Wheels On Down the Road

Category: Life & Perspective

Personal experiences, reflections, accessibility topics, and disability advocacy.

  • When School Safety Plans Leave Students Behind

    When School Safety Plans Leave Students Behind

    I wasn’t sure how much more I was going to say about the recent school shooting at Annunciation Catholic School. But then I stumbled across an article in the Minnesota Star Tribune, and it stopped me in my tracks.

    We practice drills in school—lock downs, tornado, fire—because safety matters. I remember those drills vividly from my own time in elementary school. My experience was never quite like my classmates’.

    During tornado drills, everyone crouched on the floor, arms covering their necks. Me? Still sitting upright in my wheelchair, because that was the safest option we had.

    Fire drills were even more complicated. I remember a specific instance when the alarm went off. No one was sure if it was a drill or the real thing. Elevators can’t be used in an actual fire, but that day, there wasn’t time to debate. A staff member just scooped me up and carried me down three flights of stairs. I sat on the grass outside without my chair until we got the all-clear.

    I applaud that staff member for their quick thinking in getting me out of the building. I also applaud the Annunciation staff. They pulled a student out of his wheelchair and shielded him with their bodies. Those moments were heroic—but they were also unplanned. They happened because people acted on instinct, not because the system had a clear, inclusive plan.

    The Hard Truth: Our Plans Have Gaps

    Yes, emergency procedures can be written into IEPs. Many do. But let’s be honest—you can’t plan for every scenario. Right now, too many schools are failing to plan for some of the most basic ones.

    Here’s the reality for students with disabilities:

    • They may not be able to flatten to the ground during a lock down.
    • They may not move as fast as their peers—or at all—when evacuating.
    • They may not cognitively understand what’s happening in the chaos and could unintentionally move toward danger.

    These are life-or-death gaps. And yet, they’re rarely talked about until tragedy strikes.

    What Minnesota Requires—and Where It Falls Short

    Minnesota law requires schools to have comprehensive emergency plans, and those plans are supposed to include students with disabilities. Best practices suggest:

    • Individual Evacuation Plans for students who need them
    • Accessible alerts for students with hearing or vision impairments
    • Specialized evacuation equipment, like stair chairs

    But in practice, these things don’t always happen. Many schools still:

    • Skip individualized drills because they’re time-consuming
    • Lack staff training for evacuating students with disabilities
    • Depend on instinct in emergencies, instead of clear systems

    That gap between policy and practice is dangerous—and it needs attention now.

    The Bigger Picture: Gun Violence and Safety for All

    I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again:

    • We need common-sense gun reform.
    • We need mental health screenings.
    • We do not need weapons of war on our streets.

    I support the Second Amendment. I support responsible gun ownership. But firearms designed to fire dozens of rounds in seconds have no place in civilian life. They exist for one purpose: destruction.

    Until laws change, we live in a reality where lock down drills and emergency plans are essential. That reality must include every student.

    What Needs to Happen Now

    We can’t just design safety for the majority and leave the minority behind. Here’s what schools should be doing now:

    • Individualized Safety Plans for every student with mobility, sensory, or cognitive disabilities
    • Regular drills that include students with disabilities (not afterthought drills)
    • Evacuation equipment and staff training to make sure no one is left behind
    • Collaboration with first responders so they know how to assist students with disabilities during real emergencies

    Why This Matters

    I hate writing about this. It breaks me to even think about it. But ignoring it won’t make it go away. These conversations matter because too often, we design for the majority and leave the rest to fend for themselves.

    It’s time to change that. Every student deserves a clear, safe path in an emergency. No exceptions.

    We can’t wait for another headline to have this conversation. Start it now—because safety should never be optional.

    What You Can Do Today

    • Ask your school if students with disabilities have individualized safety plans.
    • Talk to your school board about inclusive drills and evacuation equipment.
    • Advocate at the state level for stronger accountability and resources for schools.

    Resources for Parents and Advocates

  • When Your Service Dog Decides to Channel His Inner Dolphin

    Service dogs are amazing. They open doors, retrieve dropped items, keep us safe, and make life possible in ways that people don’t always see. But here’s the truth people sometimes forget: even the best-trained working dog is still, at the core, a dog. And dogs… well, they have urges.

    Surley after his great plaza water adventure

    Case in point: Surley and the Great Plaza Water Adventure.

    It was one of those gorgeous sunny days that makes every fountain look like a personal invitation to cool off. Surley and I were rolling through a plaza with these shallow streams running across the walkway. He was being so good—focused, steady—but I saw that look. You know the one. Ears slightly perked, tail thinking about wagging, eyes saying, “Boss… water. WATER.”

    I thought, What’s the harm in letting him cool off? So, I stopped, unbuckled his cape, and unclipped his leash so I could stash the gear in my bag. I swear, I didn’t even finish the thought before—WHOOSH!—he was gone. Full-on zoomies. Water flying everywhere. The Labrador joy dial cranked to eleven.

    “Surley! Hey! Come back!” I called, while watching him leap straight into the forbidden water feature like it was the dog Olympics. And honestly? The sheer happiness on his face was priceless.

    Then came the plaza police. They stroll over and go, “Sir, dogs need to be on a leash at all times.”

    And there I am, holding a soggy leash with a grin that says “Yeah… about that.”

    “Sorry,” I said, “he’s usually a professional, but today he decided to… freelance.”

    Look, I get it. Rules are rules. But here’s the thing: Surley spends 99% of his day doing everything right. He resists squirrels, ignores dropped french fries, and basically acts like a canine saint in public. He sometimes has those moments of pure dog joy, even if it means a little embarrassment for me.

    And that’s the part people sometimes miss. Working dogs don’t stop being dogs when you put a vest on them. They need chances to run, play, and get goofy. They should avoid spaces where dogs aren’t allowed. It could be dangerous in those places. I normally take Surley to off-leash areas or quiet places where he can zoom safely. But every now and then, life throws a fountain in your path, and your dog decides to audition for Baywatch.

    So yeah, Surley got me a polite talking-to from the plaza police. And you know what? I’m not even mad. Because that moment? That was pure happiness. And he deserves that.

    Takeaways for Service Dog Handlers and the Public

    For Handlers:

    • Build in off-duty time. Your dog works hard—schedule play sessions where they can let loose safely.
    • Choose the right space. Off-leash parks, fenced yards, or quiet areas away from traffic and hazards are best.
    • Stay in control. Even during playtime, make sure recall skills are sharp so you can bring your dog back quickly.

    For the Public:

    • Respect the bond. Service dogs aren’t robots; they’re living, loving animals who deserve joy too.
    • Don’t judge a moment. If you see a working dog playing off-duty, it doesn’t mean they’re untrained. It doesn’t mean their handler is irresponsible. It means they’re getting a well-earned break.
  • The Tug-of-War Between Thinking and Speaking

    The Tug-of-War Between Thinking and Speaking

    Ever felt like your mouth and your brain are in a tug-of-war? That’s me, whenever a sensitive topic comes up especially when it’s not about me directly. I want to say something, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Here’s what I’ve learned about breaking that silence.

    There’s something I want to admit: When conversations get sensitive, I often stay silent. These are especially topics that don’t directly affect me. It’s not because I don’t care or I’m indifferent. Far from it. I stay silent because I struggle to express what’s on my mind. I worry about sounding insensitive or stepping on someone’s toes.

    I’ve caught myself biting my tongue more times than I can count. It’s not because I lack an opinion.

    It is because I’m afraid of how my words might land. I worry about being labeled a bigot, or racist, or narrow-minded, simply for sharing my honest perspective. And honestly? That fear sometimes feels paralyzing.

    People often assume silence means indifference. But in my experience, it’s usually the opposite: a mix of empathy, self-awareness, and caution.

    It’s that inner struggle. You want to contribute meaningfully. However, you don’t want to cause harm or come across the wrong way.

    The problem is, if I wait until I can say everything perfectly, I might never speak at all. And I know I’m not alone in this. Many people wrestle with how to balance sharing their truth with being respectful and open.

    So here’s what I’ve learned helps me:

    • Start by sharing my intent: making it clear I’m coming from a place of care and curiosity, not judgment.
    • Acknowledge my own limitations: recognizing when something isn’t my lived experience and being open to correction.
    • Focus on sharing one clear thought at a time, rather than trying to say everything all at once.
    • Leave room for dialogue: inviting others to share their perspectives and help me see what I might be missing.

    It’s not perfect, and I still stumble sometimes. But speaking this way has helped me move from silence to conversation without feeling like I’m walking a verbal tightrope.

    I’m sharing this because I plan to open up about some sensitive issues in the future. And I want you, the reader, to know. When I do, it’s coming from a place of honesty and respect. Even if it’s imperfect.

    If you ever find yourself hesitating to speak up for fear of saying the wrong thing, know you’re not alone. It’s okay to be cautious, but don’t let that stop you from sharing your thoughts and feelings. The world needs your voice, even if it’s sometimes a little rough around the edges.

  • What Symbols Say…and What They Don’t

    What Symbols Say…and What They Don’t

    Content Note:

    This post explores personal safety, public perception, and disability. It examines the powerful role of symbolism in shaping how we see each other. It includes candid reflections on behavior, clothing, and stereotyping.

    My goal is to examine how snap judgments affect perceptions. Cultural bias, lived experience, and survival instinct often shape these judgments.

    My goal is not to reinforce harmful narratives. These are sensitive topics, and I approach them with honesty, nuance, and a desire to encourage thoughtful dialogue, not division.

    Hats, Songs, and Snap Judgments

    I was listening to Jason Aldean’s Try That in a Small Town the other day, and it got me thinking.

    Not about the music itself—though it’s catchy in that flag-waving, boot-stomping way, but about the reaction it sparked. The song blew up. It was not because of a brilliant guitar solo or a poetic turn of phrase. It gained popularity because people saw it as more than a song. For some, it was a patriotic anthem. For others, a veiled threat.

    Like another modern American lightning rod: the MAGA hat.

    That bright red cap, simple as it is, might be one of the most instantly polarizing accessories in U.S. history. To some, it’s just a political statement. To others, it might as well be a warning flare.

    So what is it about these symbols—songs, hats, slogans, flags—that causes such intense reactions? Why do some people feel pride when they see them, while others feel fear?

    And most importantly, what can we do to see past the symbol and engage with the person?

    When a Song Becomes a Flashpoint

    Released in 2023, Try That in a Small Town went viral. It reached not just the charts, but also spread across headlines, op-eds, and furious threads. The lyrics paint a picture of small-town loyalty. They highlight tough consequences for crime. Aldean made no secret of the song’s pro-law-and-order message.

    But it wasn’t just the lyrics. The music video, initially filmed at a Tennessee courthouse where a Black teenager was lynched in 1927, paired Aldean’s performance with scenes of violent protests and looting. To many, that imagery—plus the song’s aggressive tone—felt racially charged and threatening.

    To others, it felt honest. Real. A voice for people who believe their rural communities and traditional values are mocked or misunderstood.

    So which is it?

    Well… both. And that’s the point.

    When a Hat Isn’t Just a Hat

    The MAGA hat follows a similar logic. Originally a campaign slogan, “Make America Great Again” has morphed into a political identity. Wear it, and you’re instantly tagged—by strangers on the street, by friends on Facebook, by whoever is across the room.

    Some wear it proudly to show support for Trump. They also wear it to push back against what they see as cancel culture. Others see it as a stance against coastal elitism.

    Others view the hat as a threat—a symbol of racism, exclusion, even violence. And not without reason: plenty of people have used it as a tool of intimidation.

    The reality? The hat isn’t magic. It doesn’t turn someone into a villain—or a hero. But it does carry the weight of what’s been done in its name.

    The Red-Hat Moment: My Brain Took a Shortcut

    I’ll admit it. I’ve had my own knee-jerk reaction. Not long ago I was visiting a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. As I walked up, I spotted that familiar shape on their head: bright red cap, bold white lettering.

    My stomach dropped. I hadn’t pegged them as the MAGA type. For a moment, I felt this weird swirl of disappointment. Confusion and even a little anxiety crept in.

    Then I got closer. The hat? Totally apolitical…just a diner logo. My brain had filled in the blanks—and fast. That’s how potent the MAGA symbol has become: it hijacked my perception before I even focused my eyes.

    Safety, Perception, and Lived Experience

    Snap judgments don’t stop with red hats. They fire when someone’s clothes or body language feel threatening.

    When someone gives off an aggressive or unpredictable vibe, I naturally tense up! it’s less about what they look like and more about the energy they’re projecting. It doesn’t matter their race or background; if the energy feels off, I stay on alert.

    As a person with a disability, I live with the reality that I’m more vulnerable in public spaces. If someone decides I’m an easy target, I can’t always run, fight back, or vanish. Statistics on crime against disabled folks are grim.

    So yes, my guard goes up. I’m scanning for risk.

    But I also know those gut reactions aren’t perfect. They’re shaped by media, experience, and survival instincts that don’t always leave room for nuance. That’s not an excuse it’s just the tension I live with: protecting myself without dehumanizing someone else in the process.

    Being on the Other Side of the Assumptions

    Here’s the twist I don’t just make snap judgments. I’m on the receiving end of them all the time.

    Because I move differently, people assume I think differently. They slow their speech, over-enunciate, or talk to the person next to me instead of me. Apparently physical disability = mental disability in their shortcut-happy brains.

    It’s dehumanizing and exhausting. It springs from the exact same place as those red-hat and hoodie reactions. It is that lightning-fast visual assessment we love to rely on. So yes, I get why we judge symbols. I also know what it feels like when that judgment erases who I actually am.

    Why Our Brains Go There

    We’re wired to simplify. Symbols help us sort the world into friend or foe in milliseconds. Efficient, sure—accurate? Not always.

    Songs and hats are easy to judge. People are messy. When we reduce someone to the symbol they’re sporting, we lose the story of why they believe what they believe.

    So What Can We Do?

    • Get curious, not furious. Ask, “What does that mean to you?” instead of “How dare you wear that?”
    • See the person, not the brand. Humans are never one-note.
    • Balance intention and impact. Harm can happen even without malice.
    • Know when to walk away. Some folks wield symbols purely to provoke. You don’t have to oblige.

    More Listening, Less Labeling

    “Try that in a small town,” the song challenges.

    Maybe we should try talking in one. Or in a city. Or across the dinner table. Not to convert just to understand.

    Symbols will always carry power. But so do our choices especially the choice to look beyond the surface.

  • Lost in Translation on the Bus

    Lost in Translation on the Bus

    The other night, I was waiting for the Minnesota United vs. Portland Timbers match to start on Apple TV. The screen hadn’t gone live yet, so there was the usual pregame placeholder: “The game will begin shortly.” Nothing revolutionary—except it wasn’t just in English. It was in multiple languages.

    Just a quiet, rotating message that said: “We see you. You’re included.”

    And it made me think—why don’t we do this everywhere?

    A Bus Ride I Won’t Forget

    Last week, I was riding the bus through Minneapolis. I noticed a woman with two young children. They were struggling to understand why the bus wasn’t stopping at the location she expected. She looked confused and increasingly distressed.

    From what I could tell, she didn’t speak English, or at least not fluently. She clearly didn’t understand the driver’s responses or the automated announcements. Her kids looked just as lost.

    This wasn’t a case of someone zoning out and missing their stop. This was a breakdown in communication—one that could’ve been avoided if our transit system acknowledged the city’s rich multilingual population.

    Minneapolis Isn’t Monolingual. So Why Is Our Transit System?

    Minneapolis is home to large Somali, Hmong, Spanish-speaking, Oromo, and Amharic communities. And yet Metro Transit, like most U.S. public transit systems, communicates primarily in English.

    Let’s be honest—who is that really serving?

    Apple TV can take the time to translate “the game will begin shortly” into multiple languages. They do this before a soccer match. Then surely a public transit system can do the same. It should help people trying to get to work, school, the grocery store—or just home.

    And it’s not like this is uncharted territory. In fact, transit systems around the world are already doing this better than we are.

    How It’s Done Around the World

    When I visited Canada, every single transit announcement I heard was in both English and French. Sure, those are the country’s official languages, but it’s still a prime example of how baked-in language access can be. It sends the message: You’re not an afterthought.

    Japan took it a step further leading up to the Tokyo Olympics. According to Kyodo News train stations across the country added signage and announcements In Japanese, English, Chinese, and Korean. This was not just for tourists, but for a globally connected population. They understood that access means everyone can navigate independently.

    And it’s not limited to subways. Airports across the world, from Europe to Asia, are far more likely to offer clear signage. They often provide multilingual signage compared to most American transit systems. That’s because in many places, multilingual infrastructure isn’t a novelty it’s the standard.

    This kind of inclusion isn’t just functional—it’s intentional. According to Modulex, signage is more than just instruction; it’s a message of belonging. And if the signs and announcements only speak one language, what message are we sending? the dominant language. So they build systems that reflect reality instead of ignoring it.

    Why Aren’t We Doing This?

    There are a few reasons you’ll hear tossed around:

    • Budget constraints. (“We can’t afford that.”)
    • Technical limitations. (“Our announcement system is too old.”)
    • Thinly veiled xenophobia. (“If you’re here, you should speak English.”)

    But let’s be real: those are excuses, not explanations. If we can add WiFi to buses, we can update a few audio files. If we can add QR codes to shelters, we can update digital displays.

    Multilingual signage and communication don’t just make things easier—they build trust. As House of Signs puts it, these tools “break barriers and bridge cultures.” They create spaces that feel safer. These spaces become more welcoming to everyone who uses them. trust. If people don’t feel seen or understood, they’re less likely to rely on a system that doesn’t work for them.

    What Needs to Change

    Here’s what Metro Transit—and any transit system—could start doing tomorrow:

    • Add bilingual announcements (English + Spanish) as the baseline.
    • Expand to include Somali, Hmong, and other locally relevant languages.
    • Use digital signage to rotate announcements visually in multiple languages.
    • Work with community partners to co-create solutions that work for real people not theoretical riders in a planning spreadsheet.

    Language Access Isn’t a Bonus It’s a Right

    That mom on the bus didn’t need a translator or a heroic bystander. She needed a system that saw her coming and made space for her to get where she was going.

    If we truly want to be a city that works for everyone, then we must include everyone. This includes the languages they speak, read, and understand.

    Let’s stop pretending that monolingual transit is good enough. It isn’t. We can improve. The first step might be as simple as saying, “The next stop is Lake Street…” in more than one language.

    Sources / Further Reading:

  • When the Seats Are Gone Before We Even Have a Chance: The Quiet Battle for ADA Accessibility at Concerts

    When the Seats Are Gone Before We Even Have a Chance: The Quiet Battle for ADA Accessibility at Concerts

    An article in the Star Tribune debated whether the 2025 Minnesota State Fair Grandstand lineup is “subpar” or just misunderstood. It had me thinking, but probably not in the way the author intended. The article focused on whether the lineup lives up to the musical reputation of the Fair, and honestly? I get the debate. Would I love to see a tier-one, stadium-filling act take the stage? Absolutely. But let’s be real—the Minnesota State Fair isn’t Live Nation. They’re not printing money behind the corn dog stand.

    This is a community-rooted event trying to appeal to a wide range of people with limited resources. And for what it’s worth, I think they’re doing a solid job. Minnesota is a musically rich state. It is home to Prince, Bob Dylan, and a thriving local scene. We still attract well-known, respected artists, which says a lot about our cultural pull.

    But while the debate rages about whether the lineup is exciting enough, I’m sitting here wrestling with a different question:

    Why can’t I even get in the door?

    This year, there was a show I was eagerly anticipating. It was Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls. It sold out of ADA seating almost immediately. And when I say “immediately,” I mean lightning fast. No procrastination, no dragging my feet—I was there. I tried. But I still missed out.

    And this isn’t a one-time glitch. It happens again and again. If you’re a disabled person, trying to enjoy live music presents challenges. It often feels like your odds of getting a ticket are slim. In fact, it feels like they are almost none. And no one seems to be talking about it.

    Accessibility by the Numbers

    Let’s put it in perspective:

    • 1 in 4 Americans (26%) lives with a disability. (CDC)
    • Yet at many concert venues, fewer than 1–2% of seats are reserved as accessible.
    • A 2017 Government Accountability Office (GAO) report found that ADA ticket options are frequently resold. Venues rarely monitor whether those seats are being used appropriately. They also rarely check if the people using them actually need them.
    • Resale platforms (like StubHub or SeatGeek) generally do not verify disability status when ADA tickets are flipped. This creates a gray market. It further restricts legitimate access.

    ADA seats often disappear in the first few minutes of availability. This makes us wonder:

    • Were they sold to people with actual accessibility needs?
    • Were they grabbed by opportunists hoping to make a profit?

    The Bigger Problem

    It’s not just about fairness. It’s about dignity, equity, and inclusion. Being able to attend a concert—or a sporting event, or a theater performance—isn’t just entertainment. It’s part of participating in culture.

    And yet, the system is opaque at best, and exclusionary at worst. Many ticketing sites bury their ADA options behind unclear menus. Some require calling customer service (who has time to wait on hold for 45 minutes for one seat?). Others simply mark the tickets as “unavailable” without explanation. It’s frustrating. It’s disheartening. And it’s deeply isolating.

    What Needs to Change?

    Here’s what we should be asking of venues, ticketing platforms, and organizers:

    • Expand ADA seating capacity to better reflect the actual percentage of disabled people in the population.
    • Increase transparency around how many accessible seats are available and when they sell out.
    • Implement safeguards to reduce fraud and scalping—without violating privacy or dignity.
    • Design for inclusion from the beginning instead of retrofitting access as a checkbox.
    • Include disabled voices in planning and policy. Nothing about us, without us.

    What You Can Do:

    1. Observe and speak up. Notice how venues handle accessibility and don’t be afraid to call out poor design or treatment.
    2. Contact your local venues and fair organizers—let them know that ADA access isn’t optional.
    3. Support policy reform. Push for laws that improve ADA compliance and penalize misuse or scalping of accessible tickets.
    4. Amplify disabled voices. Share posts like this, read lived experiences, and help spread the word.

    Let’s Talk About It:

    I’d love to hear from others who’ve experienced this. Have you tried to get ADA tickets and hit a brick wall? Have you seen accessible seats taken by people who didn’t need them? What would you change?

    Drop your thoughts in the comments—let’s make this a conversation.

    Because live music should be for everyone. And that means we need to design systems that reflect that truth.

    Sources:

  • Writing What Moves Me

    Writing What Moves Me

    This was supposed to be just a Facebook post…

    I didn’t plan on writing this post.

    It started as a quiet, reflective moment. You realize just how much you’ve been writing lately. You start wondering why. Not just why you write, but why certain things strike that spark in the first place. Lately, it’s been the little things: a headline, a thought, an unexpected experience.

    Sometimes it’s something I’ve been chewing on for a while. Sometimes, it’s something that hits me in the moment. Either way, it always starts with curiosity and ends with a need to put it into words.

    From Flags to Elevators: Finding Meaning in the Everyday

    Last weekend, I read an article in the Star Tribune. It was about how some Minnesota cities are choosing not to fly the new state flag. That small decision triggered a lot of big questions for me: Why this flag? Why now? And why are local governments opting out? That led me to explore Minnesota’s flag history. More importantly, it prompted me to consider what symbols truly mean to the communities they are meant to represent.

     Flying Forward: Let’s Talk About the Flag Controversy

    During the same reading session, I came across another article. This one was about Elon Musk floating the idea of starting a third political party. Will he actually do it? I doubt it. But it opened up a much more interesting rabbit hole: what could a serious third party mean for the U.S.? Have we really been a two-party country forever? (Spoiler: not exactly.) I knew it wasn’t the post designed for clicks, but I wrote it anyway. Because it made me think.

    Not a Fan, Like the Plan

    Then came something a lot more personal. Jason got stuck in our apartment building elevator. In the basement. No way to get out. No easy way to communicate. That moment shook me, and not just because of the immediate concern for the person I love. I realized how fragile safety is when systems fail. It is easy for someone to be literally and metaphorically trapped without a voice.

    Trapped Without a Voice

    Time, Connection, and the Quiet Things

    A few days later, it hit me that the week was already flying by. I blinked, and it was suddenly Friday. When I was younger, time felt like it moved through molasses. These days, it barrels ahead like it’s trying to break a land speed record. It’s unsettling. But also a reminder: if we don’t stop and notice our days, we miss them completely.

    The Speed of Time

    And then there was my neighbor, John. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I’d been thinking about him just the day before. He’s in his nineties. He is still sharp. He still tinkers with classic cars. He still carries that calm, measured way that reminds me so much of my grandfather. There’s a quiet connection there, the kind you can’t explain but feel all the same. It reminded me how relationships, even the subtle ones, shape us.

    A Quiet Reminder

    So… Why Do I Write?

    Because I need to.

    Not for clicks. Not for likes. Not to chase trends. I write because something stirs in me. The only way I know how to make sense of it is by turning it into a story. A question. A shared moment.

    I write to reflect. To connect. To offer something real.

    If even one person reads what I’ve written and feels seen, my purpose is fulfilled. If they become curious or feel a little less alone, I’ve accomplished what I came here to do.

    What about you?

    What little things have made you stop and think lately? What everyday moments have sparked something deeper?

    I’d love to hear.

  • A Quiet Reminder: When the Universe Nudges You with Kindness

    A Quiet Reminder: When the Universe Nudges You with Kindness

    Funny how the world works.

    Just the other day, I found myself thinking about my neighbor John. He’s in his 90s, and I hadn’t seen him in a while. You know how it is when someone elderly hasn’t been around for a bit, the mind goes places. You hope they’re okay, but that little shadow of worry sneaks in.

    I don’t know John all that well. Our relationship has been stitched together by small, neighborly kindnesses.

    For a time, Surley and I would drop the Star Tribune at his door in the mornings. A few months ago, he stopped getting the paper. As those little routines tend to do, that small thread of connection quietly unraveled. We haven’t crossed paths in a while.

    John has always struck me as one of the good ones. Soft-spoken. Sweet. A gentle presence with a love for classic cars that’s stuck with him for decades.

    Cut from the Same Cloth

    And that’s where the memory of my grandfather, Garfield, comes rolling in.

    My grandpa Garfield, a mechanic in Benson, Minnesota. The smell of motor oil and the sound of a well-tuned engine were as natural to him as breathing.

    Grandpa Garfield was a mechanic in Benson, Minnesota—worked at the local Ford garage for years. The smell of motor oil, the sound of a well-tuned engine… those were as natural to him as breathing. He didn’t just love cars—he understood them. Working on them, talking about them, driving them. Engines were his language. He spoke it with a quiet and steady kindness. This kindness settled into your bones if you spent enough time around him.

    Last fall, I spotted John outside in the parking lot with one of his cars—he has a few. He was working on something under the hood, tools spread out on the ground, a rag in his hands. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, completely in his element.

    And for just a moment, I saw my grandpa.

    The way John moved felt familiar. The gentle focus felt familiar. The way he spoke when I called out a hello felt familiar. Two men, decades apart, sharing a love that never really leaves the hands. The kind of love that smells like grease and perseverance.

    I truly believe Grandpa Garfield and John would’ve gotten along famously. They’re cut from the same cloth wrenches in one pocket, stories in the other.

    And the Universe Listens

    Surley and I were coming in from the patio. tonight Who did we run into but John by the elevator. Upright. Moving. Still smiling.

    The universe, apparently, had heard my unspoken thoughts and decided to drop a little reassurance right in front of me.

    Surley, of course, was hoping John might have a cookie in his pocket. He didn’t, but he was happy enough with the pet and the hello. Tail wagging, body practically vibrating with joy.

    As for me? I was just happy to see that sweet old man still here. Still a part of this building. Still himself.

    It’s strange how these small moments, the ones that sneak up on you, can carry so much weight. A hallway hello. A familiar face. A quiet whisper from the universe saying, 

    “Hey, I see you. I know what you were thinking.”

    We move through life thinking big thoughts. We chase big answers. Sometimes, it’s the smallest encounters that fill in the gaps. That remind us of who we love. Of who we’ve been. Of who’s still around.

    Sometimes the universe doesn’t need to shout. Sometimes it just smiles at you near the elevator.

  • The Speed of Time

    The Speed of Time

    There’s been so much happening this week that I didn’t even realize tomorrow is Friday.

    Wasn’t it just Tuesday?

    Next thing I know, summer will be over. The sun will dip behind the trees a little earlier each night. The evenings will turn crisp. And soon enough, we’ll be brushing snow from our coats and wondering where the warm days went.

    I’ve only gone camping once this year. Once. And I’d like to go again before the snow flies and the long stillness of winter sets in.

    Time is strange like that.

    When you’re young, it drags. You want to grow up so badly to reach that next milestone. You want to finally be old enough to drive, to graduate, to move out.

    It feels like everything worth having is just out of reach, waiting on some distant shore.

    Then you get there.

    In college and those early years afterward, time starts to pick up. It begins to move at a steady jog instead of a crawl. You’re chasing things: jobs, rent, friendships, maybe love. You’re figuring things out. Some days still feel long, but the years start to feel shorter.

    And then you hit 30.

    At least, I did. And from that point on, it’s like time strapped on a pair of rocket boosters.

    Now I’m 41. Almost 42. And I can’t help but wonder what is the speed of time going to feel like when I’m 60?

    Or 70?

    Or…God help me…90?

    Will it keep accelerating until months feel like days and years like a blink?

    I don’t know. But what I do know is this: moments are all we really get.

    Little flashes. Fireflies in a jar. A dog curled up beside you. The crunch of gravel underfoot on a summer walk. The way the air smells before a storm. A cup of coffee in the early morning sun. A smile from a stranger.

    That’s all life is, in the end. A string of fleeting, fragile moments.

    So I’m trying, really trying, to enjoy them. To notice them. To breathe them in before they vanish.

    Because time doesn’t stop. But I can.

    Even if just for a moment.

  • Trapped Without a Voice: Elevator Safety for DeafBlind Residents

    Trapped Without a Voice: Elevator Safety for DeafBlind Residents

    Surley and I had quite the eventful morning.

    We started off with our usual walk through downtown Minneapolis and along the Loring Greenway. It was a beautiful day. We stretched our legs a little further and wandered through Loring Park. It looks strikingly different without the usual Pride festivities filling every inch.

    Then we crossed the Irene Hixon Whitney pedestrian bridge over Interstate I-94, Hennepin Avenue, and Lyndale Avenue. I stopped to snap a picture of Surley, who was looking particularly dashing in the breeze.

    Surley on the bridge.

    We entered the Sculpture Garden after rolling off of the bridge. This brought on a wave of memories. I remembered the time my Aunt Kate took my sister and me there one summer during a visit. She capped the trip off with Sebastian Joe’s ice cream, which triggered an instant craving. Nostalgia always knows where your sweet tooth lives.

    It had been a few years since I’d been there so I looked up the address on their website. I discovered they had affogato on the menu, espresso over ice cream, and that was it. We were going.

    After a few minor detours thanks to road construction in the area, classic Minnesota summer, we made it. I ordered affogato with chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Unexpectedly bold and delightful. Then I spotted the chocolate chip cookies and, well, you know how that goes.

    Chocolate, peanut butter, espresso is a deliciously dangerous combination.

    Cue: emergency mode.

    So there I was cookie in one hand, affogato in the other, soaking in the calm of a summer morning…

    …and then my phone buzzed.

    “help i am stuck in elevator”

    At first I was a little confused. It was random and out of the blue. I sent a follow up message seeking clarification. When I didn’t get a response, I sent another message. After not hearing back for about five minutes, I started to get worried. This was outside of his normal behavior.

    Jason managed to send another message with a few more details. He was stuck between the basement and first floor of our apartment building, where cell signal was weak. The elevator’s emergency call box was no help—unsurprising, given that he’s Deaf and has low vision.

    He also sent a brief video. From that, I called 911 and explained the situation: a Deaf and low vision person was trapped in an elevator. I let them know the office was closed and no one was answering the phone. Thanks to the video, I could tell the dispatcher exactly which elevator he was in and where it had stopped.

    Quick PSA: Many counties in Minnesota, including Hennepin, support text-to-911. It’s a good choice for folks who can’t speak or hear during emergencies. But not everyone knows it’s available, and it doesn’t always work well underground.

    Once help was on the way, I woke Surley from his nap on the cool tile floor and jogged home.

    Surley napping on the cool tile floor at Sebastian Joe’s.

    Poor Surley, tongue lolling and tail wagging, worked hard to keep pace. He trotted beside me as we walked home at mach 10 like a champ.

    By the time we returned, Jason had just gotten out with help from the fire department. He was headed to the store with a friend. He was okay: hot, sweaty, but safe.

    Afterwards

    Later, we sat down. We talked through everything that had happened. The more I heard, the more disturbing the story became.

    Jason had taken the elevator down to grab some things from his storage unit. When it stopped in the basement, the doors didn’t open. He tried hitting the “door open” button. Nothing. He attempted to go back up to the first floor. He swiped his fob for access to his floor. Still nothing.

    Because of his low vision, he had trouble seeing what floor the elevator thought it was on. There were no audible cues. He pressed the emergency “help” button. He wasn’t sure whether it activated. The indicator was too small and hard to see. He backed up further and got on his knees. Only then was he able to see the blinking red light. He used text-to-speech on his iPhone. He said, “I’m Deaf, stuck in elevator.”

    He also tried live captioning on his phone to transcribe the audio from the speaker. He hoped it would tell him that someone was on the line. No matter where he placed his phone nothing came through clearly enough to be transcribed into words. Even though he is deaf, he can hear static and muffled sounds when using his hearing aids. However, he cannot make out words in detail.

    He stayed surprisingly calm, even though his hands were shaking, which made texting and filming difficult. He immediately noticed somewhat bright yellow light just below the floor display. It was a fire dept override. This reassured him that the fire department was here. It put him at ease that they were working to get him out.

    Eventually, the fire department and an elevator tech arrived and got the doors open. Jason had to step up about a foot to climb out: hot, rattled, and understandably frustrated. But he was, in his own words later, “unfazed.” (Though I think he was being generous with himself.)

    Surley resting in the AC after the day’s events.

    After the dust settled, I spoke with our apartment manager.

    I explained why I called 911. They told me I should’ve left a message on the office line. They assured me they would have responded promptly.

    Now look I get the desire for tenants to follow procedure. But here’s the thing: there was no one in the office. No one answered the phone. The voicemail simply said, “Leave a message for maintenance emergencies.”

    This wasn’t a dripping faucet. A Deaf and low vision resident was stuck in a sealed metal box. There was no clear way for him to call for help. He was starting to overheat. I wasn’t about to wait and hope someone checked their voicemail.

    If I hadn’t answered his text message what would’ve happened? How long would Jason have waited?

    He pushed the “help” button in the elevator. He was using text-to-speech to relay a message. Did the dispatcher realize they were speaking to someone who couldn’t hear them? Was the dispatcher aware of the communication barrier? Did they think it was pressed by accident? Would they have done anything?

    I didn’t want to find out the hard way. So I called 911. And I’d do it again.

    But it raises some real concerns.

    People with disabilities are often left out of emergency planning. Even when the systems are technically in place, they don’t always work when you truly need them. This includes systems like text-to-911 and live captions.

    WWYD (What Would You Do?)

    So, I pose this question to you:

    If you were in my shoes…
    Would you have called 911?
    Would you have left a voicemail and waited?
    Would you have done something else?

    Let me know in the comments. If you live in an apartment building, especially one with older elevators, take a minute. Check what your emergency plan looks like. Talk to your neighbors. Learn your options.

    Because accessibility shouldn’t depend on luck. It shouldn’t hinge on a single person being available to answer a phone. It should be built in — thoughtfully, thoroughly, and proactively.

    Call to Action

    If you didn’t know about text-to-911, now you do. Check your local county’s website to confirm it’s available where you live. Share this post with someone who might not be aware. Accessibility starts with awareness.

    Resources