Some families gather around the television to watch the big game. Others have a favorite movie they put on every holiday. In our house, it’s the Bob’s Burgers animated sitcom.

At this point, I don’t even think it’s just a TV show anymore. It’s become part of my family’s language and life.

We quote the show almost every day. My wife, daughter or myself will say something completely ordinary, and one of us will answer with a line from the show. Half the time we aren’t even trying to be funny. It’s just how we communicate. If an outsider heard us, they’d probably wonder what planet we came from.

My wife and daughter know exactly what I’m talking about.

There are days when life feels heavy. Living with Muscular Dystrophy has a way of reminding me that some things are getting harder instead of easier.

There are doctor’s appointments, medical equipment that needs attention, plans that suddenly change, and appliances that always seem to break at the worst time. Just the ordinary stresses every family faces.

Bob Belcher gets frustrated over something ridiculously small, Linda starts singing about absolutely nothing, Gene says something so bizarre that it somehow makes perfect sense, Louise comes up with another questionable plan, Tina wanders off into awkward territory again, and suddenly we’re laughing.

Not just smiling.

Laughing.

I believe that matters more than people realize.

One of the reasons I love this show is that the Belchers aren’t perfect. They’re messy. They argue. They get on each other’s nerves. Their plans fall apart. They’re constantly broke. Yet somehow, underneath all this, there’s this unwavering love for one another.

That’s what makes them real.

Bob gets frustrated with his kids, but he’d do anything for them.

Linda is endlessly optimistic, sometimes to a fault, but she’s the heart of the family.

Gene lives in his own wonderfully weird universe.

Louise acts fearless, even though she has a softer side she tries to hide.

And Tina… well, Tina is unapologetically Tina.

They’re wonderfully imperfect. Maybe that’s why they connect with us so much. Life in our house isn’t perfect by any means either.

We have days when everything goes according to plan and days when absolutely nothing does. Sometimes my wheelchair decides to remind me who’s really in charge. Sometimes we have appointments instead of adventures. Sometimes we’re just simply tired.

But no matter what kind of day we’ve had, putting on Bob’s Burgers has become our reset button.

It’s familiar.

It’s comforting.

It’s home.

I think every family has something like that right? Maybe it’s a favorite movie. Maybe it’s a board game, a vacation spot, or a meal everyone loves. My family’s just happens to involve a struggling burger restaurant and one of the funniest and heartfelt animated families ever created.

Some of our favorite memories aren’t from buying expensive gifts or elaborate dinners. They’re from sitting together on the couch, laughing at jokes we’ve already heard twenty times.

The funny thing is, the show isn’t really about burgers. It’s about showing up for your family.

It’s about loving people despite their quirks instead of putting them down.

It’s about finding joy in ordinary moments. And maybe that’s why it means so much to us.

When I look back years from now, I probably won’t remember every episode. I won’t remember every joke or every burger of the day.

But I’ll remember hearing my wife laugh in the other room.

I’ll remember my daughter quoting Louise at exactly the right moment.

I’ll remember us finishing each other’s favorite lines before the characters could.

Those are the moments that stick.

Those are the little traditions that quietly become part of my family’s story.

Who would have thought an animated family running a burger restaurant would become such a meaningful part of my family’s life?

“No limits, just done differently.”

When people hear the word accessibility, they often think about wheelchair ramps, automatic doors, elevators, or accessible parking spaces.

Those things matter. They make it possible for people like me to get where we need to go. But accessibility isn’t only built into buildings.

Sometimes it’s built into people.

I’ve noticed over the years that many people make my life easier without even realizing they’re doing it. They aren’t trying to be heroes. They aren’t looking for recognition. They’re simply being thoughtful. Those little moments add up.

A person holds a door for an extra second because they notice my power wheelchair takes a little longer to get through.

Someone moves a shopping cart that was left blocking the aisle without being asked.

A person notices me coming and slides their chair in at a restaurant so I have room to get past their table instead of awkwardly trying to squeeze around them.

Someone steps aside on a sidewalk rather than making me off-road through the grass.

A stranger reaches an item on a high shelf before I even have to ask.

Family or friends choose a restaurant because they know everyone can get inside instead of choosing the trendiest place with three flights of stairs.

People keep backpacks, purses, or strollers out of walkways.

They don’t park on the striped access aisle next to accessible parking spaces because they understand that space isn’t empty, it’s how someone gets in and out of their vehicle.

Most of these moments last only a few seconds. The people doing them often forget about them before the day is over.

I don’t.

Those small choices remove little obstacles that could have become frustrating, exhausting, or even impossible. Accessibility isn’t always about expensive renovations. Sometimes it’s about awareness.

It’s looking around and asking yourself, Is there enough room for everyone?

It’s realizing that not everyone experiences the world the same way.

It’s understanding that a tiny inconvenience for you might remove a major barrier for someone else.

I don’t expect the world to revolve around disability.

I just appreciate it when people notice that we all share the same spaces.

The truth is, accessibility helps far more than people may realize.

Parents pushing strollers, a wheelchair user, someone recovering from surgery, a person using a rollator walker, a person who is visually impaired, a delivery driver with a heavy cart, a traveler pulling luggage.

What helps one person often helps everyone. That’s one of my favorite things about accessibility.

The next time you hold a door, move something out of the way, leave extra room, or simply notice someone else’s needs, you may not think twice about it. But someone else probably will.

You may never hear a “thank you”. You may never know the difference you made. But chances are, you made someone’s day just a little easier.

Sometimes accessibility isn’t about changing the world. It’s simply about making the path a little smoother for the person right beside you.

“No limits, just done differently.”

Life has other plans sometimes.

If I could sit down with my younger self, not to warn him about everything that’s coming, because that would ruin the surprise, I think we’d just have a casual conversation. He’d probably roll his eyes a few times. I know I would have.

Still, there are a few things I’d want him to hear.

I’d tell him that physical strength isn’t permanent.

Not because I wanted to scare him, but because I want him to understand that building your identity around something that can be taken away is precarious. Your body will change. Your abilities will change. Eventually you’ll discover that character matters far more than muscle.

I’d tell him to stop trying so hard to be in control.

You’re going to spend years believing that if you plan something carefully enough, work hard enough, or think about something specifically long enough, you can keep life from surprising you.

You can’t.

Life is wonderfully stubborn. The sooner you learn to adapt instead of control, the happier you’ll be.

I’d tell him not to confuse independence with doing everything alone. One day you’ll need help.

Not occasionally.

Every day.

You’ll hate that at first.

Then you’ll discover something unexpected. Accepting help doesn’t make you less independent. It simply means you’ve learned another way to keep moving forward.

I’d tell him that people are paying far less attention to him than he imagines.

The awkward moments. The embarrassing mistakes. The things that keep him awake at two in the morning.

Most people forget them before lunch.

Stop carrying around the weight of other people’s imaginary opinions.

I’d tell him that comparison steals the joy out of life.

There will always be someone stronger, wealthier, smarter, healthier, or more successful. And on the flip side there will also always be someone wishing they had what you innocently take for granted. Comparison steals from both people.

I’d tell him that it’s okay to change his mind.

Change isn’t hypocrisy.

It’s growth.

The opinions you’re most certain of today may be the ones you laugh at twenty years from now.

That’s not failure. That’s evidence you’ve grown in mentality.

I’d tell him that kindness is never wasted.

Not every kind gesture will get noticed. Not every thoughtful act will get returned.

Do it anyway.

The world has enough people keeping score. Be someone who keeps giving instead.

And finally…

I’d tell him that one day he’ll be diagnosed with muscular dystrophy.

I wouldn’t tell him when. I wouldn’t tell him how much life will change. I wouldn’t tell him about the power wheelchair. I wouldn’t tell him about the grief, the frustration, the dark nights of the soul, or the countless things he’ll have to relearn.

I’d simply tell him this:

You’re going to lose some abilities.

You’re not going to lose yourself.

In fact, some of the qualities you’ll be most proud of haven’t even been built yet. They’ll be made by the very things you wish you could avoid. That’s how character is built. I don’t think my younger self would believe me.

Honestly, I’m not sure he should. Some lessons can’t be explained. They have to be lived. And maybe that’s the point.

Come to think of it, if I really had the chance to talk to my younger self, I don’t think I’d spend much time trying to change him. As difficult as the unwanted changes can be throughout my life, everything I have gone through has led me to where I’m at now.

I believe everything affects everything, so changing something in my past, even something that seems insignificant would alter my future. I love my life. I have seen and been through some amazing things both solo and with my family. And there’s still a lot to see and do.

I’d just simply smile, give him a fist bump, wish him my kind of happiness and let him become the person I’m grateful to be today.

“No limits, just done differently.”

When most people hear the word leverage, they probably think about business, investing, or physics class.

I think about making my morning cup of coffee.

Living with muscular dystrophy has taught me that strength and leverage are two completely different things.

Strength is what I have less of than I used to. Leverage is what lets me keep living my life as independently as possible.

I can’t simply reach into the microwave and grab a bowl the way most people can. My shoulders don’t cooperate with that plan. So I pull close, brace my forearm against the counter, slide the dish toward me instead of lifting it immediately, and use every stable surface I can find.

That’s leverage.

When I pour a drink, I’m not relying on arm strength. I’m positioning the water pitcher just right, supporting it against the edge of the counter, and letting gravity do most of the work.

That’s leverage.

Cooking dinner? Leverage.

Cleaning the kitchen? Leverage.

Feeding myself? Leverage.

Transferring from my wheelchair to my bed? Definitely leverage.

Getting onto the portable commode independently? More leverage than I’d like to admit.

If someone watched me for a day, they might think I have a strange way of doing almost everything.

They’re right, I do.

Every movement is planned.

Every reach has a purpose.

Every transfer is a carefully choreographed sequence of angles, momentum, timing, and whatever sturdy object happens to be nearby.

I don’t have the luxury of wasting motion. Ironically, living with less strength has forced me to become a better problem solver. I’ve learned that independence isn’t always about being stronger.

Sometimes it’s just about being wiser.

It’s about asking, “How can I make this work for me?” instead of, “Why can’t I do it the normal way?”

That question has changed my life.

I don’t see a countertop.

I see an anchor point.

I don’t see an armrest.

I see a way to pivot.

I don’t see a piece of furniture.

I see a tool.

My house is basically one giant physics experiment.

Occasionally, it’s a little bit of comedy too, because you gotta have a little humor in your daily routine.

There have been moments when I spent five minutes figuring out how to move one stubborn object a few inches. If someone had filmed it, they probably would have assumed I was trying to solve a complicated escape room.

Nope.

Just trying to get the jar of peanut butter.

Here’s the funny thing: the longer I live this way, the more I realize leverage isn’t only physical.

We all use it at sometime or another.

Sometimes it’s accepting help before we desperately need it.

Sometimes it’s using technology that makes life easier.

Sometimes it’s leaning on a friend when life gets heavy.

Sometimes it’s choosing wisdom over pride.

The goal isn’t to prove how strong we are.

The goal is to keep moving forward.

For me, leverage has become a quiet reminder that independence doesn’t always look the way people expect.

It isn’t about doing everything the hardest way possible.

It’s about finding another way when the obvious way no longer works.

I still have limitations. Those aren’t going away.

But every day, I discover another little trick, another better angle, another way to let physics lend me a hand.

Not because I’m stronger.

Because I’ve learned to work with what I have.

And honestly?

Leverage has carried me farther than strength ever could.

“No limits, just done differently.”

I wake up already behind because I didn’t sleep well. My body feels heavier than usual. The little tasks that are normally manageable suddenly feel impossible. Technology decides it no longer wants to cooperate. Plans fall apart. The weather doesn’t help. Even my coffee gets cold before I can finish it.

By lunchtime, I’m wondering if the universe has accidentally put my name on the wrong list.

Living with muscular dystrophy has taught me that there are days when everything feels harder. Transfers don’t go smoothly. Fatigue hits earlier than expected. Something breaks that wasn’t supposed to break. A simple chore turns into an exhausting obstacle course.

On those days, it’s tempting to write the whole day off as a failure. I’ve done that before.

But lately, I’ve started asking myself a different question:

Was there anything good today?

Not Was today good?

Just… Was there anything good?

Those are very different questions.

Maybe it was a stranger holding a door for me without making it awkward.

Maybe my wife made me laugh when I needed it the most.

Maybe I noticed the beauty of the sunset through the living room window because I was too tired to go anywhere else.

Maybe my daughter told me something about her day that she might not have shared if I had been rushing around in a hurry.

Maybe it was simply realizing that despite everything going wrong, I was still here. I made it through another day.

I’ve discovered that finding something good doesn’t erase everything that went wrong. It doesn’t magically make the frustrations disappear or turn a bad day into a great one. It simply reminds me that bad days don’t get to tell the whole story.

Life is almost never all one thing.

A day can be exhausting and beautiful.

Frustrating and funny.

Disappointing and meaningful.

Both can be true at the same time.

I still have days when I’d gladly hit a reset button if one existed. Days where nothing seems to go according to plan. Days where I crawl into bed hoping tomorrow is a little kinder. But before I close my eyes in bed each night, I try to think of one good thing that happened that day.

Just one.

Because sometimes that’s enough to remind me that even on the hardest days, hope has a way of slipping through the cracks… And sometimes, that one small good thing is what I remember long after I’ve forgotten everything that went wrong.

“No limits, just done differently.”

Some people name their cars.

Some people give their boats names.

I have a different kind of relationship with my ride.

My power wheelchair has a personality, and her name is Valyrian Steel.

And honestly? After spending countless hours together, I’m pretty sure she has opinions as well.

We’ve been through a lot together. She has carried me through doctor appointments, grocery store adventures, family outings, and those moments when I just needed to get out of the house and remind myself that life is still happening.

But after spending this much time together, I’ve learned something. This isn’t just a machine with six wheels and a joystick.

Valyrian Steel has an attitude.

Okay, let’s get into it…

The “I’m Ready When You Are” Personality:

Valyrian Steel has the patience of a saint.

I can sit there for five minutes trying to decide where I want to go, what I need to grab, or whether I actually remembered why I drove into the room in the first place.

She just waits.

Silent.

Judging me.

I swear sometimes I can hear her thinking:

“Take your time, Dan. It’s not like I’m the one with a battery to conserve.”

The Speed Demon:

Valyrian Steel has a little bit of a wild side.

Sure, it’s not a sports car. I’m not pulling up to a stoplight with a V8 engine rumbling.

But when I hit that joystick forward?

She knows it’s go time.

Suddenly, I’m no longer just a guy going across the room.

I’m the captain of a tiny electric chariot.

People see a power wheelchair. I see horsepower.

Okay… technically it’s battery power.

But let me have this one.

The Attention Seeker:

Valyrian Steel loves making an entrance.

Especially in quiet places.

Have you ever noticed how the loudest thing in a silent room is always the thing you don’t want making noise?

Yep.

That’s my rig.

Walking into a quiet waiting room?

Click click click (the sound my electric brakes make when I stop and go)

Trying to sneak somewhere?

WHIRRRRR.

Passing someone who’s already staring? That’s exactly when she decides to make an electronic announcement.

Valyrian Steel basically says:

“Ladies and gentlemen, Dan has arrived.”

The Drama Queen:

Like any relationship, we have disagreements. Sometimes she decides that a small obstacle is actually Mount Everest.

A tiny bump?

“Absolutely not.”

A slightly uneven sidewalk?

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

She’s basically saying, “I didn’t sign up for off-roading, Dan.”

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking:

“You climbed ramps. You handled grass. You survived my hot rod driving. We are not losing to a two-inch crack in the pavement.”

The Loyal Companion:

But underneath the sarcasm and the occasional attitude, Valyrian Steel has given me something priceless.

Freedom.

It has allowed me to go places, experience things, and stay involved in the world around me.

It doesn’t define me.

It doesn’t replace the things I can no longer do.

It simply gives me another way to do them.

It’s my legs when my muscles can’t do the job.

It’s my adventure partner.

My transportation.

My sometimes stubborn, occasionally dramatic, always reliable companion.

The Truth About My “Rig”:

Living with muscular dystrophy has changed a lot of things in my life.

But one thing I’ve learned is that sometimes you have to find humor in the unexpected.

Some people have a truck.

Some people have a motorcycle.

Some people have a classic car sitting in their garage.

I have a neon green electric machine that turns heads everywhere it goes.

And you know what?

I wouldn’t trade it.

Because at the end of the day, my power wheelchair isn’t just a piece of equipment.

It has become part of my story.

It’s proof that independence doesn’t always look the way people expect.

Sometimes independence comes with six wheels and a joystick.

And if Valyrian Steel could talk, I’m pretty sure she’d remind everyone the truth… that she’s doing all the heavy lifting around here. And she’d be 100% right.

“No limits, just done differently.”

Walk the shoreline. Climb the dunes. Stay out for hours without thinking about fatigue or accessibility.

Living with muscular dystrophy changed those expectations.

For a while, I let that stop me from going places. I convinced myself that if I couldn’t experience something exactly the way I used to, it wasn’t worth the effort.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’ve learned that sometimes the victory isn’t how much you do, it’s simply that you got out there.

One of my favorite discoveries has been Conneaut Township Park in Conneaut, Ohio. Just before the Pennsylvania border, it sits on the shores of Lake Erie with beautiful views that rival beaches much farther away. What I appreciate most isn’t just the scenery, it’s that I can actually enjoy it.

The park has accessible boardwalks that make it easy for me to get from the parking area to the beach. I don’t have to wonder whether my power wheelchair will make it or if I’ll get stuck halfway there. There are accessible restrooms nearby, and the paths allow me to spend time with my family instead of worrying about obstacles. It’s one of those places where accessibility quietly fades into the background, allowing the experience to take center stage.

Another new discovery of mine is Presque Isle State Park in Erie, Pennsylvania.

They’ve made a real effort to make the beach accessible for everyone. Several beaches feature Mobi-Mats, those sturdy rollout pathways that stretch across the sand, making it much easier for wheelchair users, people using walkers, parents pushing strollers, and others to get closer to the water. Accessible restrooms, changing areas, beach wheelchairs, and ramps to the shoreline mean more people can experience Lake Erie instead of watching from the parking lot.

Will I be sprinting down the beach?

No.

Will I spend all day splashing in the waves?

Probably not.

But I can feel the breeze coming off Lake Erie. I can hear the waves crashing against the shore. I can watch the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. I can spend time with the people I love.

That’s enough.

Actually, it’s more than enough.

I’ve realized that life isn’t measured by how much you accomplish during an outing. It isn’t about checking every box or squeezing every ounce out of the day.

Sometimes it’s sitting by the water with a cup of coffee.

Sometimes it’s watching kids build sandcastles.

Sometimes it’s simply breathing some fresh air and remembering that the world is still beautiful.

Those moments matter.

Living with a disability has taught me that participating doesn’t always look the same. Some days I can do more than others. Some days my energy runs out faster than I’d like.

But I’ve stopped waiting for the perfect day.

If I have enough energy to spend an hour at the beach, then that hour is worth it.

If I can only stay long enough to watch one sunset, that’s still a sunset I’ll remember.

As long as you’re doing something that brings you joy, whether it be, getting outside, exploring a new place, spending time with family, enjoying nature, you are living your life.

It doesn’t have to look impressive.

It just has to be yours.

For anyone living with a disability, chronic illness, or simply facing limitations in your life you never expected, don’t underestimate the value of showing up.

You don’t have to do everything.

You don’t have to keep up with anyone else.

Sometimes the greatest adventure is simply deciding to go.

And sometimes, that’s exactly enough.

“No limits, just done differently.”

Living with muscular dystrophy changed that.

Life in a power wheelchair naturally moves at a different pace. There are things I simply can’t rush, no matter how much I want to. For a long time, I saw that as something I had lost.

Now, I see it differently.

Slowing down has helped me notice things I used to miss, a quiet conversation with my wife, the way my daughter’s laugh can instantly brighten a difficult day, the kindness of a stranger who holds a door without making me feel like a burden.

It has also made me a better listener. When you’re no longer racing to the next thing, you begin to hear people more clearly. You become more present.

I didn’t choose this slower life, but I’ve discovered that slower doesn’t have to mean smaller. Sometimes it means deeper.

The world celebrates speed, productivity, and constant motion. Yet some of life’s greatest gifts are only visible when we’re forced to slow down long enough to notice them.

Muscular dystrophy has taken a great deal from me. I won’t pretend otherwise.

But hidden among the challenges has been an unexpected gift: the opportunity to live with greater intention, deeper gratitude, and a clearer understanding of what truly matters. The things that stay with me now aren’t the tasks I finished, but the conversations, laughter, and small moments I would have rushed past before.

I still have places I want to go.

I’m just no longer in such a hurry to get there.

“No limits, just done differently.”

Living with muscular dystrophy has taught me a lot about adaptation, resilience, and patience.

It has also taught me something I never expected: how much of my life I spent apologizing.

“I’m sorry I’m taking so long.”

“Sorry you have to wait for me.”

“Sorry I can’t do that.”

“Sorry for being in the way.”

Most of those apologies weren’t for anything I had actually done wrong. They were automatic, almost like a reflex. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that taking up extra space, needing extra time, or asking for accommodations was an inconvenience I needed to apologize for.

These days, I’m trying to unlearn that.

Not because I’ve become entitled, but because I’ve realized there’s a difference between being considerate and carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to me.

I’ve stopped apologizing for moving at my own pace.

Whether I’m navigating a crowded sidewalk, or loading my wheelchair and I into an accessible van, it takes the time it takes. Rushing usually makes things harder, not easier. If someone has to wait a little longer, the world will keep turning.

I’ve stopped apologizing for asking if a place is accessible.

Accessibility isn’t a special favor. It’s the difference between being able to participate and being left outside looking in. Asking those questions isn’t being difficult, it’s simply planning my day like everyone else does.

I’ve stopped apologizing for saying no.

There are events I can’t attend, activities I can’t safely do, and days when my body simply doesn’t cooperate. Years ago, I felt guilty every time I declined an invitation. Now I understand that protecting my health isn’t selfish. It’s necessary.

I’ve stopped apologizing for using my power wheelchair.

People sometimes tell me they admire my “courage” for using it, but the truth is much simpler than that. My wheelchair isn’t something to be embarrassed by. It’s the reason I can be a husband who goes exploring park trails with his wife, a father who takes his daughter to Fan Expo every year, and a writer who continues exploring the world. It hasn’t taken my freedom away. It’s given much of it back.

I’ve stopped apologizing for needing help.

Independence is a wonderful thing, but no one gets through life completely on their own. We all rely on other people in different ways. Mine just happens to be more visible.

Accepting help doesn’t diminish my independence. It makes the life I’ve built possible.

And perhaps most importantly…

I’ve stopped apologizing for taking up space.

For a long time, I tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. I didn’t want to be noticed.

But my life isn’t something I should shrink to make other people comfortable.

I’m allowed to be here.

I’m allowed to participate.

I’m allowed to have a voice.

That doesn’t mean I stop being kind or considerate. It simply means I’ve stopped confusing my disability with something that requires an apology.

There are still plenty of things I’ll apologize for.

If I’m rude, I’ll own it.

If I’m wrong, I’ll say so.

If I hurt someone, I’ll genuinely apologize.

But I won’t apologize for existing exactly as I am.

That isn’t arrogance.

It’s acceptance.

After feeling like I had to earn my place in the world, I’ve finally realized I never had to.

“No limits, just done differently.”

They are not.

When I was first diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, I spent a lot of time fighting reality. I measured my worth against what I used to be able to do. I convinced myself that accepting my condition meant admitting defeat.

What I’ve learned over the years is that acceptance is not waving a white flag of surrender. Acceptance is simply telling the truth.

It is acknowledging that this is the body I have today. These are the challenges I face. These are the circumstances I must navigate.

Giving up says, “Nothing can be done.”

Acceptance says, “This is where I am. Now what?”

There is a significant difference.

Giving up closes doors. Acceptance allows you to look for new ones.

When I began using a power wheelchair, there was a part of me that feared it meant I was losing my independence. In reality, the opposite happened. The wheelchair didn’t change my diagnosis, but it expanded my world. It allowed me to continue participating in life rather than spending all my energy pretending my condition wasn’t progressing.

Acceptance didn’t make me weaker. It made me more adaptable.

I still have difficult days. I still get frustrated. I still wish some things were easier. Acceptance doesn’t require optimism every moment of every day. It simply requires honesty.

The truth is that none of us get to choose every circumstance we face in life. What we do get to choose is how we respond to them.

For me, accepting muscular dystrophy was never about giving up on life. It was about giving up the exhausting battle against reality so I could focus my energy on living as fully as possible within it.

That isn’t surrender.

That’s resilience.

“No limits, just done differently.”

One of the most meaningful perspectives has come from watching how my daughter sees my wheelchair. When she was very young, it was simply part of who Dad was, no different from my voice or my smile. As she has grown older, her understanding has changed. She now recognizes the challenges that come with my disability, but she also sees that a wheelchair is not a limitation on love, involvement, or determination. In many ways, her evolving perspective reminds me that children often learn acceptance before they learn to recognize differences.

One of my favorite traditions each year is taking my daughter, Sophie, to Fan Expo. What started as a fun day surrounded by comics, movies, and collectible memorabilia has become something much more meaningful.

It’s one of those places where we can simply enjoy being together, admiring amazing cosplay, meeting artists and creators, browsing endless rows of collectibles, and sharing our excitement over the characters and stories we both love.

Living with muscular dystrophy means I have to plan outings carefully, but Fan Expo has always been a place where those challenges fade into the background and the memories take center stage.

As she’s grown older, I’ve realized the event isn’t just about superheroes or comic books anymore. It’s about watching my daughter become her own person while still making time for this tradition with her dad. That’s something I’ll never take for granted.

Fatherhood itself has taught me many lessons I never expected. Muscular dystrophy has forced me to approach parenting creatively, focusing less on what I cannot do and more on what I can. I’ve learned that being present matters more than being perfect. Listening, encouraging, and showing up consistently are often more valuable than physical abilities.

My wife and I have also discovered countless small ways to support each other every day. Sometimes, it’s practical help with tasks that are difficult for me. Other times, it’s emotional support, patience, or simply sharing a laugh after a challenging day. Our partnership is built on teamwork, and the little acts of care often mean the most.

As a family, we’ve adapted traditions to fit my abilities rather than giving them up. Whether it’s modifying holiday activities, finding accessible ways to travel, or creating new traditions altogether, we’ve learned that the heart of any tradition is being together. Flexibility has allowed us to keep making memories without letting limitations define our experiences.

More than anything, I hope my daughter learns that challenges are not something to fear. Life rarely unfolds exactly as planned, and everyone faces obstacles of one kind or another. If my daughter can take away one lesson from watching me live with muscular dystrophy, I hope it is this: strength is not measured by physical ability. It is measured by perseverance, adaptability, and the willingness to keep moving forward, even when the path looks different from what was expected.

“No limits, just done differently.”

(Her name is actually Valyrian Steel, because every wheelchair, rolator walker, vehicle, bike, etc. has to have a name right?)

Today I want to take a moment to say thank you.

You are much more than a piece of equipment to me. Every day, you help give me freedom, independence, and the ability to move through the world in ways that might otherwise be difficult or impossible. Because of you, I can go where I need to go, spend time with people I care about, and participate in life’s everyday moments.

Thank you for carrying me through good days and challenging days alike. Thank you for being reliable when I need you most. Whether it’s a short trip across a room or a longer expedition outside, you help me reach my destination safely and comfortably.

I am grateful for the opportunities you provide. You help me maintain my independence, pursue my goals, and enjoy experiences that bring meaning and joy to my life. You make it possible for me to explore, connect, learn, and live with greater confidence.

Thank you for every mile traveled, every obstacle overcome, and every place we’ve gone together. Your support allows me to focus less on limitations and more on possibilities.

I appreciate all that you do for me, often without recognition. You are a valuable companion in my daily life, and I am deeply thankful for the freedom and mobility you provide. Because of you, my world got bigger.

With gratitude and appreciation,

A Thankful Rider

“No limits, just done differently.”

This isn’t a story of triumph, and I’m not a self-help guru offering a roadmap to happiness. I’m just a flawed human being trying to be a little better than yesterday. If something here resonates with you, then cool beans.

That being said, let’s get into it.

Disability did not make me wiser overnight. Most days, it simply made life harder. It changed routines, exposed insecurities, and forced me to confront limits I never imagined I would have to negotiate with at such an early stage in my life. But over time, adversity reshaped me in ways I could not have predicted — not into a better person automatically, but into a more attentive one.

As a husband and father, disability stripped away the illusion that love is expressed through grand gestures or extravagant gifts. There were times when I could not do everything I once associated with being dependable. I could not always fix problems, carry the load, or keep up with the pace of family life the way I wanted to. That was humbling. It forced me to understand that presence matters as much as productivity. Sometimes the most meaningful thing I can offer is patience, listening, or simply being emotionally available.

As a writer, disability sharpened my honesty. Hardship has little tolerance for performance. It removes the temptation to sound refined or impressive in a way that dodges honesty and reality. Writing became less about appearing insightful and more about communicating something real. Adversity gives me a deeper respect for complexity — for the fact that gratitude and grief often exist in the same sentence.

I would never glamorize disability. There is loss in it. Frustration. Isolation. Anger. But I can admit this too: living through difficulty reshaped my character from the inside out. It made me more aware of time, more protective of relationships, and less interested in pretending that strength means invulnerability.

If disability has made me a better husband, father, or writer, it was not because hardship is beautiful. It was because hardship forced me to pay closer attention to what actually matters in life.

“No limits, just done differently.”

As I rolled up the ramp in my power chair through the garage door into the utility room/mud room of our house, a feeling started to come over me. Instead of being grateful that I was finally home—and that my amazing, loving wife had cleaned our house from top to bottom—I felt frustration and anger that items in our house had been moved or changed.

I found myself becoming impatient and snappy at times toward my wife and daughter. I would think to myself, What the hell am I doing? This isn’t me! Annnnd cue the Mack truck/holy realization: my problem wasn’t that items were moved or changed around our house—my problem was me.

This was by no means a self-sabotaging or self-loathing feeling. No, this was a moment of self-awareness and self-accountability. A change had happened to me—one I didn’t ask for or see coming until it happened. Truth be told, I was scared and confused. I was now going to have to go about my day completely from my power chair.

Before the accident, I used my wheelchair throughout the day except when using the bathroom, grabbing items from the kitchen cabinets to make dinner, and going to bed at night. I had a choice, as I always do: I could let this situation defeat me, or I could rise above it.

One of my favorite authors, Jen Sincero, has a quote that goes like this: “If we run from our fears, they will follow us. If we run right at our fears, they will get the hell out of the way. Fear hates it when you do that.”

I can tell you she’s 100% right. The moment I run directly at my fears is the very moment my script flips.

As I’ve said before, there is no one-size-fits-all formula for a happy and peaceful life, but I believe our greatest tests from the universe come during our most trying and difficult moments. Now, this is easier said than done because it can be daunting, and it’s often much easier to place the blame on other people for the obstacles in our lives.

But the moment I started taking self-accountability and recognizing the role that I play in my moments of difficulty is the moment my power comes back and allows me to overcome my obstacles. I begin taking control of my life again rather than living in chaos.

I believe that relationships throughout our lives are like doors. A door opens one way and closes the opposite way—back and forth. The type of relationship doesn’t really matter when it comes to making it work; it’s the “door effect,” as I call it. It has to move back and forth. That’s where self-accountability comes into play during the negative situations throughout our lives.

Sometimes my challenges and obstacles are physical, and sometimes they are metaphysical.

While there are many quotes that inspire me, I have two that are cemented in my foundation—my core:

“There are no limits in my life, I just do it differently.”

“There’s always a way, I just have to figure it out.”

These two quotes aid me greatly when overcoming the challenges and obstacles throughout my life.

Once I gave my ego and pride the kick in the ass they needed and started embracing the change occurring in my life, things started falling into place. My wife and I rearranged the rooms I use most throughout the day. Since I can do the laundry independently, we lined the top of the dryer with laundry detergent, softener, dryer sheets, and small multipurpose cleaning rags so I could easily access them.

In the kitchen, my wife rearranged the plates and bowls that I can lift and use to serve dinner. While my wife is still the cook of the house, I do enjoy cooking and like to dabble in it. We leave several of the bigger and heavier pans and skillets that I use on the back burners of the stove for easy access.

I believe we are all exactly where we are supposed to be in every moment of our lives. All we have to do is embrace the changes in our lives, believe in ourselves, and always come from a place of compassion and humility.

“No limits- just done differently.”

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Okay, let’s get into it.

The city I live in does a good job with accessibility overall. Crosswalks are brailled and level with the sidewalk, making navigation easier for wheelchair users, rollator walkers and people with visual impairments.

Where accessibility still needs to be addressed is in restaurants and storefronts.

One of the fast food restaurants I frequent often is just under a mile from my house, so weather permitting, it’s an easy and quick cruise there in my power wheelchair. A few years ago, they completely tore down the old building and rebuilt a more modern version of the restaurant. The inside was opened up significantly, with several wheelchair-accessible height tables, a kiosk to order your food with a table number placard so you don’t have to carry a heavy tray of items, along with many more outlets for charging devices, etc. The accessible parking spaces were also repaved and leveled according to ADA code.

All of these improvements are awesome, but there’s only one problem: in order for a disabled person to enjoy this newly rebuilt restaurant, they first have to be able to enter it.

The entrance and exit doors are all manually operated. A person using a walker, a wheelchair, or even many senior citizens would have an extremely difficult time independently entering or exiting the restaurant — if they were even able to at all.

The average cost to tear down and rebuild a fast food restaurant is roughly between $2 million and $4.5 million depending on size and location. Even a renovation alone can cost upwards of $800,000+.

Meanwhile, the average cost of installing an automatic door ranges from roughly $2,000 to $50,000.

If a company can spend millions rebuilding a restaurant, why is adding automatic doors still considered optional?

My question to the franchise owner — or to the fast-food corporation itself — would be: “Was accessibility even considered?”

Accessibility isn’t just about convenience — it’s about dignity and independence.

Disabled people are customers, workers, neighbors, and members of the community. Accessibility should never end at the parking lot or the curb ramp. If a person cannot independently enter a business, then the building was never truly accessible to begin with.

“No limits, just done differently”

It was on August 19, 2022, around 6:00 in the evening that yet another big change—one I’ll tell you more about a little later—was coming, not only in my life, but in my wife’s and daughter’s lives as well. It was an accident I never saw coming. Or maybe I did—I just didn’t realize, at the time, how much it was going to change everything.

Everything felt normal-routine, even. It was just another evening, nothing out of the ordinary. My wife, Ange, and I were sitting on the couch watching You’ve Got Mail. We were getting into the fall season spirit early (yes, the movie has all four seasons, but our favorites are fall and winter). Our daughter, Sophie, was outside playing with her neighborhood friend.

I got up to use the bathroom the way I always do: I grabbed my two canes and made my way down the hall. I had switched from forearm crutches to canes because the crutches had become too cumbersome to maneuver. I also use one of my canes in an unconventional way—turning it upside down while sitting in my power chair to help close our garage door and our handicap van’s doors (the van doesn’t have power doors).

After using the bathroom—which, as I write this, is currently being renovated by my uncle (huge shoutout to him for his help)—I began making my way out of the bedroom. The bathroom has an electric stand-aid that helps raise and lower me into sitting or standing positions. I was about halfway into the hallway when my foot caught on the bedroom threshold, the second my foot caught, there was that split-second realization—you know you’re going down, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

At first, I landed in a squatting position—the hallway is narrow—before falling fully to the ground. The fall bent my leg in a way it shouldn’t bend, breaking my tibia in half.

My wife heard me fall and rushed over immediately. As I checked my body like I always do after a fall, something felt different. Not just pain—something worse. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t one I could just shake off. She carefully tried to straighten my legs one at a time while I ran my hand along the one that hurt. I could feel that the bone was broken. Thankfully, it hadn’t punctured the skin.

She quickly called for an ambulance. EMS arrived within minutes and began treating me. They placed a full-leg air cast on my injured leg to stabilize it for transport. Because the hallway was too narrow for the gurney, the paramedics had to slide a full-body sling underneath me to carry me out.

Once they were ready, they warned me it would be quick but painful, I braced myself-but nothing really prepares you for that kind of pain. In that moment all I could do was endure it. They worked quickly and efficiently, and soon I was on my way to the hospital.

The surgery went well. I’m now the proud owner of six metal rods and one metal plate in my leg. Minus the adamantium claws, I feel a little like Wolverine from X-Men-haha.

But the real change-the one I never saw coming-was still ahead.

“No limits- just done differently.”

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I still remember, like it was yesterday, the day my wife and I received the diagnosis from my muscle biopsy back in 2009. The doctor was short, to the point, and showed little compassion when delivering the results of my Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy diagnosis. After we left the doctor’s office, we sat in our Jeep, looking at each other and thinking, now what? We were both very unfamiliar with Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy. We were shocked—there was no prior family history—scared about how it would affect us, and unsure of what challenges lay ahead.

My wife and I wasted no time in creating a battle plan. First, we researched as much as possible about Limb Girdle Muscular Dystrophy to understand what it was and what challenges we might face. For the physical side of the condition, I signed up for aquatic physical therapy to help maintain and prolong as much muscle strength as possible. I learned exercises I could do in the pool at our local rec center, along with light free-weight routines to maintain my arm strength.

Once I had a general idea of the physical work I needed to do consistently, I turned to the metaphysical—the mental side of the journey. After some dark nights of the soul, I worked to get my mindset clear, focused, and moving in the right direction. The challenge was figuring out how to continue leveling up my life while managing a neuromuscular condition.

Life is full of obstacles—or, as I like to say, opportunities. I’ve learned to view life as something happening for me rather than to me, because that mindset helps me to keep moving forward. I realized that a positive mindset, positive thoughts, and belief in myself would allow me to move forward—or backward. The choice was mine.

I’m a huge fan of positive quotes and inspirational movies because they give me that extra push on tough days. But they’re only part of the equation. After reading an inspiring quote or watching a powerful movie about defying the odds, the feeling of motivation would fade shortly afterward. Not in a bad way, but I noticed that the spark I had just moments before would fizzle out.

Then it hit me: since I can’t spend all day, every day, watching movies or reading quotes, I needed a way to keep that feeling going. That way is consistency. It’s easier said than done, but I can tell you—as sure as you’re reading this—it’s 100% true.

What I mean is this: on the days that are harder, or when I’m facing difficult situations, I remind myself of that quote or a scene from an inspiring movie. Some days, I have to talk myself through the entire day just to keep moving forward. It’s the same principle as training for a marathon or studying for a degree—without consistency, it simply wouldn’t happen.

I recently came across a quote on social media that I strongly disagreed with. It said that people who are always positive and smiling are hiding something and not being true to themselves or others. I can tell you that I strive to be positive, honest, and real—even when the truth isn’t what someone wants to hear. If someone asks for honesty, I give it respectfully.

Positive thinking and positive action mean continuing to move forward—even if it sometimes feels like one step back and two steps forward, because you’re still making progress. I’m human—I have bad days. I get sad, frustrated, and overwhelmed at times.

Feeling sorry for myself might happen for a moment, but I don’t stay there. I move on. Venting can be necessary, but I’ve found that if I stay in frustration too long without looking for a next step, I start feeling stuck. It doesn’t move me forward or help me grow.

Like I tell my daughter all the time: practice makes better, not perfect. There’s no such thing as perfect—we’re human, and we’re going to make mistakes. Expect negativity. Expect hard days. It would be unrealistic not to. But stay consistent in your positive thinking. Stay consistent in how you speak to yourself.

When I do that, I attract what I put out into the world—and I shape the life happening around me.

“No limits- just done differently.”

My rig (electric wheelchair) can get up to about 14 miles on a full charge with good batteries. Unfortunately, with all the rain and wind, we knew there was a specific area that was going to be covered with mulch and mud from the runoff. Luckily, I’m kind of O.C.D. when it comes to planning (comes with my muscular dystrophy), so… onto Plan B.

We heard the Golden Arches, a.k.a. McDonald’s, calling our name, so we headed there full steam ahead—throttle pedal to pavement… or in my case, control module knob on my rig pushed forward as far as it’ll go.

It was a beautiful day outside—low 60s and partly cloudy when we headed out, and high 60s with partly sunny skies by the time we made our way back home. It felt good to get some wind on my face and put my rig in “5th gear” to get some speed going—6 m.p.h., to be exact. But hey, it feels faster than that, and it’s enough speed to keep up with my daughter and our friend on their bikes.

Anyhow, I have many more miles to go and places to see. Stay tuned for more cruises, expeditions, and exploring.

“No limits- just done differently.”

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There are a total of 59 communities (cities, villages, and townships) in the county where I live. This service allows me to get to and from my destination without all the many stops that the larger city buses make. The cost is $2.75 each way, which is very reasonable (in my opinion), with the option to purchase an all-day pass at a discounted rate. The fare can be paid with cash or through the transit app on a cellphone.

To obtain a Paratransit bus card, you simply fill out an application online or in person at the RTA headquarters. The process is straightforward—you answer a few questions and provide a doctor’s prescription. The only minor setback is that not every destination within the county is available. This is because there must be a regular city bus stop within a certain distance of both your pickup and drop-off locations.

I get one to three days’ advance notice to schedule my rides, as same-day scheduling is not available. The pickup window is a half-hour range based on the time slot they assign when booking your ride.

Getting onto the bus is easy thanks to a heavy-duty hydraulic wheelchair lift. Once I’m on board, the driver secures my power chair using four Q’Straints that attach to the chair’s grab points. The driver will also fasten a seatbelt for me, although my power chair has a lap belt, so I have the option to use my own if I prefer.

Drop-off is usually right at the entrance of the facility, so I get to feel like a celebrity for a moment 😄. Because I don’t drive independently and rely on this transportation service, I don’t have to worry about parking or dealing with reckless drivers. I would recommend that anyone who uses a wheelchair or has difficulty getting around look into this type of service. It has opened up more opportunities for me and made navigating daily life easier and more enjoyable. I love this transportation service because it gives me freedom, independence and a peace of mind.

No limits—just done differently.

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Living with muscular dystrophy, I try at all costs to live my life as independently as possible. In my head, I can do anything—but the truth is, I need help. Sometimes I need a lot of it, and that’s okay. I wasn’t always comfortable receiving help, especially with the little things I once (innocently) took for granted—like going to the bathroom, showering, getting in and out of bed, shaving my face, or getting dressed and undressed.

Gradually, over the years, I’ve learned hacks and found useful tools that allow me more independence in my daily activities, while still accepting help when I need it. One of the most difficult tasks I face is dressing myself while sitting in my wheelchair, which isn’t easy—even for an able-bodied person. I’m like a sack of Idaho potatoes sitting there in my rig. But as I mentioned, I’ve found tools that help me. I use a Sammons Preston reacher, which assists me with this specific task.

Muscular dystrophy has taught me many things—one of them being how to constantly give my ego the proper kick in the ass it deserves (I’m still a work in progress). It’s kind of like Tori Amos’s song “Crucify” (huge thank you to my wife for introducing me to her). For me, the lesson was learning that things don’t always happen on my timetable just because I think they should.

I believe we’re all on a path laid out by the universe. But that path isn’t a straight line—it’s a zigzag full of twists, turns, and plenty of “what the f**k?” moments. And honestly, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

I always thought that because of my muscular dystrophy, I would gradually end up in a wheelchair. Instead, it happened in an instant after a bad fall. I tripped, broke my tibia, and needed major surgery. That led to me being bedbound for a week while I healed enough to be transferred to another hospital for intense physical therapy. Because of the lack of movement during recovery, my condition progressed quickly—or at least, that’s how it felt.

At first, adjusting to a completely wheelchair-bound life was incredibly difficult. But the therapists in the acute rehab unit taught me new ways—new tricks—to navigate my daily routines and activities.

I am many things, but I’m not a wizard. Life has shown me that I can’t do everything on my own, so I assembled a “team.” My wife helps me with using the bathroom, showering, and cooking. My family has helped me with errands to the store, household repairs, and making our house more accessible. A good friend meets up with me weekly for lunch during the winter months when I’m stuck inside because of the snow or extreme cold. Strangers sometimes help me by opening a door so I can enter or exit a restaurant or facility. Sometimes that team is family, sometimes it’s friends, and sometimes it’s even a stranger lending a hand.

I don’t believe your team has to be large. I may know a lot of people, but my circle—my team—is small. A handful or two, maybe. But when I need help, I know I can count on them.

“No limits- just done differently.”