Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Community & Connection

Reflecting on the small yet meaningful ways we can create connections with others in everyday life.

  • Passengers on the Journey: Reflections on Loss and Memory

    Passengers on the Journey: Reflections on Loss and Memory

    As I get older, I find myself more aware of death. I am more aware than I ever was in my twenties or even thirties. It feels like more and more people I’ve known, whether from childhood, family, or community, are passing away. Each loss isn’t just about the person; it’s about the piece of my own history that goes with them.

    A Friend of Garfield’s

    Just this past week, I learned that one of my grandpa Garfield’s friends passed away. This man used to drive for the Heartland Express bus in my hometown. He would sometimes pick me up and take me to school when I was in early elementary school.

    Although I didn’t know him closely, I knew he had a friendship my grandpa. Watching his funeral service online, I felt the depth of their friendship. It reminded me that the people who shape our families’ lives, even at the edges, help shape our own too.

    Saying Goodbye to Colleen

    This summer, the loss came much closer. I said goodbye to my friend Colleen, who passed away after a battle with cancer. Last month, I attended her memorial service and had the honor of speaking. In preparation, I had written a eulogy.

    I didn’t end up delivering it in full. I made sure to share it with her daughter. She told me how much it meant to her. For me, that was just as important. Writing those words wasn’t only about what I needed to say. It was about preserving what Colleen meant to me and sharing it with those who loved her most.

    Here is the eulogy I wrote for her:

    There’s a part of me that feels like an outsider here today. It’s been so long. So many of you knew her in ways I didn’t. You saw chapters of her life that I missed. But I hope you’ll let me speak from the part of her story that I did know the years when she was a steady presence in my life, helping me grow into the person I am.

    It’s probably been over twenty years since I last saw Colleen. Life took us in different directions, as it does. We lost touch. But coming together now to honor her memory, I’m reminded that the connections that shape us don’t always follow a straight path or come with a tidy ending. I realized that even after all this time, the lessons she left me with, the care she gave, the way she made me feel like I mattered—those things are still with me. And maybe sharing that is one small way to honor her.

    It’s hard to put into words what someone like Colleen meant to me. We met during a season of change in my life when everything felt new and uncertain, and I didn’t quite know what I needed.

    I had just moved to Hutchinson and had recently started receiving PCA services. I remember the first time I met her. Frazzled hair, green sweatpants, sweatshirt the picture of someone who had already lived through half a day’s chaos before 9 a.m. But right away, she brought something into my world that I didn’t know I was missing: understanding. Patience. The kind of grounded presence that makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

    She helped me learn how to navigate the system, yes—but more importantly, she helped me find confidence in myself. She didn’t just do her job; she showed up as a person. A kind, no-nonsense, fiercely loyal person who stayed by my side through some of life’s hardest transitions.

    Over time, Colleen became more than a caregiver. She became a friend. As time went on, our relationship grew beyond the usual roles. That’s where I met Lizzy—her daughter. At the time, Lizzy was this awkward teenager who probably wanted nothing to do with this random kid her mom had brought into their world. And now, she’s become an amazing young woman and a mother herself. I know Colleen would be proud. No—is proud. That much, I have no doubt.

    Colleen always took care of people. That was just in her nature. She made sure people had food to eat, a place to sit, and if you needed to crash on the couch—well, rules were more like suggestions. I’m sure letting me stay over more than once probably broke some kind of policy, but I don’t think she cared. Colleen wasn’t one for letting bureaucracy get in the way of doing the right thing.

    I remember one specific time, right before I moved to the Twin Cities for college. I had a campus visit coming up, and the logistics were… complicated. My dad was going on the visit with me. He would’ve had to drive all over creation from Benson to Hutchinson to Minneapolis and back again. Colleen just looked at the map and said, “I’ll drive you.” And she did. On the way home, she even offered to take a detour so I could visit my grandma, who was in a nursing home in Minneapolis at the time. That’s who she was—always thinking about how to make things easier for the people she cared about.

    The last time I saw her before I moved we promised we’d stay in touch and we did for a while I even remember calling her on my 21st birthday a little tipsy and she got mad at me because I shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with the meds I was on. 

    Even though we eventually lost touch, the impact she had on my life didn’t fade. You don’t forget someone who shows up for you when you’re still figuring out who you are—who makes space for you in their home and their heart without asking for anything in return.

    Colleen was more than my PCA. She was a guide, a protector, and a friend. And even all these years later, the memories of her kindness, her humor, her complete disregard for red tape when someone needed help they’ve stuck with me. And I suspect I’m not the only one who could say the same.

    She took care of people. That was her gift. And the world is better for it.

    Even though I didn’t read the entire eulogy aloud, writing it felt like my way of saying goodbye. Sharing it was also my way of bidding farewell.

    Family Losses

    Of course, loss doesn’t stop with friends. My family has been touched by death too. All of my grandparents have passed. Grandpa Garfield in 1992. Grandpa Roger followed in 1994. Grandma Jonnette in 2004. Grandma Marlys in 2022. Over the years, I’ve also said goodbye to aunts, uncles, and cousins.

    I’m fortunate that both of my parents are still alive. That’s not the case for my partner. In August, he lost his father after a long struggle with dementia.

    Watching him walk through that grief has reminded me that loss affects us differently. It depends on timing, relationships, and the battles fought along the way.

    The Four-Legged Companions

    And grief isn’t reserved for humans alone. Over the years, I’ve also had to say goodbye to the four-legged friends who shaped my life. My black cat, Spaz. My first service dog, Dempsey. My childhood horse, Comanche. Even my first hamster, Sir Henry Lipton, and my second hamster, Bert.

    Riding with my buddy Comanche.
    Sir Henry and Kalo meeting.
    “Hello my name is Bert thank you for bringing me home.”
    Spaz and Dempsey hanging out together.

    Each of them carried their own kind of love, their own kind of presence. Their roles in my life were different from the humans I’ve lost, but their impact was no less meaningful. Their loss is still noted, still acknowledged, still woven into the fabric of who I am.

    What Grief Has Taught Me

    When I step back, what strikes me most is how loss accumulates over time. At nearly 42, death isn’t an abstract idea anymore. It’s a thread woven through my own story. Sometimes this happens in small ways, like a bus driver who was briefly part of my life. At other times, it affects me in deeply personal ways. These include Colleen, my grandparents, and the animals who gave me unconditional love.

    I don’t pretend to have answers about how to handle death. What I do know is this: the people and creatures we lose remain with us in the stories we tell. They are also present in the habits we keep.

    Additionally, they stay with us in the ways they shaped us. That’s what makes memory so sacred—it refuses to let death have the last word.

    Closing Reflections

    Life is a lot like that old Heartland Express bus. People get on and people get off. Some rides are long and some are short. But every passenger, whether human or animal, leaves an imprint on the journey.

    I’ve come to see loss not as an ending but as part of the fabric of living. Each goodbye, whether to a grandparent, a friend, or a four-legged companion, stitches another thread into who I am. And the road ahead is stronger because it carries all of them with me.

  • 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

  • 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:

  • 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.

  • Always Becoming

    Always Becoming

    A Pride Month Reflection

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

    I was nervous.

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

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

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

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

    A Journey Through Identity, Writing, and Self-Discovery

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

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

    Childhood & Disability

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

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

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

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

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

    Coming Out, and Coming Into Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Mirror of Writing

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

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

    Becoming

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

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

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

    Always becoming.

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

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

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

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

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

    Disclaimer:

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

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

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

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

    When the Beat Doesn’t Match the Burden

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

    That experience? Living with anxiety.

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

    What Anxiety Really Looks Like…for Me

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

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

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

    The Weight of Situational Anxiety

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

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

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

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

    And still, it gets minimized.

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

    Beyond the Filters and Feeds

    So when I hear Doechii sing:

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

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

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

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

    We can do better than that.

    What the Song Gets Right

    Doechii sings:

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

    Yes. That. Right there.

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

    Later, she sings:

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

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

    This Song Isn’t Just a Soundbite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Because it keeps on trying us.

    And we keep on trying back.

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