David and I went to a big box store for the first time. I rolled in without fear and felt good. Produce was easy. The sewing aisle was easy. I grabbed some fleece because I want to make another blanket for my wheelchair—still easy. Then I went to check out the clearance section, and that’s where it hit me. My eye level is now the height of a 6‑year‑old. Anything pushed to the back of the top shelf was invisible to me. It’s a strange, heavy moment when you realize something so basic—where your eyes land—is permanently different. We wandered down the Lego aisle, and that sealed it. The sets kids could afford were right at my level. The pricier, more complex ones were up where adults stand. It was such a clear, physical reminder of how much has changed. I share this because these small, everyday moments—things I used to do without thinking—now come with impact.
But the real gut punch happened at checkout. This is when my view changed. I witnessed the actions of a child and my actions as an adult. Two teenagers were using the motorized scooters for fun. They weren’t disabled; they just didn’t feel like walking. An employee confronted them, explaining the scooters were limited and meant for people who genuinely need them. One girl shrugged and said, “Oh, there were four more left, and I do have a hard time walking,” as she stood up, packed her groceries, paid, and moved around with no issue. Meanwhile, her friend scratched the scooter trying to maneuver around her. I thanked the employee for saying something. Even though the teens blew her off, she did the right thing. I left upset—because those girls can use their legs. They chose convenience and entertainment over respect. And moments like that remind me of my reality, and how much I would give to be able to walk around a store again.
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