twin-sized air mattress, room for a Labrador, and my duffel bag. A vestibule comfortably stores a cooler and my chair.

    It’s basically the Cadillac of tents. Imagine if the Cadillac was waterproof and collapsible, designed by someone who truly understands functional camping for disabled folks.

    Anyway, my friend ended up buying the exact same one! Before we packed up camp this morning, I managed to snap a picture of our matching tents. I think we’re officially a tent gang now. Matching vests next?

    Tent twins, engage! Big Agnes buddies for life.

    I’m not sure how many camping trips I’ll squeeze in this year. I’d love to try a solo trip (just me, the tent, and some food), and there are friends I haven’t camped with in over a year that I’d love to reconnect with. Maybe that’ll happen. Maybe not. Life is an adventure. I’m just along for the ride, and I’m lucky to have some amazing people joining me along the way.

  • Without A Phone: A Morning, a Coffee, and a Thoughtful Disconnection

    Without A Phone: A Morning, a Coffee, and a Thoughtful Disconnection

    Author’s note: I didn’t intend to write a digital detox think piece. Sometimes remembering how much we rely on our phones only requires forgetting them.

    Yesterday I met a friend for coffee. I was so focused on making sure I had everything we needed. I didn’t even realize I left my phone at home on the charger.

    It’s the second time in less than a week I have done it.

    The funny thing is I didn’t even realize I had done it yet again. I only noticed when I was three blocks away. I got a notification on my Apple Watch. It said, “Your phone has been left behind.”

    Classic.

    For a second, I considered turning around. There was the part of me who knew if I did, we were going to be late. Also it wasn’t like I didn’t have a way to get reach emergency services should there be an emergency.

    My Apple Watch has built-in cellular service. Thanks, sister, for insisting that I get it. All I would have to do is press a button on the watch, and it would immediately call 911.

    Still, it felt weird… like I was missing a limb.

    As I walked to the train, it hit me how deeply enmeshed phones are in our lives. In 2025, they’re no longer just for calling people.

    Actually, I can’t recall when I last had a full phone conversation. It was not with a doctor’s office or customer service. These days, we text, DM, post, scroll.

    Our phones are our GPS, music libraries, cameras, credit cards, and even IDs. They’re an extension of us, but maybe too much so.

    Life Before

    I’m old enough to remember a time before the regular use of cell phones. My parents got their first one in the mid-90’s. My aunt got one too, mostly because she was caring for my grandma and needed to stay reachable. Back then, minutes were a precious commodity. You didn’t just use your phone. You rationed it.

    I didn’t get my own phone until I was graduating high school. My mom joked about calling me during graduation to make sure my diploma was legit. I have forgotten what my number was back then. It’s somewhere in the ether with my high school locker combo.

    My First “Smart” Phone

    My first smartphone was an AT&T (HTC) Tilt—Windows Mobile, baby. I think got it on sale with a two contract, mostly for the novelty of “the internet” in my pocket. The iPhone had just launched, but it wasn’t in my budget.

    Fast forward a few years, and now I’m Team Apple for life.

    Rewired Society

    Don’t get me wrong smartphones are useful. I love being capable of writing blog posts like this one on the go. I can stream music and podcasts without juggling devices. I look up trivia mid-conversation like a know-it-all wizard. It’s convenience in my pocket.

    But… they’ve also rewired us. We’re always reachable, always plugged in. Our downtime is filled with a never-ending scroll of reels, tweets, memes, and 24/7 news updates.

    I’m as guilty as anyone. Give me five minutes. I’ll lose them to Facebook stories or Instagram reels I didn’t even mean to tap on.

    A Few Stats That Might Surprise You:

    Phone use is up—way up.

    According to Pew Research Center in 2024, 98% of Americans now own a cellphone. Over 91% of teens use theirs just to pass the time.

    Smartphone “addiction” is real.

    • 57% of Americans consider themselves addicted to their phones.
    • 3 in 4 feel uncomfortable without them.
    • 1 in 6 sleep with their phones.
    • Nearly half panic when the battery drops below 20%.

    We’re glued to our screens.

    Americans check their phones 144 times per day and spend an average of 4.5 hours daily on them; that’s up over 50% from just two years ago.

    And yet, they’re our lifeline.

    From music to maps, IDs to emergency access, they’re not just helpful they’ve become essential. For better or worse.

    Freeing Feeling

    Still, something about leaving my phone behind felt… freeing.

    For once, I was here in the moment. I noticed more. The way the early sun reflected off windows as I walked towards the train. The rustle of leaves. The quiet murmur of the city on a Saturday. 

    Sure, I had a few anxious thoughts. What if there’s an emergency? What if Lassie can’t text me that Timmy fell in the well?! But the world didn’t end.

    My Apple Watch, though less feature-packed, has my back. I can still get directions to the café. I can make a quick phone call if needed I check messages from people who matter. I even pay for coffee if I really wanted to. (Though using it for payments is still more awkward than helpful for me.)

    I’m not about to go full off-the-grid minimalist. But next time I forget my phone? I just might let it be. Sometimes, it’s worth being disconnected to reconnect with the world, with others, and with yourself.

    My challenge to you

    Try it. Leave your phone at home on purpose. Just once. Feel what it’s like to not have that constant pull in your pocket. You might be surprised at what you notice. And you’ll definitely survive.

    (Lassie, I trust, will find another way to reach you.)

  • A Moment of Green: A Poem from the Loring Greenway

    There’s a stretch of the Loring Greenway that never fails to quiet the noise inside my head. Every time I walk it, I feel like I’ve stepped out of the city and into a secret world. It is a place where the air smells different. The rustle of leaves and birdsong feel like old friends.

    The photo below doesn’t quite capture the feeling (does any photo ever?), but it’s the view that inspired the poem.

    The Greenway

    The greenway is like being teleported.

    Gone are the noises of the big city.

    The scent of nature surrounds me.

    Birdsong drifts from the trees and fills me.

    Flowers bloom, green leaves rustle—

    offering warmth the concrete jungle lacks.

    It is an oasis.

    It is a respite.

    It is a calming force.

    There are times I want to stay here forever,

    to escape the world and its responsibilities.

    But for now,

    I’ll sit a moment longer,

    and simply enjoy—

    the greenway.

  • Every Day, Not Just May: A Reflection on Mental Health Awareness

    Every Day, Not Just May: A Reflection on Mental Health Awareness

    Why We Need More Than a Month

    May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It’s a time when you’ll see posts, ribbons, infographics, and campaigns reminding us to check in on ourselves and others. And don’t get me wrong—that’s important. But mental health isn’t something we should only be aware of one month a year.

    It’s something we should acknowledge, support, and talk about every single day.

    My Mental Health Journey

    Mental health struggles don’t come with a calendar notification. They don’t wait until May to make themselves known. For some of us, they’re lifelong companions—sometimes silent, sometimes loud, sometimes manageable, sometimes utterly overwhelming.

    I’ve been living with anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember. But for years, I didn’t have a name for what I was feeling. I didn’t know that the heaviness, the racing thoughts, and the sudden and intense emotional dips weren’t just “personality quirks.” They were not something to tough out. I finally received the right diagnosis when I became an adult and sought professional help. More importantly, I got the right support. Medication and counseling made a world of difference for me. But even with treatment, mental health isn’t something that just gets “fixed.” It’s something I continue to manage, day by day.

    You Can’t Always See It

    Here’s the thing: you can’t always see it.

    People with mental health challenges often look “fine” on the outside. Smiling. Working. Cracking jokes. Showing up. We become masters of masking. We hide the pain, the fear, and the spiral. Society hasn’t always been kind to people who show those things. But just because someone looks okay doesn’t mean they are.

    Some days, I genuinely feel good. I feel steady, grounded, even joyful. Other days, something as small as a smell can affect me. A song or an old photo may send me down a dark tunnel I wasn’t expecting. It can take everything I have to claw my way back out.

    Coping Isn’t Always Healthy

    And let’s talk about coping mechanisms. I joke about my “coffee addiction”—and yes, my relationship with caffeine is a little… complicated. But beyond the laughs, I’ve also had a much more serious struggle with alcohol. For a while, I used it to cope. To numb. To silence the noise. But through therapy and intentional choices, I’ve worked hard to build a healthier relationship with alcohol. (Still working on the coffee one, though. Baby steps.)

    Why I’m Sharing This

    I’m not sharing this for pity. I’m sharing this because mental health is still so misunderstood, so stigmatized, and so often invisible. I want to be part of normalizing the conversation. Because the more we talk about it, the more we make space for people to feel less alone.

    So if you’re struggling right now—silently or not—please know you’re not alone. You matter. You deserve support. And there’s absolutely no shame in seeking help.

    Mental health awareness doesn’t end when May does.

    It’s an everyday thing. Let’s keep talking.

    Mental Health Resources

    If you or someone you love is struggling with mental health, please know that help is available. You are not alone.

    Emergency Help (24/7):

    • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org Free, confidential support for people in emotional distress or crisis.
    • Crisis Text Line: Text HELLO to 741741 Trained crisis counselors available anytime, anywhere in the U.S.
    • National Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788 thehotline.org

    Support for Specific Communities:

    Ongoing Mental Health Support:

  • Out of My Mind and Back Into My Memories

    Out of My Mind and Back Into My Memories

    Why This Story Hit So Hard

    About a month ago I watched the movie Out of My Mind on Disney+. Afterward, I decided to go back and read the book. I’m so glad I did. You know what they say books are always better than the movies.

    Even though I saw the movie a month ago, Sharon Draper’s words brought back memories. I hadn’t expected those memories to resurface. They still ache a little, even years later.

    Before I go any further, I want to be clear. These are my thoughts, my feelings, and my recollections of what happened. Memory is slippery. Emotions can tint the edges. So take what I say with a grain of salt. Know that this is how it felt to me. Sometimes that’s the most honest thing a person can offer.

    Melody’s Story, and Mine

    In the story, Melody is a brilliant girl with cerebral palsy. She uses a communication device, has a sharp wit, and knows more than most people give her credit for. A highly emotional moment in the book occurs when her classmates are selected for a big trip to Washington, D.C.

    Melody is supposed to go too. But things don’t go as planned. Melody doesn’t get to go. Reading that part felt like looking in a mirror.

    The Trip I Didn’t Get to Take

    When I was in seventh grade, my school organized a class trip to Washington, D.C. just like Melody’s. I was excited. Nervous. Hopeful. I pictured myself standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I imagined exploring the Smithsonian. I saw myself laughing with my classmates in a hotel room late at night. I imagined the memories we’d make, the stories I’d have to tell. But then came the catch.

    The school told me I couldn’t go unless one of my parents, or another adult, came along as my personal aide. They said it was about ensuring my safety and meeting any personal needs I might have during the trip. But here’s the thing: by that age, I could dress, bathe, feed, and toilet myself without assistance. The only support I might’ve needed was help navigating long distances. Someone could push my wheelchair when my stamina ran low from all the sightseeing. It wasn’t really about safety.

    It was about discomfort. Their discomfort. They didn’t want to figure out how to include a disabled student. They weren’t willing to make accommodations. And they certainly didn’t offer to help cover the cost of bringing someone to support me. So their solution? Exclude me instead.

    Much like Melody in the story, I was deeply disappointed. But disappointment was nothing new to me. I’d grown used to it whether it came from friends, family, or the world at large. I rarely showed it, because by then, I had learned to hold it in. I knew expressing it wouldn’t change anything.

    Still, I remember one conversation vividly. One evening, I was riding in the car with my aunt. I told her how much I wanted to go on that trip. I don’t remember where we were headed, but I remember the weight of wanting so badly to be included. She even talked about trying to help cover the cost, or going with to aid me, to make it possible.

    But in the end, it just wasn’t possible. My parents couldn’t afford the added expense. So that was it. No Washington, D.C. No trip. No adventure. Just me, left behind at school while my peers made memories without me.

    My class explored the nation’s capital while I stayed behind. I sat in a classroom with the small group of students who didn’t go. I felt forgotten. Left out. It felt unfair. I had wanted that experience so badly. I wanted to be part of the stories they’d tell when they came home. I didn’t want to be the kid they left behind.

    Bitterness and Bucket Lists

    Even now, nearly 30 years later, it still leaves a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. I still haven’t made it to Washington, D.C. But it’s on my bucket list. When I finally get there, I’ll be standing tall. You better believe I’ll be giving a big, proud, proverbial middle finger to every staff member. This is for every teacher who once thought I didn’t belong. Because guess what? I made it anyway.

    Melody’s Story Is Our Story

    Reading Out of My Mind brought all of that back. Melody’s story isn’t just hers. It belongs to many of us. We have had to fight just to be included. Others take these things for granted. Her heartbreak is our heartbreak. But so is her strength, her wit, and her refusal to be underestimated.

    That’s the power of stories like this one. They don’t just show the world as it is they help us imagine the world as it should be.

    A World Where Everyone Belongs

    I believe in that world. One where we don’t put conditions on belonging. One where we assume competence instead of questioning it. One where disabled children aren’t left behind because adults decided their inclusion was too inconvenient or too expensive.

    If you haven’t read Out of My Mind, I encourage you to. Yes, it’s a work of fiction. However, it captures something deeply real. It portrays the inner life of a young person who is so often spoken about instead of spoken to. Melody’s voice may be artificial in the technical sense, but her story rings powerfully human.

    Let’s build a world where no one has to prove they deserve to be part of the story.

    Let’s listen.

    Let’s include.

    And let’s never stop imagining, and creating, a better way forward.

  • From Poster Child to Invisible Adult

    From Poster Child to Invisible Adult

    Growing Up Disabled in a World Obsessed with Cute

    When I was a kid, people thought I was adorable. I had chubby cheeks, a bright smile, and Cerebral Palsy.

    That last part, my disability, somehow made me even more “inspiring” in the eyes of strangers. I was the kind of kid who showed up in brochures for community events. I got extra attention from teachers and therapists. I drew “Aww”s and “God bless him”s at the grocery store.

    A young boy with curly hair and large glasses smiling brightly at the camera, wearing a yellow and black striped collared shirt with a yellow boutonnière pinned to it.
    Me at my most joyful—missing teeth, oversized glasses, and a smile bigger than my face. The kind of photo people loved to “aww” over.

    Disabled kids are cute. Society loves a feel-good story, especially one that comes in a pint-sized package with leg braces and a cheeky grin.

    But here’s the thing: I grew up.

    And when I did, the attention disappeared.

    I’m 41 now. Still disabled. Still Cerebral Palsy. Still me. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being cute. And in the eyes of the world, I stopped being seen.

    Adult man with curly hair wearing clear glasses, a gray hoodie, and a denim vest, sitting indoors and smiling slightly in a well-lit coffee shop.
    The same person you saw in the childhood photos. Different glasses, different decade. Same Cerebral Palsy. Same me.

    The “Cute Factor” and Conditional Compassion

    We follow a cultural script with disabled kids. We shower them with support, attention, and affection. This continues as long as they remain children. The moment they grow into adulthood, that same compassion starts to dry up. Public programs disappear. Services shrink. Opportunities narrow. Even social attitudes shift from admiration to discomfort, from celebration to suspicion.

    As a child, I had access to therapies, educational supports, and community resources. There were coordinated efforts to help me grow, thrive, and participate. But as I got older, it felt like the message became: Well, good luck now you are on your own.

    I went from being someone people wanted to help… to someone people tried not to make eye contact with.

    The Adult Disability Cliff

    This isn’t just my story. This situation is a systemic reality known in advocacy circles as the services cliff. The support sharply drops off when a disabled person ages out of pediatric care. It also decreases when they leave school-based programs or children’s nonprofit funding.

    We don’t talk about this enough. Adults with disabilities face higher rates of poverty, unemployment, isolation, and inadequate healthcare. But we rarely make the news unless we’re breaking Paralympic records or fighting for survival in a viral video.

    Why? Because disabled adults don’t make people feel warm and fuzzy in the same way disabled kids do. We complicate the narrative. We ask harder questions. We don’t fit into feel-good stories with easy endings.

    Kids vs. Adults

    As a Child with a DisabilityAs an Adult with a Disability
    School-based physical, occupational, and speech therapyTherapy often not covered or comes with strict insurance limitations
    Individualized Education Plans (IEPs) with legal accountabilityNo IEPs for college or jobs—just ADA “reasonable accommodations”
    Access to special education teachers and support staffLimited access to job coaches; shrinking supported employment resources
    Pediatricians and specialist trained in children with disabilitiesFewer adult physicians familiar with complex disability care
    Early intervention programs (birth–age 3)Virtually no equivalent early adult transition support
    Summer camps, social groups, and extracurricular inclusion programsSocial isolation is common; few adult-focused adaptive recreation spaces
    Case managers to help coordinate servicesAdults often navigate a confusing system alone
    Parent advocates built into the systemAdults are expected to self-advocate
    Medicaid waivers often easier to access for minorsAdult services require complex eligibility and waitlists
    Positive visibility in media and fundraisersAdults rarely portrayed unless overcoming “against all odds”

    The shift is more than inconvenient; it’s structural. We build systems around disabled children to help them grow. Then we tear those systems down just when adulthood starts demanding more from us: jobs, independence, healthcare navigation, stable housing.

    The message? “You’re on your own now.”

    From Three Times a Week to Barely At All

    When I was a kid, I went to physical therapy three times a week.

    I’ll be honest—I wasn’t a huge fan of it at the time. I was a kid. I didn’t want to stretch or do strength exercises. I wanted to be outside or reading or literally anywhere else. But looking back, I realize just how lucky I was.

    Those sessions helped me build strength, coordination, and confidence. They gave me tools to move through the world.

    Now, as an adult? I can count the number of PT sessions I’ve had in the past ten years on both hands.

    It’s not that I stopped needing physical therapy. Cerebral Palsy didn’t magically go away when I turned 18. But getting PT as an adult is a whole different game. There has to be a specific reason or goal that meets insurance criteria. It’s not about maintaining mobility. It’s about justifying the expense.

    Even when you do qualify, you’re often limited to a small number of sessions. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Never mind if your muscles get tighter again, or if your mobility starts slipping. There’s no regular check-in. No ongoing plan. Just a shrug and off you go.

    I get that insurance companies want to save money. But regular PT for adults isn’t just about recovery it’s about maintenance. It’s about keeping people functioning and independent for as long as possible.

    I’ll be the first to admit it’s not always easy to schedule therapy sessions as an adult. I remember when I was taking classes in Hutchinson. Just finding time between classes and homework to go to PT was a challenge.

    Now, I have to fight for every step literally and figuratively.

    The Economic Angle: Preventative Care Saves Money

    What gets overlooked in all this is how short-sighted the system is. Ongoing PT and accessible health support aren’t just about comfort they’re about prevention. If adults with mobility disabilities had regular maintenance care, many could avoid injuries. Falls, surgeries, and hospital stays could also be avoided later.

    But instead of investing a little now, we let people deteriorate, and then spend far more reacting to preventable problems. It’s penny-wise and pound-foolish. And people like me pay the price with our bodies.

    The Emotional Cost: Losing Visibility

    There’s a strange grief in realizing you once mattered more to the world.

    As a child, I had a whole team cheering me on therapists, teachers, volunteers, neighbors. Now, I’m often just trying to prove I deserve the bare minimum. It’s not just about services. It’s about dignity. About being seen.

    When I was younger, people called me brave. Now, they call me an expense.

    Still Here. Still Worthy.

    I’ve included a photos. Me as a child, me as an adult. The disability in both pictures is the same. The person? Still me.

    A young boy with curly hair smiles at the camera
    At a young age I knew I was cute and I knew how to use it.
    Adult man with curly hair, wearing sunglasses and a dark gray shirt, smiling outside in front of a tall building under a clear blue sky.
    Still disabled. Still smiling. Just taller now—and with fewer people calling it “brave.”

    But the world doesn’t treat those two versions of me the same way.

    This isn’t a plea for pity or applause. It’s a call to remember that disabled children become disabled adults. We don’t stop needing support, visibility, and respect just because we’ve aged out of a marketing campaign.

    The cute kid didn’t disappear. He just grew up.

    And he still matters.

  • Somewhere Wet and Windy

    Somewhere Wet and Windy

    The Walk Begins

    This is your on-the-ground correspondent reporting live from the storm zone—also known as my neighborhood sidewalk.

    It all began innocently enough. I had just finished my coffee. I was strolling home with Surley, my loyal service dog. A light drizzle began to fall. No big deal. We’re Minnesotans. We’ve seen worse.

    A city street in Minneapolis with dark storm clouds rolling in, a USPS mailbox in the foreground.
    Earlier in the day—ominous clouds overhead, but still totally convinced I’d make it home dry.
    Spoiler: I did not.

    The Downpour + Tornado Siren

    But then—cue the dramatic music—the sky opened up. Torrential rain. We ducked under shelter. It let up. We continued. It poured again. We found more cover. The storm played with us like a cat with a string.

    And just when we were four blocks from home, the tornado siren wailed.

    Where was it located? Right on the very street we were walking. Rain pelted our faces. The wind howled. The siren blared as if it were auditioning for the lead role in a disaster film.

    Naturally, as the siren screamed, I started picturing The Wizard of Oz. But instead of Dorothy and Toto, it was Levi and Surley getting swept up and carried off to the land of Oz. I wasn’t wearing ruby slippers. However, I was absolutely ready to take down a witch with a soggy sock. I had some Midwestern passive aggression ready as well.

    The real star of this cinematic experience? Surley. Calm. Steady. Unbothered. For a dog who usually finds storms a bit spooky, he handled it like a seasoned storm chaser.

    I told him repeatedly how proud I was. He just powered through the wind and the rain. He glanced at me as if to say, “Chill, I’ve got this.”

    Coming Home

    We made it home drenched, slightly stunned, and still laughing.

    Surley celebrated with zoomies.

    I dried us off like we’d just crawled out of a creek. Which, in a way, we had.

    A yellow Labrador retriever lying on a carpet, still damp from the rain, resting with his eyes half-closed.
    Post-storm status: one brave boy, thoroughly toweled and dramatically resting on the living room floor.
    (Zoomies: complete. Dignity: mostly intact.)

    Your Turn

    Have you ever been caught in a surprise storm with your pet?
    Did they channel inner courage… or cartoon chaos?

    Tell me your best soggy, windy, or siren-filled story in the comments.

  • Where I Write: My Favorite Coffee Shops for Creativity and Caffeine

    I love sitting in local coffee shops to write. I’m fortunate to have so many great spots within walking distance of my home. Each spot has its own vibe. Each has a reason for becoming a favorite. Here are just a few that come to mind, in no particular order.

    Caribou Coffee on 11th & Nicollet Mall

    I’ve loved Caribou for as long as I can remember, even before I drank coffee myself. A longtime friend was once a VP at Caribou. They would occasionally leave coffee gifts on my aunts’ doorsteps. The brand has always felt familiar.

    What I love about this location is its convenience — just a few blocks from home. The huge windows flood the space with natural light, perfect for people-watching along the street and sidewalk. In the summer, I love sitting outside with a cool drink. If the patio is full, I wander across the street to Peavey Plaza and grab a bench.

    Caribou’s drinks are always my top pick. Their milk chocolate syrup is smoother than most, even compared to others on this list. My go-to drink depends on the weather. I choose a milk chocolate mocha in winter. In summer, I prefer a plain iced crafted press. Before they introduced the crafted press, I’d order an iced mocha without whip.

    Corner Coffee on 9th & Nicollet Mall

    This corner has seen many coffee shop incarnations. There has been a Starbucks, Dunn Bros, and a tea and matcha place. Now it’s Corner Coffee, and I couldn’t be happier. When it opened in spring 2024, I was eager to try it. I love discovering new places!

    The vibe here is cozy and inviting, and I always feel at home working on a project. My go-to drink is a latte, regardless of the season. As for food, it’s a toss-up between their pastries and the fruit pies they often stock.

    Starbucks in the IDS Crystal Court

    I don’t visit this Starbucks as much in the warmer months. It’s a perfect winter retreat since it’s connected to the downtown skyway system. There’s no need to brave the cold! One detail I really appreciate: they have a table clearly labeled for people with mobility aids like mine. In fact, I wrote about that in one of my very first blog posts.

    Mocha Momma’s Coffee on 3rd & Nicollet Mall

    This gem is tucked inside the central public library. I first discovered it when I went to pick up a library hold. Like many downtown spaces, it’s been home to different shops over the years. However, Mocha Momma’s has quickly become a favorite.

    The atmosphere feels personal and welcoming — it seems to be run by just one person, who greets everyone warmly. There’s a great variety of drinks (including affogato — vanilla ice cream drowned in espresso!), and the apple fritters are incredible.

    A funny moment: recently, I was so engrossed in writing that I didn’t hear the closing announcement. Thankfully, the owner kindly let me finish my thought before gently nudging me out.

    These coffee shops are where I can sit, relax, and dive into my latest writing project. I feel so lucky to have all these options nearby. However, I wish my wallet loved them as much as I do!

    Do you have a favorite coffee shop where you love to read, write, or just relax? I’m always looking for new spots to explore! Drop your recommendations in the comments. I’d love to hear about your favorite places to fuel your creativity. I’m also interested in where you satisfy your caffeine cravings.

  • Redrawing the Map

    Redrawing the Map

    This post grew out of a writing class assignment. We were asked to draw a map of my childhood neighborhood. Then we had to tell a story about it. What emerged was not a single story. It was an exploration of childhood, disability, and friendship. It also examined how we redraw our lives over time.

    When I was drawing the map for class, I realized how small my world was. We were supposed to share a story about our neighborhood. However, I didn’t have any that came to mind. At least, not in the way the assignment intended. What came to mind instead was pain and heartache.

    The sharp smell of pencil lead clung to my fingers as I traced the roads of my childhood. On the page, the map looked simple. Two gravel roads crossed like stitches. There was a handful of houses. The sagging fence line was where the horses would run and buck. But as I drew, the map whispered back something I hadn’t expected.

    The map was small.

    Not just in miles and landmarks, but in meaning. It made me realize how small and limited my world had been.

    I rarely left home. The only times I did leave were to go to school or church (at least until I got confirmed). Occasionally, I went to the theater, the skating rink, or a cousin’s house for a sleepover. Those trips stopped once we hit junior high. I really interacted with neighbors only when we rode horses around the section.

    Living in the country and having a disability made it difficult to have friends. The isolation wasn’t just about miles of gravel roads. It was about feeling cut off from the world of other kids. Even when classmates lived nearby, the distance between us felt bigger than geography. It was the distance of difference, of not quite fitting into their games, their rhythms, their conversations.

    I remember when I was in school, there were only a few places I could sit during lunch. We had long, picnic-style tables, and because of the wheelchair, I was limited to the ends. I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. So, I’d often pick the same table. It was the one closest to the end of the cafeteria line. It became its own quiet ritual — not quite belonging, not quite invisible, always on the edge of things.

    Still, there were moments of connection that broke through.

    One afternoon in first or second grade, I played baseball in the yard of the twin girls. They lived down the other country road and were also in my grade. I sat on the grass to make it easier to get around because wheelchairs and lawns don’t mix well. I don’t remember much else from that day. I recall the sun on our backs. There was a quiet sense of belonging, even if only for a moment.

    I remember having a couple of my own friends over — both times because it was my birthday. The first time was in fifth grade when I “invited” the pastor’s son from church. He came over for a sleepover. I still shared a room with my sister then. That night, my mom decided it was time for my leg stretches. They usually forgot them but remembered at the worst moment. I was hopeful they’d skip it. But no. I lay there trying not to cry in front of my friend. My mom stretched my legs, sometimes painfully. He didn’t stay long the next morning. For my birthday, he gave me a black-and-white picture of a dragon to color in with markers. I think I colored it, though I don’t remember for sure.

    Then there was the classmate who lived next door for a while. We’d been friends since kindergarten. We were the kind of friends who came and went as their family moved away. Then they came back, and after a while, moved away again. When they came back briefly in eighth grade, I remember trying harder. I made a point to talk with them and to help. It was a small act of making amends. I pulled away in fifth grade because I thought they were “cramping my style.”

    The second birthday friend came when I was a senior in high school. We got out of school early one Friday. We wandered around downtown. This was a small thing to most people, but huge for me. I was so used to the school bus taking me straight home. We went to the Video Box. I rented my first R-rated movie because I was now eighteen. I think it was American Pie. My friend gave me a finger skateboard to assemble. It was a cool alternative. A real skateboard would’ve been too hard for me to use. I held onto it for years. Looking back, I realize he was probably one of the only “real” friends I had in high school.

    These two friends? I haven’t spoken to them in years. If you tracked them down and asked, they might not remember the details. But I do.

    Looking back, I see that while I often felt on the margins, I wasn’t as alone as I thought. Those small moments — a game of baseball, an awkward birthday sleepover, a walk downtown — were lifelines. They didn’t erase the loneliness, but they punctured it, leaving small but lasting marks. They taught me that connection doesn’t have to look like the movies or the friendships I envied. It can be quiet, brief, imperfect — and still matter.

    And as much as the map of my childhood was small, the map of my adult life is much broader. I have a small core group of friends. There are fewer than a dozen of them. But they are the kind of people who show up when it matters.

    When my last living grandma was dying of cancer, they were there. They helped with rides and supported me during the funeral. When my first service dog, Dempsey, was diagnosed with third-degree AV block, they ensured I got him to his vet. They made sure he attended his appointments. They also made sure that I ate. When he passed away unexpectedly, one of them drove nearly eight hours round-trip to bring me home from a camping trip in northern Minnesota.

    Back then, I thought the boundaries of my world were fixed. I believed the small map I lived in was all I’d ever know. But maps, I’ve learned, can be redrawn.

    My childhood map may have been small. However, my adult map is wide enough to hold friendship. It also encompasses grief, loyalty, and love. Sometimes, the best stories come from the places we outgrow. These stories also come from the people we learn to carry with us.

    Author’s Note:
    I share this piece with the hope it resonates. It is for anyone who has ever felt on the margins. Yet, they still found meaning in imperfect connections. It’s about small worlds, quiet resilience, and the way we carry the past as we grow into larger lives.

  • The Story of Me: A Life in Songs

    A few months ago, I shared on Facebook about my dream band. I am not the lead singer. Instead, I am the mastermind behind an all-star lineup of incredible musicians. I also created a set list: a musical journey through my life.

    Since then, the idea has evolved. Some songs have shifted. Some meanings have deepened. I found myself wanting to explore more deeply why I chose each song. This blog post is my way of expanding that original idea into something fuller, something truer.

    This isn’t just a collection of songs I like—although, yes, I love every single one. These are songs that shaped me, challenged me, lifted me up, and made me who I am today. They are the soundtrack to every twist, turn, heartbreak, and triumph.

    These songs aren’t always ones I heard at the exact moment something happened in my life. Some came later, after the dust settled. Some found me when I didn’t even know I was looking. But each song helps me tell a part of my story. Each one shines a light on a chapter I lived—the good, the hard, the unforgettable. This is The Story of Me.

    Act 1: Roots and Dreams

    “Heartland” – George Strait

    Selected Lyric:

    “When you hear twin fiddles and a steel guitar, you’re listening to the sound of the American heart.”

    Reflection: Growing up, “Heartland” was always playing in the background of my life. It was not just a song, but also a feeling. My mom was a huge George Strait fan. She loved this song. I can’t even count how many times we watched the George Strait movie Pure Country together. It became part of the fabric of our home.

    This song speaks to my roots on the hobby farm in Minnesota. My childhood was shaped by open fields, hardworking days, and country values. I live in the city now. Whenever I hear this song, it takes me straight back to that life. It was simpler and more rugged. It’s a piece of home, stitched into the soundtrack of my story.

    “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” – Brooks & Dunn

    Selected Lyric:

    “Out in the country past the city limits sign, well there’s a honky-tonk near the county line.”

    Reflection: Whenever I hear “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” I can’t help but smile — and I definitely can’t sit still.

    This song brings me back to trail rides, when the organizers would throw dances that felt like pure magic. I recall being out on the dance floor with our longtime friend Rita. She never once cared that I used a chair.

    We danced, we twirled, and we laughed until it felt like we could float. Rita’s smile was as much a part of the dance as the music itself.

    Even today, when this song pops up on a playlist, I can’t help but move a little. It sneaks onto the radio and I can’t resist it. For a moment, I’m right back there, boot scootin’ through a night full of freedom and joy.

    “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” – Toby Keith

    Selected Lyric:

    “I should’ve been a cowboy, I should’ve learned to rope and ride.”

    Reflection: Despite the wheelchair and my disability, part of me always dreamed of being a cowboy.

    Maybe it sounds silly. When you grow up on a farm surrounded by horses, animals, and wide skies, the dream just seeps into you. It becomes a part of your very being.

    “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” captures that longing. It represents the fantasy of freedom and adventure. It embodies a life lived on your own terms.

    It’s a song I also heard often at trail ride dances. It links it forever to memories of dusty boots. I remember late nights and a few wild spins around the dance floor.

    Even if I never got to ride off into the sunset, this song keeps that dream alive in me. It remains where it belongs.

    “Wide Open Spaces” – The Chicks

    Selected Lyric:

    “She needs wide open spaces, room to make her big mistakes.”

    Reflection: “Wide Open Spaces” is about growing up — about realizing you need more than the world you were given.

    When I graduated high school in 2002, my parents were understandably nervous. Their little boy was in a wheelchair. He had big dreams and an even bigger heart. He was stepping out into a world they couldn’t protect him from.

    At first, Hutchinson, Minnesota, was my stop. I knew almost immediately that it wasn’t where I was meant to land.

    I needed Minneapolis.

    The big city wasn’t just exciting — it was necessary. It was the place where I could finally begin to find myself. I was a queer person still wrestling with coming out. I was also a disabled person searching for real opportunity.

    This song became an anthem for that ache. It symbolized the hunger to live a life too big for the fences around me.

    “Heads Carolina, Tails California” – Jo Dee Messina

    Selected Lyric:

    “Heads Carolina, tails California, somewhere greener, somewhere warmer.”

    Reflection: “Heads Carolina, Tails California” fits into my story alongside “Wide Open Spaces”.

    It’s the other side of the same dream: the impulsive, wide-eyed yearning for more.

    “Wide Open Spaces” was the heavy ache of leaving. This song embodies the giddy hope. Somewhere — anywhere — could be the place where life would finally open up for me.

    It’s about grabbing freedom by the hand. You flip a coin. Trust that wherever you land, it will be yours to claim.

    Act 2: Searching and Struggling

    “Iris” – Goo Goo Dolls

    Selected Lyric:

    “I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand.”

    Reflection: “Iris” captures a part of my story. It was heavy and complicated. It involved the long and messy process of starting to figure out who I really was.

    There was so much fear tangled up in that discovery.

    I didn’t want the world to see me, because deep down, I didn’t believe they would understand.

    People often struggle to see disabled people fully — to recognize us as complex, whole, feeling humans.

    They struggle even more to see queer disabled people.

    This song had the aching vocals and the haunting rhythm. It became a place where I could sink down into my feelings. I could be fully honest with myself about the isolation and the yearning.

    There was a stubborn, shining hope that somehow, someday, someone would understand.

    “Fast Car” – Tracy Chapman

    Selected Lyric:

    “You got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere.”

    Reflection: “Fast Car” is about leaving the past behind. It is not about forgetting it or pretending it didn’t shape you. It is about choosing to move through the sticky, painful parts toward something better.

    It’s about believing in the possibility of more, even when everything you know is pulling you backward.

    This song became part of my story. There have been so many times I wanted — needed — to keep moving forward. I had to believe that something better was just down the road.

    It’s the soundtrack of resilience. It embodies stubborn hope. It represents not giving up on yourself even when the past tries to anchor you in place.

    “I’m Alright” – Jo Dee Messina

    Selected Lyric:

    “It’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in sight. So I guess I’m doin’ alright.”

    Reflection: There was a stretch of time in my life when everything felt heavy.

    I came out to my parents. It didn’t happen the way I had hoped. The experience caused a lot of hurt feelings, tears, and anguish on all sides.

    Around that same time, I also lost my Grandma Dokken. Watching her slowly slip away because of Alzheimer’s was devastating. It was even harder. My relationship with my other grandmother had always been strained by complicated family dynamics. This made the loss of Grandma Dokken cut even deeper.

    After all of that heartache, I came to a realization:

    I had gone through hard things.

    I had felt pain that hollowed me out.

    And still — I was going to be alright.

    This song became a quiet promise to myself.

    Not because everything was perfect.

    But because I was still standing.

    “Gravity” – Sara Bareilles

    Selected Lyric:

    “Set me free, leave me be, I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity.”

    Reflection: Sara Bareilles originally wrote “Gravity” about a relationship. However, the song took on an entirely different meaning for me.

    For me, it became a conversation with my depression and anxiety. This was an invisible and relentless force. It always seemed to pull me back down into the depths of myself.

    It’s that painful tug you feel even when you’re trying so hard to move forward.

    It’s the exhaustion of fighting to stay afloat.

    This song became a mirror for that struggle — that exhausting, tender plea to my own mind: Let me go. Let me breathe. Let me be free.

    It’s not just sad; it’s truthful. It reminds me that even in the middle of that pull, I am aware. I am fighting. I am still here.

    “Angel” – Ellis Delaney

    Selected Lyric:

    “I need a little company, all I need is a pat on the back.”

    Reflection: Throughout my life, there have been so many moments when I’ve felt adrift. I was alone in the world. I was hanging on by a thread.

    “Angel” captures that ache perfectly. It conveys the quiet, desperate hope that someone might reach out, take my hand, and just be there.

    It’s not about needing someone to fix everything.

    It’s about needing a little company and a little comfort. It’s also a reminder that the path is mine alone to walk. However, I don’t have to walk it completely alone.

    Whenever I hear this song, it brings me back to those hard moments. It reminds me that it’s okay to need others. It’s okay to reach for connection. It’s okay to ask for an angel when the night feels too heavy.

    Act 3: Loyalty, Loss, and Love

    “Ride” – Amanda Marshall

    Selected Lyric:

    “If you’re out of inspiration, all you feel is desperation. Consider this an invitation — I’ll be your ride.”

    Reflection: College was where I found some of the best people I’ve ever known.

    Even 20 years later, we’re still connected — not just in memories, but in life.

    They’ve blessed me with the honor of being godfather to one of their children. This gift still humbles me beyond words.

    These friends are my ride-or-die crew. They are the ones I would drop everything for, without a second thought. I know they would do the same for me.

    “Ride” perfectly captures that spirit. It embodies the fierce loyalty. It reflects the deep-rooted love. The unspoken promise holds that no matter where life takes us, we’re riding it together.

    “When It Don’t Come Easy” – Keri Noble

    Selected Lyric:

    “But if you break down, I’ll drive out and find you.”

    Reflection: “When It Don’t Come Easy” is a quieter promise, but no less fierce.

    Over the years, I’ve had friendships that have weathered storms — real storms, the kind you don’t walk through unscathed.

    We’ve stood by each other during our lowest, messiest, most broken moments.

    This song is my way of saying:

    I got you.

    When things fall apart, I’ll come looking for you. When it feels like you can’t take another step, I’ll be the one who finds you.

    I’ll bring you home.

    No judgment, no expectations — just love.

    This song reminds me that sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for someone is simply stay.

    “Beat You There” – Will Dempsey

    Selected Lyric:

    “Don’t cry for me, I’m alright. I’m better than you know.”

    Reflection: “Beat You There” cuts deep into my story.

    I found this song not long after Dempsey — my first service dog, my companion, my constant — passed away.

    That loss tore a hole in me.

    Finding this song gave me something to hold onto during that time. Hearing Will Dempsey sing about love, loss, and the bittersweet promise of reunion provided comfort.

    It felt like Dempsey’s spirit was speaking back to me somehow. This was not just because of the name. It was because of the deep, aching truth woven into every word.

    “Beat You There” isn’t just about grief.

    It’s about remembrance, loyalty, and hope. We hold the hope that wherever our loved ones go, we will meet them again someday.

    Whenever I hear this song, I imagine raising a glass in a quiet toast:

    You beat me there. But one day, I’ll see you again.

    Act 4: Becoming

    “Wonder” – Natalie Merchant

    Selected Lyric:

    “They say I must be one of the wonders, God’s own creation.”

    Reflection: Growing up, people doubted my ability.

    Hell, even now — at 41 years old — people still doubt my ability.

    “Wonder” resonates with that feeling deeply.

    It’s not a song of anger or resentment.

    It’s a quiet, unshakable declaration: I am here. I am whole. I am wondrous, whether you see it or not.

    This song reminds me that I don’t have to fit anyone’s idea of what “ability” should be. I define what “success” should look like.

    I exist. I thrive.

    And in that, I am a wonder.

    “Days Like These” – Janis Ian

    Selected Lyric:

    “When the one thing left is the blessing of my dreams, I can make my peace with days like these.”

    Reflection: My aunt introduced me to Janis Ian when I was in college.

    I was initially attracted to the faster songs. These included those with driving rhythms like “God and the FBI.”

    But over time, “Days Like These” started to hit differently.

    It’s a quieter song, but it carries a heavy, beautiful truth:

    After all the struggle, all the loss, and all the hardship, the blessing of my dreams is enough. I have endured a lot. If I still have the people I love, then it’s enough.

    It’s not about pretending life is easy.

    It’s about recognizing that even on the hard days, especially on those challenging days, there’s still something strong and sacred. It’s worth holding onto these things.

    This song reminds me that survival isn’t just about getting through. It’s about carrying your dreams forward. This is true even when the skies stay dry a little too long.

    “Hometown” – Brandon Stansell

    Selected Lyric:

    “I should say thank you, ’cause now I finally know who I really am.”

    Reflection: Growing up in rural Minnesota was hard.

    There were so many things that made me feel alone. The small-town expectations were overwhelming. There were also the unspoken judgments. No matter how much I tried, I felt I would never quite fit into the mold laid out for me.

    But “Hometown” reminds me of the hard conversations and the quiet heartaches. Even through all of that, my hometown shaped me.

    It made me strong.

    It gave me the roots I needed, even if it took leaving to figure that out.

    I can’t change the past.

    And that’s okay.

    Now I know exactly who I am. It is not in spite of where I came from, but in some ways because of it.

    “Invisible” – Hunter Hayes

    Selected Lyric:

    “There’s so much more to life than what you’re feeling now.”

    Reflection: “Invisible” is the song I would sing to my younger self. I would sing it to the queer kid who felt unseen. They felt misunderstood and out of place.

    It’s also the song I would sing for every young person struggling to find their way. They are struggling to believe that they matter.

    Growing up, it often felt like I was invisible. It felt like who I was deep down didn’t fit into the world around me. Maybe it never would.

    This song is a promise:

    It will get better.

    You are seen.

    There’s so much more waiting for you beyond the smallness of this moment.

    You are not broken.

    You are not alone.

    You are not invisible.

    “Brave” – Sara Bareilles

    Selected Lyric:

    “Say what you wanna say, and let the words fall out.”

    Reflection: “Brave” is about finally finding the courage to say what you need to say.

    It’s about stepping into the space you were once too afraid to claim.

    For so long, fear kept me quiet. I was afraid of being misunderstood. I feared being judged. I worried about being too much or not enough.

    But bravery doesn’t mean you’re not scared.

    It means you speak anyway.

    This song reminds me — and challenges me — to keep choosing honesty, even when it’s hard.

    It’s an anthem for every moment I opened my mouth. I spoke my truth. I took one more step toward being fully, unapologetically myself.

    “Soar” – Christina Aguilera

    Selected Lyric:

    “Don’t be scared to fly alone. Find a path that is your own.”

    Reflection: “Soar” lives in the same spirit as “Brave”:

    It’s about stepping into who you are without apology.

    It’s about refusing to shrink, refusing to bend yourself to fit the world’s expectations.

    This song reminds me that bravery isn’t just about speaking your truth. It’s about living it. This is true even when the path feels lonely.

    “Soar” is the reminder that the world is mine to claim. I don’t have to wait for permission to build a life that feels true.

    It’s not about becoming someone else.

    It’s about finding — and loving — the person I’ve always been meant to be.

    “This Is Me” – Keala Settle (The Greatest Showman)

    Selected Lyric:

    “I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be. This is me.”

    Reflection: “This Is Me” is the culmination of everything I’ve lived, everything I’ve fought through, everything I’ve become.

    It’s the moment I finally stand up and say:

    This is who I am.

    If you don’t like it, I don’t care.

    I’ve spent enough of my life shrinking, apologizing, trying to fit where I was never meant to fit.

    Now, I choose to take up space.

    Now, I choose to be seen.

    Bruised, brave, whole — exactly as I am.

    Encore

    “Gently We Row” – Melissa Etheridge

    Selected Lyric:

    “Slow, slow, this river is slow. We’re all out here on our own. Row, row, gently we row. One day we’ll find our way home.”

    Reflection: If there’s a final note to this story, it’s “Gently We Row.”

    Life isn’t a race.

    It’s not about having all the answers.

    It’s about moving forward, one step at a time. Take each moment as it comes. Do the best you can with what you have.

    This song reminds me that none of us really know exactly where we’re headed, and that’s okay.

    It’s okay to stumble.

    It’s okay to search.

    It’s okay to dream.

    What matters is that we keep rowing gently. We do so determinedly through the slow, winding river of life. We trust that someday, somehow, we’ll find our way home.

    And maybe the real magic isn’t in the finding.

    Maybe it’s in the rowing itself.

    Final Invitation

    Music tells a story. This one is mine.

    If you’ve never heard some of these songs or artists before, I encourage you to check them out. You might discover new music you love—and maybe, through that music, a little piece of who I am.

    Want to hear the full soundtrack?

    You can listen right here:

    What songs would be on your life’s soundtrack? I’d love to hear your set list. Drop it in the comments below!

  • A Revolution Remembered: 250 Years After the Shot Heard ’Round the World

    On April 19, 1775, British troops marched toward Concord to seize weapons. What they found instead was resistance. Ordinary farmers and tradesmen—Minutemen—stood their ground at Lexington. A single shot rang out. No one knows who fired it.

    But that one act of defiance became the spark that lit the American Revolution. That shot, the “shot heard ’round the world,” was not about war—it was about refusal. Refusal to be ruled without representation. Refusal to surrender liberty to unchecked power.

    Two hundred and fifty years later, we are again facing a moment of reckoning. Not with muskets, but with microphones. Not with bayonets, but with ballots and bold voices. The question before us now is the same one our founders asked themselves. Will we allow one person to dictate the future of the many?

    I am a disability advocate. I am deeply invested in civic participation. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what real representation looks like. I don’t just study history—I live its consequences. We can see the struggle when navigating inaccessible systems. We also witness it as democratic norms erode in real time. It’s clear that the fight for equity and accountability didn’t end in 1776. In fact, it’s happening right now.

    Today, in 2025, I find myself reflecting on that revolutionary spirit—and wondering how far we’ve strayed from its core principles.

    We now have a President who increasingly behaves as though he alone can decide what’s best for the country. He is circumventing the proper chain of constitutional authority. The office of the presidency is growing disturbingly monarchical. This change is due to sweeping executive orders and claims that other branches are “in the way.”

    What’s worse is that many in Congress, across both parties, are allowing it. The legislative branch should act as a check on power. Instead, it has become largely passive. This passivity enables the President to do whatever he sees fit.

    Even the judicial branch has begun picking and choosing which executive actions to confront, leaving accountability up to political whim. If the courts do rule against the President, there is a growing concern he may simply choose to ignore them. This is because the judiciary, for all its authority, has no enforcement power.

    If the executive no longer respects the rulings of the courts, democracy is not occurring. If the executive fails to adhere to the laws passed by Congress, democracy is not occurring. It is authoritarianism cloaked in American institutions.

    What the Constitution Actually Says

    Our government was deliberately designed to prevent this very kind of power consolidation. The Founders, having just fought a war to escape monarchy, built a system rooted in checks and balances.

    • Article I of the U.S. Constitution gives Congress the power to make laws.
    • Article II outlines the duties of the executive branch, which is to enforce the laws—not to write them.
    • Article III gives the judiciary the power to interpret those laws.

    These three branches are meant to restrain each other, not serve one another. A President may issue executive orders, but those do not carry the same weight as laws passed by the legislature. They are meant to clarify enforcement—not create new legal frameworks.

    The Federalist Papers Warned Us

    Even in the 1780s, the Founders feared the possibility of executive overreach. In Federalist No. 47, James Madison famously wrote:

    “The accumulation of all powers, legislative, executive, and judiciary, in the same hands… may justly be pronounced the very definition of tyranny.”

    And in Federalist No. 51, he reinforced the vital need for institutional limits on power:

    “Ambition must be made to counteract ambition… It may be a reflection on human nature, that such devices should be necessary to control the abuses of government. But what is government itself, but the greatest of all reflections on human nature?”

    These weren’t just lofty ideals. They were warnings from men who had lived under unchecked rule—and refused to let it happen again.

    History Doesn’t Just Repeat—It Responds

    The Revolution wasn’t a one-time event. It was a stand for enduring principles: representative government, accountability, and the rule of law. Every time we allow a single branch—especially the executive—to override or ignore the others, we betray that legacy.

    This isn’t about party lines. It’s about constitutional lines. If we let any President, of any party, expand their authority unchecked, we risk transforming the presidency into something unrecognizable. Something we once fought to be free from.

    Real-World Example: Immigration and the Alien Enemies Act

    The most urgent and alarming example of executive overreach in 2025 is the revival of the Alien Enemies Act. This is an obscure law passed in 1798. It gives the President sweeping powers to detain or deport non-citizens from hostile nations during times of war.

    President Trump’s administration has invoked this law to target and deport Venezuelan migrants. Many of these migrants had legal status, including visas, humanitarian protections, or pending asylum claims.

    The justification? Alleged—but unproven—ties to criminal gangs or national security concerns. In many cases, these individuals were given no warning. No chance to contest the accusations. No hearings. No due process. Just detention and removal.

    The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and immigration advocates have challenged the policy in court. They argue it is a clear violation of the Constitution’s due process guarantees. Even the U.S. Supreme Court temporarily stepped in to block certain deportations.

    The larger concern remains: What if a President can ignore the courts? They could revoke legal visas and strip people of their rights with a signature. What protections are left then?

    This is not just an immigration issue. It’s a constitutional crisis. A President is using a 200+ year-old wartime law to unilaterally remove people. This occurs without oversight, without evidence, and without legal recourse. This action is exactly the kind of authoritarian overreach the Founders feared.

    Personal Reflection & Call to Action

    I advocate for marginalized communities. Rights can quickly be erased when those in power stop listening to the law. They start listening only to themselves. This moment isn’t about politics. It’s about people. And the systems that are supposed to protect them.

    To uphold the integrity of our democratic system, it’s imperative that we, as citizens, engage actively in the political process. This includes:

    • Advocacy: Contacting legislators to express concerns about executive overreach and urging them to assert their constitutional role in policy making.
    • Education: Staying informed about governmental actions and understanding their implications on various communities.
    • Participation: Voting in elections, attending town halls, and participating in public discourse to influence policy decisions.

    We the People Are Still the Safeguard

    We may not be standing on a battlefield. We may not hear the crack of muskets or the gallop of horses. But make no mistake: we are in the midst of a revolution.

    This one may not be started by a single shot—but it can be started by a louder voice.

    A voice that refuses silence. A voice that challenges overreach. A voice that demands the democracy we were promised.

    Our founders lit the fire of liberty with action. We must ensure it keeps burning. This requires awareness, advocacy, and an unwavering insistence that power must always serve the people—not rule them.

    Sources & References

    U.S. Constitution – Full Text: https://constitution.congress.gov/constitution/

    Federalist No. 47 – James Madison: https://guides.loc.gov/federalist-papers/text-41-50#s-lg-box-wrapper-25493412

    Federalist No. 51 – James Madison: https://guides.loc.gov/federalist-papers/text-51-60#s-lg-box-wrapper-25493413

    History.com – Lexington and Concord: https://www.history.com/topics/american-revolution/battles-of-lexington-and-concord

    Vanity Fair – Deportations and the Alien Enemies Act: https://www.vanityfair.com/news/story/supreme-court-blocks-trumps-use-of-wartime-law-for-deportation

  • More Than Qualified, Still Overlooked: One Disabled Worker’s Truth

    The Harsh Reality of Disability and Employment

    Finding a job is hard. Finding one as a person with a disability? Often twice as hard—and half as fair.

    Despite decades of progress, people with disabilities still face enormous hurdles in the workforce. From inaccessible interviews to discrimination that’s harder to prove than to feel, the disability employment gap remains stubbornly wide. As of 2024, only about 22.5% of people with disabilities are employed, compared to 65.8% of non-disabled people, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. And now, with looming threats to Social Security programs, the urgency to find stable, fulfilling work is greater than ever.

    Balancing Purpose and Pay

    I have been looking for more financially stable work for quite some time. I love what I do right now. However, I need something more reliable regarding the amount of money I can bring in.

    I am also looking for jobs that will feed my soul. They should not drain my emotional and physical energy. I know that might seem like taking the easy way out. Throughout my life, I’ve learned that being in draining positions harms my overall well-being.

    Many people with disabilities face the same struggle. They try to balance physical or mental health needs with the demand for financial stability. It’s not just about wanting a job. It’s about finding one that doesn’t push you past your limits.

    A 2022 study by Accenture found a significant correlation. Companies that embraced disability inclusion were twice as likely to outperform their peers in profitability. They also had improved productivity. Yet, many of us never get the chance to show what we can do.

    Living on the Edge of Uncertainty

    I am in a rather unique situation. I do receive SSDI. This allows me to be more selective about the work I do. I am also aware of the changes the current administration is trying to make to Social Security.

    You should look for alternate sources of income. This is important in case there is a stoppage in the SSDI checks you receive. According to the Social Security Administration’s 2024 Trustees Report, the trust fund is projected to be depleted by 2033. Reforms are necessary to avoid depletion.

    The Job Search: A Loop of Silence and Rejection

    In the past six months, I have submitted countless applications. Most of the time, I don’t hear anything back. Then there are rare instances where I get to interview. I don’t know if I suck at the interview process. I don’t know if it’s because I am a wheelchair user. Maybe it’s because I have a service dog. Usually, after that first interview, I get the dreaded response. It says: “After careful consideration, we have decided to move forward with other candidates.” Their experience more closely aligns with our current needs.

    Statistically, this kind of experience isn’t unusual. According to the National Organization on Disability, many employers still have biases. They also have inaccessible workplaces and a lack of inclusive practices. These conditions make it harder for disabled applicants to be hired or promoted. These invisible barriers reinforce the frustrating reality many disabled job seekers face. You can be qualified, capable, and enthusiastic. Yet, you might still be overlooked.

    My Work History: Then and Now

    I have been working on and off since I was 14 years old. During the summer of 1998, I had my first taste of what a job would be like. I was taking summer classes in the Twin Cities thanks to the generosity of my aunts. They had an amazing friend who worked as a head chef at a hotel near the airport. They were willing to give me a chance at what I can now only describe as something of an internship. Arrangements had been made for me to “work” one day a week. Despite this, I still had to interview with the head chef. I was scared and nervous and excited all at the same time.

    My first official summer job was at the Swift County Recorder’s Office in the summer of 2000. It was an exciting experience, even though the job was simple: scanning documents to be digitized. It gave me more responsibility and a little bit of spending money. I worked so much that I burned through the allotted funds that paid my wages. The following summer, I had a similar job with the county’s Soil and Water Conservation Office. Again, it was a simple job but taught me a lot about responsibility.

    These early jobs weren’t glamorous, but they helped shape my work ethic. I was learning to navigate a world. This world was not designed with me in mind, like it wasn’t for many other young adults with disabilities. According to the National Organization on Disability, workplace biases persist. Inaccessible environments remain. Additionally, a lack of inclusive practices continues to be a major roadblock to employment for disabled individuals.

    Campus Jobs, First Steps, and New Lessons

    The summer after my senior year of high school, I didn’t work. Not because I couldn’t get a job, but because I wanted one last summer of freedom before college. During college, I held a few on-campus jobs. While living in Hutchinson, I worked part-time as a tutor. To be honest, I don’t even remember what subject I tutored. However, I do remember getting a letter from the county about not reporting the $65 I earned. I had no idea I needed to at the time.

    At Augsburg, I had a variety of jobs. I helped the campus LGBTQ+ organization with their website and digital advertising. I was also a tour guide for the admissions office. My focus was often giving tours to prospective students with mobility challenges.

    A Decade of Retail—and Then, the Curtain Closed

    After graduation, I was fortunate to land a temp job with a downtown Minneapolis staffing agency. I was surprised they hired me, but I guess when you’re a temp, they take whoever they can get. That role lasted about eight months, and then I was unemployed again. I submitted many applications back then. It felt like a lot. I rarely heard anything back.

    Eventually, I applied at Best Buy. They had a location at the Mall of America. It was easy for me to get to. I’d never worked retail in my life and barely shopped at Best Buy before. I remember the hiring process. There was a phone interview. Then there was a group interview (my first ever). I felt completely out of place during it. I didn’t say much because I didn’t know what to say. Somehow, I said enough to move on to the final interview and land the job.

    Originally, it was supposed to be a seasonal role, but they decided to keep me on part-time after the holidays. I continued working at Best Buy for nearly 10 years. Over time, I shifted into different departments and eventually landed a full-time position. It was nice having PTO and a consistent paycheck.

    Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to last. In the summer of 2018, Best Buy closed that location. I considered applying to the nearby Richfield store and even had a few interviews there, but it felt different. They seemed more hesitant to hire someone with my “unique abilities.” It didn’t work out, but I received a decent severance package and took a much-needed three-month break.

    That hesitation? It mirrors what many disabled workers experience. Too many hiring processes contain a subtle skepticism. There’s a belief that accommodating a disabled employee is more trouble than it’s worth. But data and my own personal experience contradicts that. Studies show that providing accommodations often costs less than $500, and the long-term benefits—employee retention, morale, and diversity—are invaluable.

    I did a training video in 2017 while I was with Best Buy on this exact issue. My general manager and I were featured in a video about workplace accessibility. The video highlighted how simple accommodations can make a huge difference in supporting disabled employees. These include clear communication, flexibility, and simple adjustments to schedules and the layout of an eight-foot section. For example, the management made the point-of-sale terminal more accessible. This change helped me ring out customers in my department.

    All they had to do was remove a section of shelving to lower the register. It didn’t just work for me—it worked for everyone. While the video is now unlisted, it remains one of the proudest accomplishments of my time there and is still featured on my LinkedIn profile as a reminder of what true inclusion can look like in action

    Where I Am Now—and Where I Want to Go

    In the fall of 2018, I landed my current role at U.S. Bank Stadium. I love the staff I work with—it’s a great environment. Things have changed a lot since returning post-COVID, but I don’t see myself leaving anytime soon. That said, hours have been very limited since the pandemic. I need something that provides more financial stability.

    In 2021, I met Amy B., a personal trainer specializing in inclusive fitness. She created Fit with Amy B to provide training for people of all abilities. I improved my own health through her program. She also brought me on to help behind the scenes making everything run smoothly. She saw the benefit of having people with disabilities not only workout with her. They also worked with her to bring greater awareness to healthy living, regardless of your abilities. I truly loved what I did for Amy. I have yet to find another job that offered the same level of flexibility. It also provided fulfillment.

    Unfortunately, SSDI barely covers my monthly expenses. It doesn’t give me the flexibility to do the things I enjoy, like traveling or going out with friends. Living on a fixed income can be incredibly limiting.

    According to the National Organization on Disability, many people with disabilities face financial insecurity. They also encounter systemic bias and physical barriers. These obstacles prevent equal access to job opportunities.

    And yet, studies by Accenture show that companies prioritizing disability inclusion perform well. They are also twice as likely to be innovative.

    The Bigger Picture: You’re Not Just Hearing My Story

    This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of many people in the disability community. They want to work. They are ready to work. They constantly run into walls—both visible and invisible. It’s time to break those walls down.

    Call to Action

    We need employers, policymakers, and communities to step up. Employers must rethink hiring practices to eliminate bias and prioritize inclusion. Lawmakers need to protect Social Security and invest in programs that support people with disabilities, not strip them away. And for those reading this: listen to our stories. Share them. Advocate for change. Because no one should be shut out of opportunity simply because society hasn’t caught up to our potential.

    Sources:

  • The Cost of Loyalty: What It Takes to Be a Season Ticket Holder

    The Cost of Loyalty: What It Takes to Be a Season Ticket Holder

    I wasn’t planning to write this today. I sit here and look out at the dreary Minnesota sky. I know there’s a significant chance I won’t attend tonight’s Minnesota United FC match. I felt like I needed to put some thoughts down.

    Quick note: I’m part of AccessiLoons—Minnesota United FC’s first and only supporter group focused on accessibility and inclusion. However, everything I share here is based on my personal experience. It doesn’t reflect the views of the group.

    This will be the second game I’ve missed this season—and not because I’ve lost interest or stopped caring. Far from it. I’ve been a season ticket holder since 2015. That was long before the team joined MLS and before Allianz Field was even a blueprint. Supporting this team has been one of the most consistent and joyful parts of my life.

    But tonight, like many nights, I’m forced to weigh the realities of being a fan with a disability. The weather is cold, windy, and there’s a chance of rain or snow. And rain and power chairs don’t mix well.

    After last weekend’s afternoon match, my wheelchair started to malfunction on the way home. Thankfully, I made it back safely and the issue didn’t repeat itself—but moments like that stick with you.

    Every time I head out in this type of weather, there’s that voice in the back of my mind:

    • “Is my chair going to malfunction again?”
    • “Will I get stranded somewhere?”
    • “What do I do if something goes wrong?”

    It makes you cautious at times about leaving the house.

    This post isn’t just about one missed game. It’s about what it really takes to be a loyal fan in 2025—financially, physically, and emotionally.

    When Passion Meets Practicality

    I’ve always budgeted for my season tickets. When I was working full time, the yearly price increases didn’t hit as hard. Even during the pandemic, I had enough money coming in to keep my seats. Soccer was one of the few constants during an unpredictable time.

    But when the world reopened, my income didn’t bounce back as ticket prices continued to rise. Something that once felt like a justifiable splurge now feels like a financial stretch.

    Still, giving them up feels impossible. Supporting this team is part of my identity. It’s how I connect with friends. It’s where I feel community. But loyalty, especially on a fixed or limited income, comes with a price—and that price keeps going up.

    Accessibility Isn’t Just About Seats

    Being a fan with a disability adds another layer to all of this.

    Sometimes, I simply can’t attend—even when I want to. The home opener in March is always a weather gamble, and this year was no exception. That was in the evening—and I had just worked an afternoon shift at U.S. Bank Stadium. I was already cold and running low on energy. I didn’t know if I had the stamina—or the body regulation—to sit through the full match.

    As someone with limited mobility, I can’t generate much body heat. Once the sun goes down, so does the temperature—and so does my ability to safely enjoy the game.

    I made it to the match the weekend before because it was an early afternoon kickoff. It was still cold, but the sun made it manageable. That little bit of warmth made all the difference.

    And then after the issues with my wheelchair after last weeks game there’s the added layer of equipment concerns. It was enough to shake my confidence. Now, every time I head out , I have to ask:

    • What if my chair stops working?
    • What if I get stuck far from home?
    • Who do I call?
    • Will anyone be able to help?

    That kind of risk doesn’t factor into most fans’ decisions to attend a match. For disabled fans, it’s part of the mental math every single time.

    To be clear, many of these challenges aren’t unique to Minnesota United or Allianz Field. The stadium staff has generally been supportive, and there are accessible features in place. But even well-designed venues can fall short when the full spectrum of disability isn’t considered. These issues show up in stadiums across the country—and they’re often invisible to those who don’t live with them.

    Some of the most common barriers disabled fans face include:

    • Cold or extreme temperatures that are dangerous for fans with mobility or circulation limitations.
    • The distances from parking or public transit stops are long. They can feel like a marathon for those with fatigue. This is also true for those with chronic pain.
    • Crowded concourses and bottlenecks that create safety issues for wheelchair users and others needing space.
    • Ticket policies with little flexibility, even when health issues make last-minute changes necessary.
    • Energy management challenges—sometimes, it’s not about willpower. It’s about knowing your body has limits.

    The Marketplace Problem

    When I can’t attend, I turn to the SeatGeek Marketplace to resell my tickets. But that experience isn’t fan-friendly either.

    I need to list the tickets above face value to cover SeatGeek’s 10% seller fee. This is necessary to just break even. On top of that, buyers are charged another 10% fee. That’s a 20% markup just for a resale—not to make a profit, just to avoid losing money. And guess what? Most people won’t pay that.

    So now, I’m out the money, and I missed the game. It adds insult to injury.

    Lately, I’ve found myself quietly wondering what the future holds. I’m not ready to give up my season ticket membership yet. However, I’m starting to reevaluate things. The rising costs, the physical strain, the uncertainty that comes with each game—it all adds up.

    At some point, I may have to ask myself whether this version of loyalty is still sustainable for me. I love this team. I’m not going anywhere as a supporter. However, being a season ticket holder might look different down the road.

    Let’s Do Better—for All Fans

    If you work for a team, a supporter group, or even a ticketing platform, ask yourself a question. What are you doing to make sure disabled fans are fully included?

    Accessibility isn’t just about wheelchair spaces or ADA check boxes. It’s about understanding the full picture. This includes weather risks, energy limits, and malfunctioning mobility equipment. Resale policies also matter. Then, there is the emotional toll of being excluded from something you love.

    If you’re not thinking about all types of access, you’re leaving people behind.

  • Holding Onto Love: A Reflection on Loss and Love

    I’m sitting here writing my next story when Wherever You Are by my friend Ellis starts playing in my ears. Just like that, memories flood my mind. They are the people who have passed on and left this world.

    “I’m still here, after I’m gone. In the birds singing their love songs, in the summer sun let me warm your heart. ‘Cause I will always be wherever you are.” – Ellis Delaney

    Three years ago today, my Grandma Marlys Hoiland passed on to whatever is next. These are my thoughts and feelings through the lens of a child, and now an adult. Sometimes, we just need to put words to the emotions we carry. For me, this was one of those times.

    There is just something about grandparents. As a little kid, I feel like I spent a lot of my time with her and my Grandpa Roger. I vaguely remember the Easter Bunny stopping at her house instead of mine. I think we were staying with Grandpa and Grandma. Mom and Dad were gone somewhere.

    One of the coolest things about her? She was a school bus driver. When we went on field trips, there was always a chance she’d be the one behind the wheel. For little me, that was the best thing ever.

    Grandma Marlys standing in the snow next to a yellow school bus with ‘Benson School District 777’ written on the side.

    But when my grandpa Roger passed in the summer of 1994, things changed. I was just a kid—too young to fully understand what was happening, but old enough to feel the shift. I wanted to spend time with my grandma, but I was afraid to ask. The issues the adults in my life had with each other weren’t mine to carry, but they affected me anyway. So I kept my distance because I didn’t want to make things difficult.

    Years later, when I moved to Hutchinson to attend college, I got the chance to reconnect with her. It felt like I was trying to make up for lost time. I made a point to enjoy the moments we had, and to be present. I didn’t bring up the past or the complicated family dynamics—I just wanted to be her grandson.

    Grandma Marlys sitting next to Levi, both wearing glasses, in a cozy living room setting.

    Then life took me to the big city, and time slipped away again. As things settled down at school, I promised myself I’d see her at least once a year. I kept that promise for many years. I was lucky to have an amazing friend. He would drive me the two-and-a-half-hour drive, just so I could spend an hour or so with her. We shared a meal and a laugh.

    Grandma Marlys in a blue hoodie, resting her arm on her Levi's as they sit close together in a warmly lit home setting.

    When she got sick, we all knew time was short. The family planned a birthday party for her, knowing it would be her last. Once again, my friends rallied around me. They drove me back to that small town. This allowed me to be there. I told her I loved her. I told her I was sorry I didn’t do more. I felt it deeply in my heart. I knew it would be the last time I’d get to say what I had been holding onto for years.

    On March 20, 2022, she passed. One final time, my friends stood by me. They drove me to her funeral because they knew—just as I did—that I needed to be there.

    “If you don’t want to, don’t say goodbye. Say I’ll see you around the next time.” – Ellis Delaney

    As a child, I didn’t have control over the choices being made around me. I felt powerless to bridge the gaps that had formed. But as an adult, I can make my own choices.

    I can choose to reach out, to show up, to hold onto the people I love while they’re still here. I can choose not to let the past dictate my present.

    I am not capable of changing what happened, but I can learn from it. And I can make sure that when I look back, I have no regrets about the love I’ve given.

    Love is something we can choose to hold onto, even when time and distance try to pull us apart. It’s in the memories, the laughter, and the simple moments we share.

    I carry my love for Grandma Marlys with me, not just in my heart. It is clear in how I choose to live. I strive to be present. I cherish those I care about. I also never let love go unspoken.

    I can’t change the past. I can only strive to be a better person. I aim to do what I know is right. I want to honor the people I love while I still have time.

    I love you, Grandma Marlys. Always.

    Check out my friend Ellis Delaney and their song Wherever You Are on Bandcamp.

  • Here We Go Again

    I Hate Writing About This, But I Have To

    I don’t like talking about politics on social media, and I certainly don’t like writing about it here. But this isn’t about politics—it’s about livelihood.

    I feel like I’ve written this post a dozen times. I hate that I have to keep writing about government funding, budget cuts, and restructuring. I hate that every few months, I have to sit down and explain. Once again, I must clarify why Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid aren’t just line items on a budget. They are lifelines for millions of people, including myself.

    I wish I didn’t have to keep writing about this. I won’t stay silent until I am confident that my future is safe. The future of millions of others must also be safe for me to stay silent. Because the moment we stop speaking out, those in power believe they can do whatever they want.

    Why This Matters (Again)

    There’s talk of making deep cuts to Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. Do I think it’ll happen? Maybe not to the extent being proposed, but the fact that it’s even a possibility is terrifying. Medicaid/Medicare is a life line for people like me.

    If it does happen, here’s what it means for me:

    • SSDI helps cover my portion of household bills and the costs of having a service dog. I work part-time, but last year, I made about $1,600 before taxes—not nearly enough to live on.
    • Medicare covers my $50,000 power wheelchair. If they slash funding, approvals for equipment and repairs could take months. If my chair breaks down, my independence is gone.
    • Medicare and Medicaid cover my PCA (Personal Care Assistant) hours. These hours help me conserve energy. This way, I can focus on things that bring me joy. Examples of these activities are writing and spending time with friends. If they take those hours away, I risk serious health consequences. Even a reduction means needing a shoulder replacement sooner rather than later.

    And then there’s Jason, my longtime PCA, who also relies on this income. If his hours are cut, he loses a major source of financial stability. That means losing our home. It’s that simple.

    This isn’t just about me. This is about millions of people—seniors, disabled folks, low-income families—who depend on these programs to survive.

    In a recent Disability Scoop post dated March 19, 2025, they tell the story of Xavier. He has a rare genetic immune disorder. It undermines his body’s ability to fight disease. California’s Medicaid program, Medi-Cal, provides Xavier with the treatments he needs. It offers resources to his family as well. This support helps him live as normal of a life as possible.

    His mother is quoted saying:

    “It’s allowed him to go to school. It’s allowed him to be home and not living in a hospital 24 hours a day,”

    Parents of children with special health care needs aren’t the only ones raising concerns about potential cuts. Disability advocates, health care providers, budget analysts, and state lawmakers have also voiced alarm. The House proposal passed on February 25 does not explicitly call for Medicaid cuts.

    Nonetheless, it instructs the House Energy and Commerce Committee. This committee oversees the program. It needs to find $880 billion in savings over the next decade. According to experts, reaching that level of savings would be nearly impossible without reducing Medicaid funding.

    I Hate Writing About This, But I Can’t Stop

    Every time I write about Social Security or Medicare or government cuts, I feel like a broken record. I’ve covered this before:

    And yet, here we are again.

    I wish I could stop writing about this. I wish I could move on. But I can’t. The second we stop talking about it, the people in power win. The moment we get exhausted and say “Oh well, nothing we can do,” they triumph.

    What Can We Do?

    • Talk about it.
      • Even if it feels repetitive, even if it’s exhausting—keep the conversation going.
    • Contact your legislators.
      • I know, I know—Congress is a mess. But if enough of us make noise, they have to listen.
    • Get your story out there.
      • Talk to the media.
      • Write to local newspapers.
      • Use social media.

    I don’t want to write another post like this in six days, in six weeks, or in six months. But if I have to, I will.

    Because this isn’t politics. This is life.

    Read More:

  • Left Behind by the Democrats

    Left Behind by the Democrats

    Over the past few months, I’ve written extensively about the changes unfolding in our government. I’ve also discussed their impact on our communities.

    There have been drastic budget cuts to Social Security. There is also an urgent need for reform in Minnesota’s disability services. I’ve delved into the pressing issues that affect us all. I’ve also explored the challenges faced by the LGBTQIA+ community, highlighting the growing need for advocacy and support.

    Amid these discussions, I’ve felt an increasing urge to share more of my personal story. Shortly after the 2024 presidential election, I wrote a piece that I wasn’t quite ready to publish. It was raw, emotional, and an honest reflection on feeling left behind by the Democratic Party. While I shared it with a few close friends, I hesitated to make it public. I wasn’t sure how it would be received—and, frankly, I wasn’t ready for the potential backlash.

    I continue writing about the state of our nation and the impacts of policy changes on disability support services. I realize that my personal story is an essential part of this broader conversation.

    The emotions I felt in November 2024 still resonate. They affect not just me but many others too. These emotions reach those who feel disconnected, disillusioned, and left behind.

    Today, I’m ready to share this piece with you. I’ve made some edits to improve readability and included links to cited sources. My hope is that it resonates with you. I wish it sparks meaningful conversations. I also hope it encourages all of us to think critically about the direction we’re headed as a country.

    Left Behind by the Democrats

    A Personal Reflection on the Democratic Party’s Disconnect and the Fight for Our Rights

    By Levi Dokken | November 7, 2024

    I have been sitting here with a lot of feelings—sadness, anger, even rage. Part of me wanted to lash out at the people who voted for Donald Trump. To work through these emotions, I felt the need to sit down and write.

    Writing helps me release emotions. It allows me to express my thoughts. By expressing them, they don’t consume me.

    The Disconnect Between the Democratic Party and Rural America

    Donald Trump has won, and I believe it’s because the Democrats failed. They have failed the people they claim to represent. They are no longer the party of working men and women. Just look at the state of Minnesota. It went for Harris but is still a sea of red. There is only a small island of blue. The party only focuses on the areas where they need electoral votes to win the overall race.

    I grew up in a small town in Minnesota. I saw firsthand that most people in my community weren’t necessarily concerned with national politics.

    They focused more on day-to-day struggles. They were figuring out how to put food on the table. They were also finding money to cover the mortgage. They worried about what to do if their child needed braces and health insurance didn’t cover it.

    Candidates campaigned across the United States. They focused primarily on so-called battleground states and urban areas. They believed these areas would secure enough votes for them.

    Small towns across the nation increasingly feel disconnected from the Democratic Party. They believe the party has shifted its focus toward urban and coastal issues. This shift comes at the expense of rural communities.

    The Electoral System: A Barrier to Representation

    I often wonder if political candidates would pay more attention to smaller towns if votes were delegated differently. They might also focus on smaller states.

    Our current electoral system feels outdated. It resembles a relic of an age long since dead. In it, the voices of a few battleground states dictate the direction of the entire country.

    What if we had a more localized electoral college system within each state?

    For example, if each county were assigned an electoral vote, it might create a more balanced representation. The majority vote within a county would decide how that county’s electoral vote was cast. This system could offer an option to the current popular vote system that most states use to assign their delegates.

    Disappointment with Democratic Leadership

    Joe Biden announced he was running for a second term. I had a strong feeling he was going to lose.

    In 2020, he claimed he would be a transitional president. What happened to that promise? He was unwilling to even hold a primary. I was much more enthusiastic about the possibility of MN Rep. Dean Phillips entering the race. The Democrats, however, dismissed it, holding fast to the tradition that the incumbent automatically runs for re-election.

    Watching the first presidential debate, I was floored. Both candidates seemed unfit to hold the highest office in the land.

    Biden stumbled with his words and thoughts; at times, he seemed unable to keep his ideas in order. Trump wasn’t much better—he mostly rehashed grievances from 2020 without offering a clear plan for change.

    Project 2025: A Threat to Disability Rights

    Project 2025 adds to my concern. It is a plan from The Heritage Foundation. The next administration might choose to implement it.

    According to the Disability Rights Education & Defense Fund, this plan proposes changes with deep impacts on programs like Medicaid. It introduces funding caps, stricter eligibility requirements, and time limits.

    These changes could drastically reduce access to essential services for people with disabilities. Services like medical equipment, personal care attendants (PCAs), and specialist visits are crucial. They are necessary for maintaining health and independence.

    For me, Medicaid covers my specialist visits. It also covers my nearly $50,000 power wheelchair and repairs. Additionally, it covers the cost of my partner, Jason, as my PCA.

    How Do We Talk to Those Who Voted for Trump?

    How do I talk to my friends and family who voted for Donald Trump? How do I understand their choice to support someone who has assaulted women? He attempted to overturn a fair election. He also incited his supporters to storm the Capitol.

    Some of Trump’s supporters hold harmful views. However, I believe most are simply scared, misinformed, or longing for a past they believe he can bring back.

    I don’t want to cut these people out of my life, especially when many are lifelong friends or family. We can still be connected; we just may not talk about politics.

    What Can I Do Moving Forward?

    I’ve shared many things with you. The Democratic Party’s disconnect from rural America is concerning. Our electoral system has flaws. Policies like Project 2025 carry potential consequences. There’s a growing divide among friends and family. I can’t help but feel a mix of frustration and overwhelm.

    The future feels uncertain. These decisions could have long-lasting effects. They could also have life-changing effects for myself and those I care about. I find myself sitting here after writing this, asking myself, What can I do?

    As one voice out of millions, not much. But I can be part of something bigger. When others raise their voices against the incoming administration’s policies, I can stand with them. I can support the women in my life, the friends who feel vulnerable right now. I can do my part, however small, to work toward a future that protects everyone’s rights and dignity.

    Will you join me?

    Sources

  • Squishy Boy: A Love Letter to My Gentle Dog

    Squishy Boy: A Love Letter to My Gentle Dog

    The other day, I wrote a poem called Ghost in the Wiggles about Dempsey and his lingering spirit. As I reflected on Dempsey’s story, I realized Surley deserved his own tribute, too. Unlike Dempsey, Surley is my “squishy boy”—not because of his size, but because of his soft and tender spirit. He’s a dog who needs the world to be gentle, who thrives on a calm voice and a soft touch.

    Living with a soft dog like Surley has been both a lesson and a gift. He’s taught me to breathe before the storm, to find patience when frustration blooms. This poem, Squishy Boy, is a love letter to his delicate heart. It is also about the journey we’ve shared to understand each other.

    Squishy Boy

    You are my squishy boy.
    Not fat—just tender.
    Your blonde hair, soft as your heart.

    You are my squishy boy.
    I must handle you with care—
    a soft touch, a soft voice.
    Sometimes, that’s not easy.

    You are my squishy boy.
    In the beginning, frustration bloomed.
    The TV volume rose and fell—
    a ghost in the remote.

    I fought with it,
    tried to keep the world gentle,
    so the noise wouldn’t hurt you.

    I wasn’t mad at you—
    but you thought I was.

    You are my squishy boy.
    You sought safety,
    curled up with him, not me.
    It hurt. It still hurts.
    I was only trying to protect you.

    You are my squishy boy.
    I learned early on—
    sudden sounds could startle you,
    prickle your gentle spirit.

    I only wanted to protect you,
    but you misunderstood my frustration.

    You are my squishy boy.
    You have taught me to temper my rage,
    to breathe before the storm.

    You are my squishy boy.
    You must always carry something—
    from first light to bedtime.

    Your turtles, soft and worn,
    are never far from your mouth.
    They give you strength,
    a comfort you can hold.

    You bring them to bed when I let you,
    tucking them close as we curl up,
    safe and snug together.

    You are my squishy boy.
    You crave reassurance,
    always near me, on me.
    At first, it felt like too much, suffocating,
    but now, it feels sweet.

    I am your rock.
    I am your safe space.
    And you—
    you are my squishy boy.