Life’s been heavy lately. The kind of heavy where words don’t come easily.
Instead of a post about what’s going on, I decided to create this in Canva.
It makes my heart happy.
Sometimes that’s exactly what we need.
I recently came across a post from A Disabled Icon on Facebook talking about internalized ableism and how many people who become disabled later in life are also trying to unpack the ableist beliefs they grew up with.
Honestly, it hit me harder than I expected.
When you grow up in an able-bodied world, surrounded mostly by able-bodied people, you absorb things without even realizing it. You learn that productivity equals worth. You learn that asking for help is weakness. You learn that pushing through pain is admirable. You learn that independence is the goal.
Then one day your body changes.
And suddenly you’re trying to survive in the exact kind of body society quietly taught you to fear becoming.
I wasn’t born disabled. I remember who I was before.
I was fiercely independent. I had big dreams. I wanted to hike mountains in other countries. I wanted an animal sanctuary. I wanted a hobby farm filled with rescued animals. When I once asked my best friend what she thought I would be like if I hadn’t become disabled, she answered without hesitation:
“A force to reckon with.”
That answer stuck with me.
Because when people ask what I miss about life before disability, it’s easy to talk about the physical things. But what I really miss are the dreams. I miss the certainty that those dreams were still ahead of me.
One of the hardest things about becoming disabled later in life is that you’re constantly comparing yourself to a version of yourself that no longer exists.
For me, internalized ableism often sounds like:
“Why can’t I do things like I used to?”
“I should be doing more.”
“I miss the old me.”
Sometimes it even sounds like blame.
I’ve spent years wondering if different choices could have changed the outcome. If I had left the farm. If I had done something differently. As if disability was somehow a personal failure instead of something that happened to me.
But internalized ableism isn’t just the thoughts we have about ourselves.
Sometimes it changes the choices we make.
A trainer once told me I would never be able to use the elliptical safely. Instead of hearing concern, I heard a challenge. I wanted to prove her wrong.
Turns out, she was right. Today I have a torn meniscus in my right knee.
For years, I avoided using walking aids because I was made to feel weak for needing them. So I didn’t use them.
I fell.
A lot.
Now both of my knees are damaged.
Looking back, I wasn’t fighting my disability.
I was fighting the shame attached to it.
That realization has been difficult to sit with.
Because the truth is, I would never judge another disabled person the way I judge myself. I would never tell someone else they’re weak for using a cane, walker, wheelchair, or other mobility aid. I would never tell them their worth depends on how productive they are.
Yet somehow, I’ve spent years applying those standards to myself.
Another thing A Disabled Icon mentioned was the concept of a disability doula. Someone who helps people navigate not only the medical side of disability, but the emotional side too. The grief. The identity shift. The adjustment. The humanity of it all.
I found that idea incredibly beautiful.
Because disability changes more than your body.
It changes how you move through the world.
How the world sees you.
And sometimes, how you see yourself.
I’m still learning.
Still unlearning.
Still figuring out how to show myself the same compassion I offer other people.
Maybe healing isn’t learning how to become the person I was before.
Maybe healing is learning how to value the person I am now.
I’ve changed. I’m different but it’s not a bad.
That is a beautiful thing.
Some weekends arenāt about doing more.
Sometimes theyāre about slowing down, breathing deeply, and letting your heart catch up.
This morningās view reminded me that even heavy seasons can still hold quiet beauty.
Have a safe Memorial Day šæ
Sometimes You Just Need A Day Away š²
Sometimes the best days arenāt the big vacations or perfectly planned adventures. Sometimes theyāre just quiet little escapes with the person you love most.
Last week, we took a mini trip for my birthday and spent the day doing what we needed most…slowing down.
We wandered by the water, enjoyed the sunshine, and ate food that probably contained enough calories for an entire week. Totally worth it. Would absolutely do it again.
Somewhere between stacked onion rings, giant burgers, chocolate ice cream, and peaceful views of the lake, life felt a little lighter again.
Little did we know that one of our other favorite places, about 70 miles north of where we were, would soon be battling devastating wildfires. Seeing the photos afterward was heartbreaking. Places tied to memories can start to feel personal, even when they arenāt home.
It was a reminder that moments like these matter more than we realize while weāre living them.
Lately things have been heavy, so this day reminded me that joy doesnāt always arrive in huge life-changing moments. Sometimes it shows up quietly: in shared meals, calm water, a drive together, and time with someone who makes life better simply by being there.
And honestly? Thatās enough for me.
This week was heavy.
Iām not going to try to dress this week up into something it wasnāt.
It was hard.
Thereās been a lot happening behind the scenes: working through my disability application, trying to stay on top of everything that comes with that, and at the same time, helping my mom through appointments that didnāt go the way we hoped.
Itās the kind of week where everything stacks up at once. I was super overwhelmed.
Where your brain doesnāt really get a break, even when youāre technically āresting.āWhere youāre trying to hold it together for everyone else, but you can feel yourself getting worn down in the process.
I donāt have a lesson tied up neatly at the end of this. I donāt have a big realization or a āthis is what it all meansā moment.
Iām just tired.
And I think thatās okay to say.
Thereās a strange pressure sometimes to turn every difficult moment into something uplifting. To find the silver lining right away. To make it make sense before youāve even had time to feel it.
But some weeks donāt need to be fixed.
Some weeks just need to be acknowledged.
So thatās what this is.
Just me saying: this week was heavy.
Iāve been trying to find small moments where I can breathe again. Nothing big. Nothing life-changing. Just small things.
Opening the windows for a little while.
Sitting outside, even if itās just in the car.
Putting my phone on do not disturb and listening to music for a bit.
Playing my favorite video games.
Not solutionsājust pauses.
And right now, that feels like enough.
If youāve had a week like this too, where everything feels like a little too much, where you’re feeling very overwhelmed, youāre not alone in that.
Sometimes the best thing we can do is stop trying to push through so hard, and just admit where weāre at.
Iām hoping next week feels a little lighter.
But for now, Iām just giving myself permission to be where I am.
šæThe Part of Me You Havenāt Fully Met Yet
Most people who know me through this blog know me through words. They know my thoughts, my reflections, my questions, and some of the roads life has taken me down. Writing has been one of the clearest ways Iāve learned to make sense of the world.
But words have never been the only language I speak.
Photography Has Always Been Part of Me
For a long time, photography has been another way I process life. Sometimes there are things that cannot be explained nearly as well as they can be noticed: the way morning fog settles over trees, sunlight breaking through storm clouds, an old barn standing quietly against the years, or the stillness of a landscape that says more than noise ever could.
Photography has always drawn me toward those moments.
Years ago, I earned a degree in photography. Like many things in life, though, gifts and passions do not always travel in straight lines. Confidence can be shaken. Life can interrupt. Hard seasons can make parts of us grow quiet for a while. Some things we love get placed on shelvesānot because they no longer matter, but because we forget they still belong to us.
That has been true for me in some ways.
And yet, even when it was quieter, photography never really left. I still noticed the sky. I still paid attention to changing seasons. I still felt that pull to preserve something fleeting before it disappeared. I still found myself reaching for whatever camera I had in my hand, even if it was only a phone, trying to hold onto beauty for one more moment.
Lately, Iāve been reminded that creativity does not need permission to return. It does not need perfect timing, perfect health, perfect confidence, or perfect equipment. It only needs room to breathe again.
So this is simply me making room.
I Didnāt Find My Way Back Alone
While Deer Ridge Images carries my name and vision, it would not exist in the same way without my wife.
She has encouraged me to create again when I had nearly buried that part of myself. She reminded me that art still mattered. That I still mattered.
Some of the images featured here were taken by herāincluding the rain-soaked shed photo and the Milky Way image. Those photographs represent more than scenery. They represent partnership, patience, and the way someone can help you find your way back to yourself.
So while Deer Ridge Images began with me, it continues because of us.
What Kind of Photography Iāll Be Sharing
From time to time, Iāll be sharing photography here as wellāimages of landscapes, weather, quiet places, rural scenes, wildlife, and the kinds of moments that have always spoken to me. Not because they are flawless. Not because I have something to prove. But because they are real, and because they are part of me.
This blog has always been a place for honesty. Sharing this side of myself feels like another kind of honesty.
Thank you for being here long enough to meet another part of who I am. šæ
This week, I found myself looking at my life through a lens I usually avoid.
Not because Iām in denial.
Not because Iām pretending everything is fine.
But because when you live with limitations long enough, they become normal to you.
You adapt.
You compensate.
You learn workarounds.
You keep going.
And after a while, what would shock someone else just becomes Tuesday.
After completing two disability applications back to back, reading an assessment from the county, and hearing my therapist say I shouldnāt have much trouble qualifying because of my very significant physical and mental limitationsā¦
I had a moment.
A real one.
Not a āI hate myselfā moment.
Not shame.
More like:
Oh shit.
I didnāt realize it was this bad.
Thereās something strange about seeing your reality written plainly on paper.
Things youāve minimized.
Things youāve pushed through.
Things youāve explained away.
Suddenly listed clearly and clinically.
And for a moment, you see yourself from the outside.
I think many of us do this.
We become so used to carrying what we carry that we stop calling it heavy.
We become so used to struggling that we stop calling it struggle.
We become so used to surviving that we forget survival has a cost.
So this week, Iām holding one gentle truth:
If your life has become hard in ways you barely notice anymoreā¦
That doesnāt mean it isnāt hard.
It means you adapted.
And adaptation is not the same thing as ease.
Maybe some of us need to look at ourselves more kindly.
More honestly.
More gently.
Not with criticism.
But with compassion for everything weāve been carrying while still trying to keep moving.
š Sometimes the clearest reflection isnāt cruel.Itās compassionate.
This week has been filled with paperwork.
The kind that sits on the table and quietly takes up space in your mind, even when youāre not actively working on it.
Social Security sent another packet, and right now, thatās where most of my energy is going.
So if things feel a little quieter hereā¦
thatās why.
Some weeks are for writing.
Some weeks are for getting through forms, appointments, and the invisible work that doesnāt leave much room for anything else.
Iāll be back soon.
Justā¦ one page at a time.
š Progress doesnāt always look like productivity.
I finally submitted my disability application.
That sentence feels small on paper.
But it doesnāt feel small in real life.
Thereās a lot that goes into something like this.
The paperwork.
The remembering.
The explaining your body over and over again.
Putting words to things youāve spent years just trying to get through.
Itās not just forms.
Itās your life, translated into boxes and timelines and medical language.
And thatās heavier than it sounds.
So this week hasnāt been about writing.
Or creating.
Or staying on schedule.
Itās been about getting through something that needed my full attention.
And now that itās submittedā¦
Thereās a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.
Like finishing a long climb and realizing youāre not at the top yet ā but at least you reached the next marker.
I donāt know what comes next yet.
But for now, this part is done.
And that matters.
š Some steps are quiet. Some steps are heavy.
This one was both.
This week has been quieter here.
Not because thereās nothing to sayā¦but because life has been asking for my attention elsewhere.
Iāve been working through a disability application ā the kind of process that takes more energy than it looks like from the outside.
The paperwork.
The details.
The remembering.
Itās a different kind of work.
So this week, Iām choosing not to rush.
Not to force words onto the page just to stay on schedule.
Instead, Iām giving myself a little space to move through whatās in front of me.
The stories will still be here.
The words will still come.
Justā¦ maybe a little more gently.
š Some weeks are for writing. Some weeks are for getting through.