Wheels On Down the Road

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  • When the Season Shifts

    When the Season Shifts

    When I first became a soccer fan, I never thought much about the weather. It was just part of the experience. The game and I have evolved. I’ve started thinking about how changing seasons shape what accessibility really means for fans like me. Changing bodies also influences this meaning.

    I’ve been reading about Major League Soccer’s proposed move to a fall–spring schedule. I understand the reasoning behind it. Still, I can’t help but think about how it will change the fan experience. This is especially true for those of us who feel the seasons differently than we used to.

    When I first became a fan back in 2015, the cold didn’t bother me. I was just excited to be there to feel part of something alive and electric. I remember going to a game one chilly October and bringing one of my aunts along. She thought I “looked cold,” even though I swore I was fine. By halftime, she’d bought me a hot chocolate, a hat, and maybe even a sweatshirt.

    I still remember that small act of care. The steam rose from the cup. Her laughter cut through the cold air. I didn’t think much of it then. Yet, looking back, I realize it was one of those simple, human moments that stay with you.

    A couple of years later, at our first home game in MLS, the weather turned on us fast. Heavy snow fell throughout the match, thick, wet flakes that clung to your eyelashes and soaked your gloves. The snow was coming down so fast that they had to use leaf blowers to clear the lines.

    My toes went numb halfway through, but it didn’t matter. The atmosphere was electric, the crowd united in equal parts misery and joy. We were there together, and that was enough.

    Those were different times. I was a different person. I was more willing to push through the discomfort just to be part of the moment.

    These days, I’ve noticed that the same weather affects me differently. I attend fewer matches as temperatures drop, and this year I didn’t opt in for playoff tickets at all. It’s not that my passion for the team has faded far from it. It’s just that Minnesota’s fall weather is unpredictable. This unpredictability makes it hard to plan. I find it difficult to feel confident that I’ll be comfortable or safe. The wind cuts a little deeper now. The cold lingers a little longer.

    Supporting a team with an outdoor stadium like Allianz Field comes with that territory. Still, it’s made me think more about what “accessibility” really means. We often talk about it in physical terms, ramps, seating, transportation, and those things matter deeply.

    Accessibility can also mean something softer, more personal: being capable of participating fully without discomfort, fear, or exhaustion. Weather affects this aspect, particularly for fans with mobility challenges. It impacts those with chronic pain or other health conditions, making the cold more than just an inconvenience.

    For some fans, colder games are part of the charm. They enjoy layers of scarves and hands wrapped around coffee cups. There is a sense of endurance that becomes almost a badge of honor. But for others, it’s not that simple. The cold can turn joy into endurance, and that can change the whole experience.

    As I’ve grown and my needs have shifted, I’ve noticed some changes. I’ve started to see how sports, something built on togetherness, can sometimes overlook the quiet ways inclusion matters.

    The fan experience isn’t just about ticket sales. It isn’t solely about crowd energy either. It’s about whether everyone can share in those moments equally. That’s true for people of all kinds.

    This includes those experiencing changes due to age. It also includes people with disabilities, sensory needs, or simply changing bodies who experience the world differently than before. Accessibility isn’t one-size-fits-all, and weather adds another layer to that reality.

    I still love this sport, this team, and the community it builds. Soccer has been a steady thread through so many seasons of my life, literally and figuratively. But my relationship to it has evolved as I have. The same stands that once made me feel unstoppable now remind me to listen to my body. To respect its limits. To show up in ways that make sense for where I am now.

    If MLS does move to a fall–spring schedule, I hope clubs and stadiums will think creatively. They should consider what that means for all fans.

    Maybe that looks like expanding covered seating in some venues. It could also mean improving heat access. Or it could simply involve offering more understanding around accessibility options in cold weather. Sometimes inclusion begins with small acts. It could be a staff member who notices. It might be a space to warm up. Or it could be the willingness to ask, “What do you need to feel comfortable here?”

    For many of us, being a fan isn’t about braving the elements anymore. It’s about connection: to the game, to the people around us, and to ourselves. It’s about finding warmth in community, even when the temperature drops.

    Seasons shift, people change, and that’s okay. What matters most is finding warmth in the stands. We need warmth in the community. It is essential in the spaces that still make us feel like we belong.

  • Thirty-Three Years Later

    Thirty-Three Years Later

    Disclaimer: What follows in this post contains my thoughts and my recollection of childhood memories. They are 33 years old and may not be the full truth, but they are my truth.

    I have written about death and loss before. Grief can reshape us. It can bring love and pain together in unexpected ways.

    This reflection feels different. This isn’t just about loss. It’s about understanding what that first loss meant. It’s also about how my relationship with it has changed over time.

    Thirty-three years ago, I lost my first grandparent. My grandpa, Garfield Dokken, passed away suddenly. It’s interesting how distinctly I remember that life event. Maybe it’s because it was my first experience with death as a child. Maybe it’s because of other reasons.

    The Day I Learned About Death

    November 3, 1992

    That night is etched in my mind.

    I had undergone a selective dorsal rhizotomy a surgery meant to help reduce the tightness in my legs. It was an intense surgery, and I was still sore, tired, and trying to heal.

    I remember the phone ringing. My mom was staying with me at the hospital so my mom answered it. My mom was talking on the phone. I don’t recall who she was speaking to. I remember her face when she hung up. She turned to me and told me that my grandpa had passed away.

    I don’t remember what I said after she told me.

    My parents asked the doctors if I could go home for the funeral, but they strongly advised against it. I was still recovering.

    My parents suggested that I write him a note something my dad could tuck into his pocket. So I did.

    When you’re young, you don’t really understand death. You don’t grasp what it means when someone won’t walk through the door again or call you on the phone. I didn’t know what it truly meant that he was gone.

    After grandpa passed this picture was above my hospital bed.

    “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
    When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”

    1 Corinthians 13:11

    Growing into Grief

    As I was writing this I thought of the verse from 1 Corinthians. As a child, I grieved as a child. For a long time, I carried his passing in a unique way. I saw it through the eyes of the boy in that hospital bed.

    That chapter of my life always felt unfinished, the story incomplete. There was a recording of the funeral service that exists. Still, I don’t believe I have ever sat down to watch the whole thing. I don’t know if I would even want to watch it.

    It took decades to realize that I needed to grieve differently, not to forget, but to forgive.

    To forgive the child who couldn’t yet understand.

    After years of therapy and reflection, I’ve learned to process loss with more compassion especially toward my younger self.

    I’m not perfect at it, but I’m getting better everyday.

    Writing Allows Grief to Evolve

    In, “Passengers on the Journey”, I wrote about how the people we love are like fellow travelers. Some ride with us longer than others, but all leave an imprint on our path. My grandpa was one of my first fellow travelers to step off the bus early in my life. I didn’t understand it then, but he helped me see that love and loss are part of the same journey.

    In “Holding Onto Love”, I wrote about how love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It transforms. It changes shape. I think that’s what I’ve come to understand now, too. My love for my grandpa has transformed. It’s quieter, steadier, woven into who I am rather than something I reach for.

    Questions Without Answers

    Now, as an adult, I find myself wondering:
    What would he think of the person I’ve become?
    What would he think of the life I am leading?
    What would he think of my hair, my name, my humor?

    Growing up, I often heard that question used as a moral compass:

    “What would your grandpa think if they saw that report card?”

    “What would he say about your behavior?”

    It’s something people say to motivate, to guide, or to remind us to be our best. But sometimes, it can have the opposite effect.

    Instead of inspiring, it can carry shame. This is especially true when it’s tied to someone we loved deeply and would never want to disappoint.

    I don’t believe those words are spoken with bad intentions.

    Still, they overlook something important: the people we invoke in those moments aren’t here to speak for themselves.

    We can’t know what they would think. We can’t know how they might have grown. We can’t know how their love for us might have changed over time.

    Love evolves. People do too. Love remains after loss. It deserves to be carried forward. It should not be used as a measure of guilt or worth.

    Closing Reflections

    Thirty-three years have passed since that night in the hospital. Yet, in some ways, I’m still that child learning what it means to say goodbye. The difference now is that I can hold both the pain and the gratitude together. I can look back and see how that moment shaped me, not just in loss, but in love.

    In Passengers on the Journey, I wrote about the people we love. They travel alongside us for a time. They leave their imprint even after they’ve stepped off the bus. And in Holding Onto Love, I reflected on how love doesn’t fade when someone dies. It changes shape. It becomes part of who we are.

    That’s what I feel now. My grandpa is no longer a passenger beside me, but his love remains part of the path beneath my wheels. His laughter, his kindness, his presence—they continue to move with me in quiet, unseen ways.

    Grief shows up differently for all of us. Sometimes loud and raw, sometimes quiet and unseen. It doesn’t leave us; it transforms. It teaches us to carry memories with gentleness. It teaches us to live in a way that honors those who came before us.

    So on this anniversary, I don’t just remember his passing. I remember his life, his laughter, and the lessons that continue to guide me.

    And in that remembering, I find peace.

  • Today

    Today

    There are moments when words come quietly, unexpectedly. This piece came to me on a day when I was reflecting on loss.

    I thought about those who have loved me. I also thought about those I’ve loved and lost. Grief is never something we finish; it becomes a part of who we are. But within that grief, there’s also growth.

    Each day, I try to hold space for both. I miss those who are gone. I become a little stronger, a little more grounded, and a little more myself.

    Today

    Today, I grieve the passing of those who have loved me and I them.

    Today, I grow into a better person through growth and understanding.

    Today, I rise to greet the dawn.

    Today, I am stronger than I was yesterday.

    Each of us has our own version of today—a place where remembrance meets renewal. I invite you to take a moment to reflect: what does today mean for you?

  • Embracing Change, Creativity, and Consistency: A Personal Reflection

    Embracing Change, Creativity, and Consistency: A Personal Reflection

    Ever take one of those personality quizzes and think, “Huh…that’s oddly precise”? 

    I recently did. It got me thinking about how I tick. It also made me ponder on how I work, collaborate, and navigate change.

    Turns out, I thrive on new ideas and variety. Give me a fresh challenge or a different way of doing something, and I’m all in. I like having a plan, sure, but I also know when it’s time to pivot and go with the flow. That balance between structure and spontaneity is what keeps projects moving without killing the fun.

    I’m a private person by nature, loyal to a fault once someone earns my trust. I try to be flexible and cooperative, but I’ll stand my ground when something really matters. Being consistent and reliable has helped me stay steady. This steadiness persists even when everything around me feels chaotic. It is especially helpful when change affects others more.

    One big takeaway?

    Not everyone moves at my pace when it comes to change—and that’s okay.

    My job, whether in a team or leading a project, is to help others see the bigger picture. I support them through transitions. I also think about what works and what doesn’t. Reflection is the secret sauce that turns lessons into growth.

    At the end of the day, knowing yourself isn’t just a buzzword it’s a roadmap.

    For me, it means staying curious, dependable, and reflective. I use those traits to make work, and life, a little smoother for myself and the people around me.

  • What If Columbus Never Found America?

    What If Columbus Never Found America?

    Reflecting on imagination, history, and the worlds that might have been.

    Today is Columbus Day or, as many now call it, Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Every year, this day reminds me how much history depends on who’s telling the story. It also makes me think about which voices have been left out.

    As a writer, I find myself wondering: what if Columbus had never “discovered” America? What if the Europeans had never crossed the ocean at all? How would North America appear in 2025 if it were still solely inhabited by the Indigenous peoples? These people lived here for millennia. How would Europe appear if it had never gone west?

    I imagine a North America. Ancient trade routes and alliances evolved into something like modern nations. They were guided by very different values. Forests might still stand where highways now run. Rivers might remain clean and central to community life. Cities, if they existed, might be built around natural cycles. They would be shaped by harmony with the land rather than dominance over it. Technology could exist. It might be woven from a different kind of intelligence. This intelligence values balance over speed. It prioritizes sustainability over conquest.

    And Europe? Maybe it would have turned inward instead of outward. Without the wealth and resources drawn from colonization, kingdoms might have fallen or transformed sooner. The Renaissance might have taken a different shape. Europe’s hunger for expansion could have redirected east. This change might have led to deeper ties or conflicts with Asia and Africa. Industrialization might have come later, or not at all. My ancestors from Norway and Sweden might have stayed as farmers. They might have tended the same land for generations. They might have not ventured west to settle Minnesota.

    It’s all speculation, of course — a story that can’t be told without imagination. But as fascinating as these possibilities are, I have to remind myself: this isn’t my story to tell alone. I’m descended from the people who came here, not from those who were already here. The truth and texture of that alternate America would belong to its original storytellers.

    Maybe those stories already exist. If they do, I’d love to read them — and if anyone knows of them, please share in the comments. And if they don’t, maybe it’s not my place to start them. I wouldn’t know where or how to begin without the voices that truly know what might have been.

    Still, I’d love to hear what others think. How do you think North America might look today if Columbus had never made that voyage? What changes do you imagine for Europe? What kind of world do you picture?

    Until then, I’ll keep that question close. It serves not as a fantasy, but as a reminder of how one voyage reshaped the world. It also reflects on how different it all might have been if the winds had blown another way.

  • The Name Between the Lines

    The Name Between the Lines

    Becoming Myself, One Letter at a Time

    There’s a strange gravity in a name.

    It’s the first thing we’re given, often before we take our first breath. Names come with stories, family histories, hopes, even inside jokes. They can be reminders of who we come from, or quiet promises of who someone hoped we’d become.

    Sometimes, we grow into them. Sometimes, we grow around them. And sometimes, if we’re really lucky, we realize we need a name that fits where we’ve been. If we’re really brave, we choose a name that fits where we’re going.

    That’s what this post is about.

    I’ve always liked my middle name.

    Allen. It’s simple, unassuming, it’s always felt right. It carries a softness, a steadiness that felt like home.

    It’s not loud or dramatic. Allen felt like a foundation, something I can rest on. And in ways I couldn’t fully name at the time, it felt like me.

    I’ve realized something interesting. I’m not the only one in my family who felt this pull toward a middle name. My grandpa Garfield was not actually born Garfield at all. His given name was Oscar Garfield Dokken.

    From what I’ve pieced together in conversations with family, he chose to go by Garfield. He already had an uncle named Oscar and probably did not want the two of them to be confused.

    That makes perfect sense. When I was a kid, I had a friend named Levi. When our families got together, there were two Levis in the same space. Every time someone called out “Levi,” there was that moment of uncertainty: which one? Looking back, I think that would’ve been a perfect time for me to lean into Allen.

    Maybe Grandpa understood something I’m only just beginning to. Sometimes a name is about more than identity. It’s about clarity, belonging, and creating space for yourself.

    That’s how I landed on Alyn. I know it’s a different spelling from my true middle name. Then again, I am a little different, so my name should be too.

    It’s not a world apart from who I’ve been it’s just… closer to who I am. A little softer around the edges. A little more neutral, a little more fluid. It’s Allen with a twist. It lets me breathe.

    I haven’t decided yet if I’ll change it legally. For now, this isn’t about paperwork or government forms it’s about alignment. About answering to something that feels a little more like me. About hearing a name and not flinching because it doesn’t quite match the reflection I see in my mind.

    Of course, it’s not that simple.

    Names carry meaning, not just for us, but for the people who gave them to us. For family, it isn’t just a label it’s something they chose with care. It could be tied to memory, a legacy and love.

    I understand that. I honor that. Part of me worries that in choosing something new, I’ll seem ungrateful, or like I’m rejecting something sacred.

    But here’s what I want those people to know: I’m not erasing anything. I’m not undoing the name I was given. I’m just building on it. Adding a chapter. Letting myself evolve.

    I’m still me. Still your kid. Still your friend. Still your cousin, your sibling, your grandchild. Just… more me-shaped now.

    Trying on Allyn, Becoming Alyn

    I started experimenting with a small change spelling Allen with a y. “Allyn.” It looked different, felt different. Like trying on a jacket that just fits better.

    At first, it was just between me and my therapist, then a small circle of friends. The more I used it, the more it felt like breathing freely.

    Later, I tried another variation: Alyn.

    I started using it with the same small group of friends. It became a place where I could test the waters. I could hear “Alyn” out loud or in text. I felt how it settled into my bones.

    Now, I’m taking that step into the light with this name. Like coming out in the LGBTQIA+ community, this takes a great amount of courage. To come out in this way, in a public setting, takes an even greater amount of courage.

    Some people will adjust quickly. Some might need time. And that’s okay. I’m still getting used to it too. Every time someone uses it, it feels like a little internal click, a quiet “yes.”

    And when people still call me Levi, I understand. That name still holds truth, too. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about becoming.

    When the Name Comes Out Before You Do

    Like I said earlier, I was only sharing it with a small group of people. I was changing it on my streaming platform profiles seeing how it looked to me. I wasn’t ready to share it beyond my small circle just yet. Then, about a few days ago, that changed.

    I recently made a small change on my iPhone. I updated my contact information to show the name I’d been trying on. What I didn’t realize was that Apple shares those changes with anyone in my contacts who also has an iPhone. Suddenly, my new name was in front of friends and family I hadn’t told yet.

    The questions came quickly: “Who’s Alyn?”

    In that instant, I was outed in a way I hadn’t planned. But maybe that’s the thing about names — sometimes they refuse to stay hidden. Sometimes they insist on being seen, even before we’re ready. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe a name knows the right time better than we do.

    A Name Doesn’t Have to Be Legal to Be Real

    There’s this idea that identity only counts when it comes with documentation. That it only matters once you’ve filled out a form, paid a fee, stood in line. But I don’t believe that.

    My name is real the moment I say, “this is what I want to be called.”

    It’s real the first time someone uses it gently. The first time someone says, “Hi Alyn.” The first time I say it in the mirror and smile.

    There’s power in naming yourself. Quiet, grounded, liberating power. And you don’t need permission to do it.

    If You’re Struggling With This…It’s Okay

    If you’re reading this and feeling a little unsettled, I see you. Maybe you’re someone who’s known me as Levi for a long time. Maybe you’re trying to make sense of how this fits with the person you thought you knew.

    I am still the person you know. I haven’t changed all that much from the person I was the last time we talked. I am just finally deciding how best to live my true authentic self.

    You don’t have to get it all at once. You don’t have to understand everything to respect it. You don’t have to stop loving who I was to also love who I’m becoming.

    Just keep showing up. Keep asking if you have questions. If you call me Levi, I won’t get upset. I’ll just gently remind you if you forget.

    For Me, For Now

    I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. Maybe I’ll legally change it someday like grandpa Garfield did. Then again maybe I won’t.

    What I do know is this: I get to choose. I get to be honest. And I get to love myself enough to ask for something that fits.

    So…hi. I’m Alyn.

    It’s nice to meet you (again).

  • Forever United: Reflections at Season’s End

    Forever United: Reflections at Season’s End

    As I write this, it’s the day after the final regular season home game. As the final whistle blew under the bright lights of Allianz Field, I felt that familiar mix of gratitude. I also felt nostalgia and quiet pride. The last regular season home game always carries a special weight. It’s more than just a match. It’s a celebration of everything we’ve shared over the months.

    Even though Minnesota United made it to the playoffs, I’ve decided not to get playoff tickets this year. The main reason is cost. I already struggle to afford the regular season. I am already making payments on my season tickets for the 2026 season. As much as I’d love to be there, I just couldn’t justify the extra expense.

    The other reason is the unpredictable Minnesota weather. As the years go on, I find myself less tolerant of the cold. We’ve been blessed with a warmer-than-usual fall. Still, there’s no guarantee it will stay that way. Sometimes practicality wins out, even when the heart wants otherwise.

    The Heart of the Game

    Soccer has always been more than just a game to me. It’s community, connection, and pure emotion wrapped into ninety minutes. Every season brings new stories, new faces, and new memories that stick with you long after the final whistle. This year was no different. I didn’t make it to as many matches as I’d hoped. Yet, the moments I did experience reminded me why I fell in love with this team. Those moments showed me what made this team special in the first place.

    Sometimes life has other plans. Sometimes disability makes things harder than they should be. There are days when energy fades, when logistics get tricky, when even passion has to wait its turn. But that’s okay. We do the best we can with what we’re given, and that’s something to be proud of too.

    The games I did make it to were nothing short of incredible. The roar of the crowd excites me. The rhythm of the chants energizes me. The pulse of the drums reminds me every time why I love this sport. There’s something almost sacred about being part of a crowd that breathes in unison. Hearts beat for the same goal. Voices rise together under a canopy of light.

    Surley’s Season

    Surley didn’t make it to as many games this year either — for a wide variety of reasons. There were days that were simply too cold, and others that were far too hot. Then there were nights like the last game, when they launched pyrotechnics. We’ve made a lot of progress on his fear of fireworks, and I didn’t want to risk a setback. Still, there were plenty of good moments. On a bright note, Surley did make an appearance on the jumbo screen this season. It was akin to what Dempsey did back in the day. A proud moment for both of us.

    Forever United

    Even when I can’t be there, my connection to this team doesn’t fade. It simply finds new ways to shine. Whether I’m watching from home, the love remains constant. It stays strong when I’m checking updates on my phone. I carry their spirit in my heart, unwavering.

    Because love for the game isn’t measured in seats filled or screens watched. It’s found in the stories we tell, the memories that linger, and the quiet hope that refuses to fade.

    It lives in the roar of the crowd that still echoes in your mind. You hear it in the rhythm of the chants you can’t help but hum. You feel the pride that stays with you long after the lights go out.

    Minnesota United is more than a soccer team. It’s a community and a shared heartbeat. It serves as a reminder that belonging can take many forms.

    Whether in the stands, at home, or cheering from the heart, I’ll always carry that unity with me.

    Go Minnesota United. Forever United. 💙🖤⚽

  • Government Shutdowns: Why Ordinary Americans Pay the Price While Congress Gets Paid

    Government Shutdowns: Why Ordinary Americans Pay the Price While Congress Gets Paid

    The United States government has shut down. Again.

    This isn’t just political theater happening in Washington. When the government shuts down, real people suffer. Federal workers are furloughed without pay. Others are forced to show up and work for free, waiting and hoping that back pay eventually comes. Contractors may never see the money they lose. Families who rely on government programs are left with uncertainty.

    Meanwhile, Congress just shrugs and keeps collecting their paychecks.

    Here’s what gets me: if I don’t pay my rent, I lose my apartment. If I don’t pay the electric bill, the lights go out. But when Congress doesn’t pay the government’s bills? They get to stay in their cushy offices while the rest of the country pays the price.


    The Duct Tape of Democracy: What a Continuing Resolution Is

    When Congress can’t pass an actual budget, they often slap on a Continuing Resolution (CR). Think of it like duct tape: it keeps the machine running for a little while, but it’s no long-term fix.

    A CR basically says: “We’ll just keep spending at last year’s levels.” That means agencies can’t start new projects. They can’t adjust to new needs. They just sit in limbo, waiting for Congress to stop bickering. Sometimes multiple CRs get passed in a single year — kicking the can further down the road.

    And when even a CR doesn’t pass? That’s when the shutdown slams into place.

    A Quick History Lesson on Shutdowns

    Shutdowns weren’t always the rule. Before 1980, if Congress blew the deadline, agencies kept operating. That changed after Attorney General Benjamin Civiletti ruled that under the Antideficiency Act, funding gaps legally required shutdowns. Since then, they’ve become a recurring disaster.

    Some of the biggest shutdowns:

    • 1995–96 (Clinton vs. Gingrich): Lasted 21 days. About 800,000 workers furloughed. A standoff over spending cuts.
    • 2013 (Obama): Sixteen days. Sparked by the fight over the Affordable Care Act. Cost the economy an estimated $24 billion.
    • 2018–19 (Trump): The record-holder at 35 days. Caused by the border wall funding battle. About 800,000 workers went without pay; countless contractors never got their money back.
    • 2025 (Right Now): Once again, Congress blew the deadline. Here we are, living the same old nightmare.

    Every shutdown looks different. The fallout is predictable. Families end up at food banks because paychecks stopped. Veterans wait longer for benefits. Disability services are disrupted. Medical research is stalled. Parks are shuttered. Small businesses near federal facilities take losses they can’t recover.

    Who Gets Hurt the Most

    Shutdowns don’t hit everyone equally.

    Disabled people often feel the blow first. There are delays in Social Security claims. There are disruptions to medical research. Federal grants that keep vital services running can be paused.

    Veterans face delayed benefits. Families who rely on nutrition programs like WIC find themselves in limbo.

    For federal employees who live paycheck to paycheck, a missed paycheck can have serious consequences. Many of these employees are veterans or disabled. It can mean bills pile up, rent becomes overdue, or prescriptions are skipped. It’s not just numbers on a ledger. It’s human lives destabilized by political games.

    Why This Keeps Happening

    Here’s the kicker: shutdowns aren’t about money. The U.S. has the credit to pay its bills. Shutdowns are about politics — leaders holding the budget hostage to force fights over unrelated issues.

    It’s brinkmanship at the expense of ordinary people.

    A Better Way Forward

    It doesn’t have to be this way.

    Look at Minnesota. Our state legislature is required to pass a budget by the end of session. Is it always pretty? No. But the government doesn’t shut down every time lawmakers disagree. There’s a built-in deadline that forces people to do the job.

    Why can’t Congress do the same?

    Maybe we need rules that make shutdowns impossible. No budget? No recess. No budget? No pay. No budget? No office.

    If I don’t pay my rent, I get evicted. If I don’t pay my bills, I lose my lights. Maybe it’s time Congress faced the same reality.

    Conclusion

    What do you think? I’d love to hear your thoughts, but let’s keep it civil. No name-calling, no bashing, no personal attacks. This is about ideas, not insults.

    And let me be perfectly clear: I am not laying the blame on one party alone. Both Republicans and Democrats share responsibility for this mess. My goal isn’t to pick sides. I aim to highlight a broken system that keeps hurting real people. I also want to suggest a better way forward.

  • Coffee, Caribou, and a Dangling Joystick

    Some families pass down recipes. Mine passed down the ability to fix stuff.

    My grandpa was a mechanic at the local Ford garage until he retired. He could take apart an engine and put it back together like it was nothing. My dad never worked as a mechanic, but the same knack runs through his veins. He’s the guy who can fix just about anything without even batting an eye.

    I didn’t go to school for mechanics. I don’t have a shop, a toolbox wall, or grease-stained coveralls. But I inherited enough of that mechanical instinct to survive—and that’s turned out to be a lifesaver. Literally.

    Because here’s the thing about using a wheelchair: when something breaks, you can’t exactly wait it out. The official way to get things fixed is through a durable medical equipment (DME) company. And if you’ve ever worked with one, you know how long that can take. Sometimes it’s days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. Meanwhile, your life is supposed to keep going.

    That’s why I’ve learned to do it myself when I can.

    Take yesterday, for example. I was at Caribou Coffee, just trying to roll in and enjoy my drink. But the door had other plans. My joystick bracket snagged on the frame, and the whole thing ripped right off. When I say ripped off, I mean the entire joystick was dangling from the side of my chair. It looked like it was about to make a run for it.

    Not the kind of situation you want when you’re miles from home. I jerry-rigged it by wedging it between the armrest and my thigh. This allowed me to limp my way back. Once I was home and had the right tools, I pulled it apart and got everything back together.

    This isn’t the first time it’s happened either. Once before, the joystick arm snagged on a doorway. This also happened at a Caribou. Clearly, coffee shops and I have a pattern. The joystick arm came off completely. Luckily, my friend’s dad lived just down the road and had tools. We got it fixed, no problem.

    Maybe Caribou should sponsor me—buy a coffee, break a joystick, fix it before the cup gets cold. Mechanics run in the family, after all.

    The thing is, these “big problems” are often small fixes. Nine times out of ten, it’s just a matter of grabbing an Allen wrench and tightening a few bolts. And because I’ve inherited that “figure it out” mentality from my grandpa and dad, I can usually handle it.

    I’m not a mechanic by trade. But when it comes to my wheelchair, I don’t really have the option of waiting around. Every repair I make on my own isn’t just about saving time—it’s about keeping my independence.

    And if that’s not worth a little grease under my nails, I don’t know what is.

  • When Social Media Follows You to Work

    In today’s world, it’s easy to forget an important fact. What we post on social media doesn’t just reflect on us personally. It can also reflect on our employers.

    Many organizations have policies. Sometimes they even have contractual clauses. These allow them to take action if an employee’s public statements cross certain lines.

    Everyone has the right to express their views. It’s important to be mindful of how those words could be perceived. Consider the potential consequences they carry.

    It’s also easy to forget how permanent the internet really is. Even if you remove a post there is no guarantee that someone hasn’t taken a screenshot of the post beforehand.

    I’ll admit, I’ve made posts in the past that weren’t the wisest choices. In one case, I ended up in a conversation with my human resources department because of something I posted.

    After that, I scrubbed all references to employers from my personal profiles. Of course, that’s not a foolproof way to keep things from getting back to your workplace. I still maintain a LinkedIn profile. It lists my employment history. The truth is people can be surprisingly skilled at internet sleuthing. More often than not, they can figure out where someone works — or even lives.

    Recent events have made the stakes even clearer. According to reporting in The New York Times, more than 145 people across the country have lost their jobs. They were fired, suspended, or pushed out after making statements about the assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk.

    These weren’t just public figures or media personalities. They were nurses, restaurant workers, nonprofit staffers, and even a police officer.

    • A nurse in Phoenix lost her job after joking near a nurses’ station about the shooting, even though she never wished Kirk dead.
    • A nonprofit literacy worker in Milwaukee was fired after posting on Facebook about gun violence. She wrote, “Yes I am making his death political, no I do not care.” She intended to highlight policy issues. However, others interpreted her words as saying Kirk “got what he deserved.”
    • In Wisconsin, an elementary school administrator was wrongly accused of celebrating Kirk’s death. Even though the post wasn’t hers, she was flooded with death threats. She had to leave her home. She returned to school only with extra police security.

    These stories highlight a bigger problem: what we mean isn’t always what people hear. Tone, body language, and inflection matter in spoken conversation. Online, all of that disappears. A laughing emoji, a sarcastic remark, or a blunt opinion can be stripped of its context. It can then be interpreted in the worst possible light.

    And once a post is out there, it can be picked up, shared, and judged far beyond its original audience. A message written for 70 friends can end up in front of 70,000 strangers. An employer may suddenly feel pressure to act.

    This raises difficult questions. The First Amendment protects speech from government punishment, but it doesn’t shield employees from workplace consequences. Employers, fearing reputational damage or political backlash, often act quickly — sometimes too quickly — when controversial speech surfaces. That leaves workers navigating a world where one poorly worded post could cost them their livelihood.

    I don’t pretend to have all the answers. People should be mindful of what they share online. But I also believe we need more nuance and grace. Everyone has said things they regret. Sometimes what looks like cruelty is really clumsy anger. It might also be gallows humor or frustration taken out of context.

    In a society where “the internet never forgets,” we should practice remembering something important. Human beings are more than their worst posts.

    I’m of an age where I grew up right as the internet was going mainstream. I was finishing college when Facebook first started taking off. I’ve seen both the “wild west” era of online posting. Also, I’ve seen today’s world where a single misstep can follow you forever.

    I see both sides. Employees need to think before they post. Employers and the public also need to remember that one post doesn’t define a person’s entire character.

    So I’ll end with this: How do we balance accountability with compassion in the digital age? How should we weigh the permanence of words written online against the humanity of the people who write them? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.