Disappointment is part of the journey, but so is resilience

Editor’s note: The following was received prior to the Cape Gazette’s revised guidelines for letters to the editor. 

Getting ready to go anywhere when you’re wheelchair-bound is like setting out on a journey through a maze of unpredictable twists and turns. Starting with high hopes and careful planning, but you can’t control everything. Some days, the zipper on your favorite sweater refuses to cooperate. Other times, your helper is juggling their own mountain of tasks, leaving you half-dressed and waiting, wondering if this appointment or outing will even happen. It’s never just getting ready; it’s strategizing, troubleshooting and hoping the stars align.

People who’ve never lived this reality often underestimate just how much every step – or roll – costs. This is where the Spoon Theory comes in. In short, spoons represent energy.  Every movement, every choice uses up a spoon. Did I spend too much energy putting on makeup? Will I have enough left to enjoy the event?

A recent experience was no different. I was so excited for my first holiday party. It wasn’t just about the party; it was about belonging, connection and showing up in a new chapter of my life. I picked out a red sweater, carefully matching earrings, bracelets and necklaces. I took my time with my makeup, brushing on color and confidence in equal measure.

I was bundled into the van, my wheelchair secured, and off we went. I’d thought of everything – or so I believed. The hostess had even sent photos of the obstacles leading to her front door: a small curb step and a higher threshold. No problem, we’d packed the extra ramp.

When we arrived, the reality hit like the freezing December wind cutting through my sweater. The ramp was too short, the rises too high. No amount of adjusting would work.

There I was, on the outside, looking in – again. 

Being wheelchair-bound has redefined my relationship with spaces, both physical and emotional. It’s not just about access; it’s about inclusion. I watched through the window as warm lights glowed inside and laughter spilled out into the cold air. I wasn’t just outside the house; I felt outside life itself. 

Quiet tears fell, the kind that feel too familiar to make a fuss about. Then, Kelce appeared – a massive, sweet Labrador with a heart as big as his paws. He licked my tears, as if to say, “It’s OK. You’re not alone.”

In that moment, I wasn’t alone. I had my husband (and mom briefly) by my side, a friendly pup offering comfort, and the reminder that my worth isn’t diminished by the obstacles I face – though they are heavy and unfair.

While I didn’t make it into the party, I still managed to connect, even if it wasn’t the way I’d hoped. I know this: The effort wasn’t wasted. I showed up for myself tonight. I made the effort, dressed in red and adorned with hope. I’ll try again; this was a practice run.

Disappointment may be part of the journey, but so is resilience. For every obstacle that keeps me out, there’s another opportunity waiting to let me in.