Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Coffee Shop Reflections

Personal observations and thoughts inspired by time spent in a local coffee shop, turning everyday moments into deeper reflections.

  • 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).

  • 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.

  • Why I Applaud Schools for Banning Smartphones (And Why You Should Too)

    Why I Applaud Schools for Banning Smartphones (And Why You Should Too)

    Kids are heading back to school, and I’m thrilled to see more schools taking a firm stand against smartphones. Honestly, it’s about time. Kids don’t need phones.

    They’re not the lifeline we pretend they are. They’re attention traps. They pull students into a digital black hole. Instead of being trapped, students should be focusing on math, making friends, or just being kids.

    And yes, I say this as an adult who knows how easy it is to lose hours to the scroll. If I can’t always resist the temptation, imagine what it’s like for a seventh-grader in the middle of algebra.

    The Research

    The research backs up what most of us already feel in our gut. Nearly three-quarters of school leaders say phones hurt students’ mental health, and a similar number say they damage attention spans. Teachers see it too—about one-third call cellphone distraction a major problem in classrooms. And the issue isn’t small. Studies show teens spend an average of 1.5 hours on their phones during the school day. That’s not “just a quick check.” That’s a full class period wasted every single day.

    And yet, kids are getting smartphones younger and younger. More than half of eight-year-olds already own a phone or tablet. By age eleven, most kids have one in their pocket. Eighty-four percent of teens now carry smartphones everywhere they go.

    Pair that with relentless notifications, hundreds a day, and it’s no wonder anxiety, stress, and fractured attention are running high. We’ve given them a tool designed to keep them hooked. Then, we wonder why they can’t stay focused in class.

    Here’s the kicker: bans work. When schools in the Netherlands restricted phones, 75 percent reported better concentration. Additionally, 59 percent saw kids interacting more. Nearly 30 percent even saw grades go up.

    U.S. schools experimenting with phone bans are noticing something similar…kids are actually talking to each other again.

    Cafeterias are noisier in the best way. Teachers report calmer classrooms. Some schools are even bringing back foosball tables. They are also reintroducing board games. Suddenly, lunchtime looks like 1998 instead of a TikTok set.

    Parental Push back

    Parents often push back with the same argument: What if I need to reach my child in an emergency? I get it. The idea of being cut off feels scary.

    But let’s be real…you grew up without a phone. Your parents grew up without a phone. If something happened, they called the school or they showed up. It worked.

    Civilization didn’t collapse. And it wouldn’t now. There are systems in place for emergencies, and banning phones during school hours doesn’t mean banning common sense.

    The bottom line? Smartphones aren’t helping kids succeed in school. They’re stealing focus, hurting mental health, and replacing real human connection with endless notifications.

    If I had kids, I wouldn’t give them a smartphone, tablet, or computer at all.

    It’s not to punish them. I’d want them to live in the real world and not inside a feed. I’d want them to have real, face-to-face conversations instead of hiding behind a screen.

    They don’t need to be exposed to all the junk floating around the internet. Honestly, they already get enough of that from streaming platforms… but that’s a whole other conversation.

    Technology should serve us, not swallow us whole.

    Schools banning phones isn’t overreach; it’s a reset. It’s a chance to give kids what they need most space to learn, think, and just be kids.

    Chime In

    What do you think? Should schools go all-in and block phones completely, or do you think kids should still have access during the day?

    Sources and Further Reading

    Resources for Parents

  • 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.

  • 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.