People have been asking me why I’m struggling so much with finding a place of peace.
The answer isn’t simple, but it is honest.
For the past several weeks, my home has been campgrounds, fairgrounds, church parking lots, travel centers, rest stops, and wherever I can safely park for the night. If you had told me a few years ago that this is where life would take me, I probably wouldn’t have believed you.
But here we are.
And strangely enough, I’m okay. Not because it’s easy or because this is what I dreamed of, but because somewhere along the way, I stopped measuring my life by what I had and started paying more attention to who I was becoming.
Every morning, I wake up, make my coffee, look over at Oreo curled up beside me, and thank God for another day. Some mornings are beautiful, some are difficult, and some mornings I wonder how I’m going to figure everything out.
I think more people feel that way than we ever admit.
The truth is, I’m living this way for two main reasons. The first is accessibility.
As a full-time wheelchair user, finding an apartment is not as simple as scrolling through listings online. I have to ask whether I can get through the front door, use the bathroom independently, reach the kitchen, safely transfer, and move through the space without constantly hitting walls or furniture.
Those questions may sound small, but they can determine whether I am able to live independently or whether I need help with the most personal parts of my day. I have not been able to find an accessible living space that is truly built for me to navigate safely in my wheelchair.
The second reason is financial.
After the boating crash, my life changed in ways I never expected. My mobility declined, I became a full-time wheelchair user, and I moved from Florida back to Michigan so I could receive the healthcare I needed.
Rebuilding after trauma is expensive. It is even more difficult when you are trying to navigate disability benefits, healthcare coverage, debt, medical needs, and income limits at the same time.
As a disabled person, I have also run into rules connected to what is called substantial gainful activity, or SGA. These systems can make it difficult to earn more money without putting essential health benefits at risk.
It can feel like you are being encouraged to become independent while also being punished for trying to earn enough to survive.
I am not sharing that to avoid responsibility. I am taking responsibility for what I can, even when many parts of this situation were created by circumstances outside of my control.
Every day, I am looking for remote work. I go to my coworking space to complete administrative work, answer emails, develop my business, write books, create art, and look for opportunities that work with my body and energy levels.
I am doing what I can, when I can.
Some people see the book signings, the artwork, the traveling, or the smiling pictures online. What they may not see is me stretching every dollar, overdrafting more than I want to, trying to pay down debt, searching for a safe place to park, or wondering how I will cover the next expense.
I am being vulnerable because I know I am not the only person experiencing this.
There are people working hard every day who still cannot afford housing. There are disabled people who cannot find accessible apartments. There are people trapped between earning too little to live and earning too much to keep the healthcare and support they depend on.
These are not personal failures. They are systemic barriers, and they deserve to be talked about.
The boating crash also left me with PTSD. I still experience nightmares, hot flashes, fear, and moments where it feels like I am reliving what happened all over again.
Trauma has a way of following you into moments that should feel safe. Healing is not always peaceful, and it is definitely not a straight line.
Still, fear does not define me.
I am a warrior. I am resilient, and I am learning how to create freedom and peace in a life that looks very different than the one I originally planned.
Oreo has been beside me through every chapter. She is my service animal, but she is also my soulmate, my companion, and an extension of me.
She makes every unfamiliar place feel safer. She reminds me that home is not always an address.
Sometimes home is the little black dog curled up beside you while the sun comes through the windows of your van.
People ask me how I remain positive, and the honest answer is that I do not feel positive every moment. I have hard days, emotional days, and days when I feel completely exhausted.
But I still wake up and choose gratitude.
I am grateful for my van. I am grateful for Oreo. I am grateful for my creativity, my voice, my books, my artwork, the people advocating beside me, and every opportunity that allows me to keep moving forward.
Gratitude does not mean pretending everything is okay. It means recognizing that something meaningful can still exist while you are going through something painful.
This season of my life is not easy, but it is teaching me what strength really looks like. Strength is not always loud or dramatic.
Sometimes strength is answering one more email.
Sometimes it is finishing one page of a book.
Sometimes it is asking for help.
Sometimes it is simply waking up and trying again.
My biggest takeaway is this: your circumstances do not determine your worth.
You may be in debt. You may be rebuilding. You may be living somewhere you never expected. You may be dealing with disability, grief, trauma, illness, fear, or uncertainty.
None of those things make you less valuable.
Your life still has purpose.
Your voice still matters.
Your dreams are still allowed to grow.
I do not know exactly how long I will be living this way or where the road will take me next. What I do know is that I will keep writing, creating, advocating, working, and searching for a life that is accessible, peaceful, and financially stable.
Tomorrow morning, I will wake up, make my coffee, look over at Oreo, and begin again.
One mile, one book, one painting, one conversation, and one act of courage at a time. 💙
