Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Community & Connection

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

  • When the Season Shifts

    When the Season Shifts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Embracing Change, Creativity, and Consistency: A Personal Reflection

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

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

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

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

    One big takeaway?

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

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

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

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

  • What If Columbus Never Found America?

    What If Columbus Never Found America?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Name Between the Lines

    The Name Between the Lines

    Becoming Myself, One Letter at a Time

    There’s a strange gravity in a name.

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

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

    That’s what this post is about.

    I’ve always liked my middle name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Of course, it’s not that simple.

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

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

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

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

    Trying on Allyn, Becoming Alyn

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

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

    Later, I tried another variation: Alyn.

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

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

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

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

    When the Name Comes Out Before You Do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    For Me, For Now

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

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

    So…hi. I’m Alyn.

    It’s nice to meet you (again).

  • Forever United: Reflections at Season’s End

    Forever United: Reflections at Season’s End

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

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

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

    The Heart of the Game

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

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

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

    Surley’s Season

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

    Forever United

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

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

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

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

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

    Go Minnesota United. Forever United. 💙🖤⚽

  • Coffee, Caribou, and a Dangling Joystick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • 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.