Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Community & Connection

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

  • 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.

  • Thoughts in the Woods

    Thoughts in the Woods

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

    From Bare Bones to Built Up

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

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

    The Kind of People You Want Around a Campfire

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

    This group?

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

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

    A Place for Me, A Place for Him

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

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

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

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

    Where Comfort Meets the Campground

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

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

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

    Tent twins, engage! Big Agnes buddies for life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Classic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Life Before

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

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

    My First “Smart” Phone

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

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

    Rewired Society

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

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

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

    A Few Stats That Might Surprise You:

    Phone use is up—way up.

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

    Smartphone “addiction” is real.

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

    We’re glued to our screens.

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

    And yet, they’re our lifeline.

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

    Freeing Feeling

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

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

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

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

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

    My challenge to you

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

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

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

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

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

    The Greenway

    The greenway is like being teleported.

    Gone are the noises of the big city.

    The scent of nature surrounds me.

    Birdsong drifts from the trees and fills me.

    Flowers bloom, green leaves rustle—

    offering warmth the concrete jungle lacks.

    It is an oasis.

    It is a respite.

    It is a calming force.

    There are times I want to stay here forever,

    to escape the world and its responsibilities.

    But for now,

    I’ll sit a moment longer,

    and simply enjoy—

    the greenway.

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

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

    Why We Need More Than a Month

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

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

    My Mental Health Journey

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

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

    You Can’t Always See It

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

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

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

    Coping Isn’t Always Healthy

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

    Why I’m Sharing This

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

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

    Mental health awareness doesn’t end when May does.

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

    Mental Health Resources

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

    Emergency Help (24/7):

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

    Support for Specific Communities:

    Ongoing Mental Health Support: