Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Reflective Writing

Personal essays, observations, and meditations on everyday life, identity, and experience.

  • 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. 💙🖤⚽

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The Speed of Time

    The Speed of Time

    There’s been so much happening this week that I didn’t even realize tomorrow is Friday.

    Wasn’t it just Tuesday?

    Next thing I know, summer will be over. The sun will dip behind the trees a little earlier each night. The evenings will turn crisp. And soon enough, we’ll be brushing snow from our coats and wondering where the warm days went.

    I’ve only gone camping once this year. Once. And I’d like to go again before the snow flies and the long stillness of winter sets in.

    Time is strange like that.

    When you’re young, it drags. You want to grow up so badly to reach that next milestone. You want to finally be old enough to drive, to graduate, to move out.

    It feels like everything worth having is just out of reach, waiting on some distant shore.

    Then you get there.

    In college and those early years afterward, time starts to pick up. It begins to move at a steady jog instead of a crawl. You’re chasing things: jobs, rent, friendships, maybe love. You’re figuring things out. Some days still feel long, but the years start to feel shorter.

    And then you hit 30.

    At least, I did. And from that point on, it’s like time strapped on a pair of rocket boosters.

    Now I’m 41. Almost 42. And I can’t help but wonder what is the speed of time going to feel like when I’m 60?

    Or 70?

    Or…God help me…90?

    Will it keep accelerating until months feel like days and years like a blink?

    I don’t know. But what I do know is this: moments are all we really get.

    Little flashes. Fireflies in a jar. A dog curled up beside you. The crunch of gravel underfoot on a summer walk. The way the air smells before a storm. A cup of coffee in the early morning sun. A smile from a stranger.

    That’s all life is, in the end. A string of fleeting, fragile moments.

    So I’m trying, really trying, to enjoy them. To notice them. To breathe them in before they vanish.

    Because time doesn’t stop. But I can.

    Even if just for a moment.

  • Independence for Whom? Reflecting on the Fourth of July in 2025

    Independence for Whom? Reflecting on the Fourth of July in 2025

    It’s the Fourth of July, 2025. Across the country, grills are sizzling, boats are cruising, and coolers are cracking open. The night skies will soon erupt in fireworks. For most Americans, this holiday means freedom, family, and summer fun.

    But I’ve gotten older. Our country has grown louder, more divided, and frankly, more dangerous. And lately, a question keeps echoing in my mind: What does the Fourth of July really mean anymore?

    A Brief History of Independence

    Let’s start with what this day is supposed to commemorate. On July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress adopted the Declaration of Independence. This bold move declared the thirteen colonies free from British rule. It rejected tyranny and laid the foundation for a self-governed nation.

    We still cling to the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But here’s the truth: those rights weren’t originally meant for everyone.

    A Revolution That Wasn’t for Everyone

    The Founding Fathers declared that “all men are created equal” while holding others in chains. The government claimed to defend liberty. Yet, it stole land from Indigenous people. It silenced women. It also excluded poor, disabled, and queer individuals from public life.

    In reality, the revolution granted freedom only to a privileged few.

    The story of America since 1776 has been long and painful. It shows a struggle to expand that freedom. The aim has been to include the people left out. The abolition of slavery was not handed down. Women’s suffrage and the Civil Rights Movement were not freely given. The Stonewall Riots and the Americans with Disabilities Act were claimed through struggle. People fought for them alongside those who rose up.

    They were won by those who refused to be erased.

    I write and advocate from within the LGBTQIA and disability communities. For many of us, the fight still isn’t over.

    The Ongoing Attacks on LGBTQ+ Rights…Especially Trans Youth

    Across the country, we’re seeing a coordinated assault on LGBTQ+ rights, particularly targeting transgender individuals. And it’s not happening in shadows—it’s happening in full public view.

    Much of this legislation focuses on minors, stripping away access to gender-affirming care under the false banner of “protection.” But let’s be honest: this isn’t about safety. It’s about political control. It’s about fear. It’s about forcing children to live in bodies and identities that cause them pain.

    Most trans youth seeking care are not undergoing surgeries. They’re being prescribed puberty blockers—safe, reversible treatments that offer something simple and profound: time. Time to think, to grow, to become.

    Instead of trusting doctors or supporting parents, lawmakers are imposing one-size-fits-all mandates on children they’ve never met.

    What happened to freedom?
    What happened to parental rights?
    What happened to that “small government” so many once held sacred?

    35 Years Since the ADA

    This year marks 35 years since the Americans with Disabilities Act was signed into law. It’s a landmark civil rights achievement that changed the legal landscape for millions. I was just finishing kindergarten in 1990. I had no idea then how deeply the ADA would shape my path—or how far we’d still have to go.

    Because the fight didn’t end in 1990.

    If you need a refresher on how we got here, here’s a brief history of the ADA. It still matters. A lot.

    As someone who belongs to both the disabled and LGBTQ+ communities, these issues aren’t abstract to me. They’re personal. They’re real. They’re urgent.

    Even with the ADA in place, accessibility remains inconsistent. Healthcare is broken. Now, under the current Trump administration, programs that support disabled people are under attack.

    These aren’t luxuries. They’re lifelines.

    Today, crucial programs for people with disabilities face funding cuts. Leaders are trying to balance the books. This comes after giving massive tax breaks to billionaires and corporations. Their choice? Slash services for the most vulnerable among us.

    What We Teach And What We Erase

    We say we value freedom, but we whitewash our history to make it more comfortable.

    We teach about the Declaration of Independence. We give a brief nod to the Civil Rights Movement. But what about the Stonewall riots? What about the 504 Sit-In, where disabled activists occupied a federal building for nearly a month?

    Why do we erase the truths that make us uncomfortable?

    Some states are now passing laws that allow parents to pull their kids from school activities that mention LGBTQ+ families. A picture book about two dads becomes “controversial.”

    Look—I support the right of families to hold personal beliefs. I also believe education should prepare kids for the real world. It’s a world full of diverse people, relationships, and identities.

    Pretending they don’t exist doesn’t protect kids. It confuses them. It primes them to respond with fear—or hate—when they meet someone different.

    Independence in a Nation Built by Immigrants

    We are a nation of immigrants. But you wouldn’t know it from today’s political discourse.

    Let me be clear: I support deporting people who commit serious crimes after entering illegally. That’s not controversial—it’s common sense.

    But millions of immigrants—many undocumented—are holding up the scaffolding of our daily lives. They’re working in fields, hotels, kitchens, janitorial services. Jobs many Americans scorn—while depending on them.

    And instead of treating these workers with dignity, we vilify them. We build walls and cages. We pass policies that dehumanize.

    Meanwhile, billionaires and corporations are shielded from taxes, oversight, and even basic accountability.

    The Boiling Pot We Refuse to Notice

    The average American is being played.

    We’re told to fear immigrants. Disabled people. Trans youth. Anyone “different.” We argue among ourselves. Meanwhile, lawmakers pass legislation that benefits the ultra-wealthy and large corporations. This leaves the rest of us scrambling.

    Social safety nets are unraveling.
    Corporate profits are protected, while food assistance, Medicaid, and disability programs are slashed.

    It’s like the old frog metaphor:
    If you slowly turn up the heat, the frog won’t notice it’s boiling.

    That’s where we are as a country.
    And the water’s getting hotter.

    Final Thoughts

    So what does the Fourth of July mean anymore?

    For me, it’s not fireworks or flags. It’s the chance to remember that the dream of freedom isn’t finished. It’s unfinished business.

    The work of building a more inclusive, just, and fair country belongs to us now.

    Not just today—but every day.