Fifteen Years

Overheard at Mile 14,140...

 "Fifteen years, and I still can't get my leg on." 

Mark laughs.  My brother is standing by his car, parked in the temporary spot outside my building.  

It's 8 PM on November 8.  

I was joking, but it's true.  My prosthesis is not quite on.

I shift from leg to leg.  I'm wearing shorts, not because it's warm outside, but because I've adjusted my prosthetic socket a thousand times today, and it's simpler to do it without dropping my pants.  

Mark hands me a reusable shopping bag from my mom.  She's asked him to deliver it  -- on this, the eve of my "Alive Day."

I peer inside.  

Sunflowers smile back at me, lighting up the night.

It's become a tradition between the two of us over the years.  

Our symbol of hope, comfort, and courage.  Before and after.  Better days ahead.

And on this particular day...

Gratitude.

This morning I set my alarm. 

With this new prosthetic socket, I know it'll take a while to get my leg on. 

In 15 years, I've learned this struggle is part of the process.  I've learned to (mostly) be patient and give it the time it demands.  Still, it stresses me out.

I'm hoping for a morning walk -- and a "good leg" day ahead.

At 7 AM, the phone tings with a text from Mom.  

Happy Alive Day, she says, with love and lots of emojis. :)

My leg isn't totally fastened yet, but I keep wiggling my way into it.  

Stomp my foot.  Check the valve.  Stomp again.

I hobble over to the balcony door -- leg not quite on -- and lean out to see the sky.  

Fifteen years ago, at this exact moment, I was struck by a truck that changed my life.  

It's supposed to rain today, but right now, the sky is pale and clear.  Clouds trail above building tops.  Fresh air tickles my face.  

It was like this on that morning 15 years ago too.  

I will always remember.

Finally, my leg is on well enough to walk.

It's a beautiful morning. 

The moon still hangs over Arch Street.  

Leaves rustle. 

Colors pop.

I notice it all.

To the tune of my own footsteps, I send a message to the universe...

For this day.  For this mile.  For these 15 years.

For the love and care of ALL the people who've "'walked" with me along the way.

Thank you.

A lot has happened in the last 15 years.  

My body has struggled and found resilience.  I've felt joy and adventure and heartbreak and loss -- so big that my own journey sometimes felt small in comparison.

Sure, I've gotten caught up in the slow-downs of everyday life.  Traffic.  To-do lists.  New sockets.  Obligation.  Frustration.  Inconvenience.  Pain.

But in 15 years, the pure wonder of being ALIVE hasn't faded at all.

November 9 reminds me.

Every day -- and every walk -- is a gift.

Happy Alive Day!

Walk on,
Rebecca

Memento Vivere

 A haunted hello from Mile 14,078...

...where a good-leg day meets a pain in the neck!

(That's a vampire joke!)

Remember Rainbow?

Well, she's 16 now, and while she's darkened her outerwear, she's still as colorful as ever on the inside.  

She's also old enough to do her own "googling," so she's been obsessed with visiting Vampa, the Vampire and Paranormal Museum in Doylestown, PA, about an hour north of Philly.

I'd been dragging my feet -- prosthetic and real -- because of the hassle of getting there. 

But at Mile 14,078, we finally make the coveted trip, just in time for Halloween.  

And it does not disappoint!

Stakes and crosses and Ouija boards -- Oh, my!

Not to mention a collection of (probably) haunted dolls.

News to me:  Vampire hunting was all the rage in 19th century France.  (Who knew?)

News to Rainbow:  Even Michael Jackson owned a vampire hunting kit.  (Maybe not that surprising!)

But it's the hourglass exhibit that appeals to me most.

My grandparents used to have one, and I'd completely forgotten about it until now.

I can picture myself, maybe 9 years old -- two feet in socks -- standing on the flat carpeting of their home, gripping the hourglass in my hand.

Turning it.
Watching the sand rain down.
Turning it again.

Was it real?  An antique?  Or just a toy?

My grandfather pretended to be Béla Lugosi.  Love at First Bite was in theaters, although he was a fan of the original.

A sign at the museum draws me back, bridges the gap between then and now:

Just like the hourglass, we have the power to turn our hardships around.

This time of year, my emotions run thick as witches' brew.  Everything stirs them.

For a taste, revisit Mile 143 or 2,127, or 6,825.

November is coming, and with it, the anniversary of my accident.  It's been 15 years, but it still makes me pause.

Next to a heavy-curtained window, another sign catches my eye.  

Memento Mori.

Remember that you have to die.

Memento Vivere.

Remember to live.

Here, at Mile 14,078, that last part resonates most.  

Memento Vivere.

It sparkles like a vampire in the sun.

(Or is that only in Twilight?)

Happy haunting,
Rebecca

The Undercover Lives of My Favorite Baristas

Hello from --

-- I'm not sure what mile it is!

Life has been busy lately -- bursting at its seams.  I haven't had time to total my mileage.

But I learned, way back at Mile 30, that when feelings get too big, it's best to think small.  (And a little bacon goes a long way, but that's another story!)

Bacon aside, I'm grateful for my morning walk.  

If you're new here, a morning walk is nothing heroic.  

I just grab my coffee cup off the dish drainer,
tuck my phone into my purse, 
and close the door behind me.

It's just a walk around the block.  

Even if my prosthesis is a bit crooked, it's OK.  I'll be back soon enough.

Still, a morning walk works magic.

When I close the door and step outside, even tentatively -- or uncomfortably -- it's a step toward possibility. 

A short trip around the block can be a travel adventure.

I've been experimenting with a new (to me) writing platform called Substack.  Let's call it a side trip. 

It's good to venture out once in a while.

I wrote the article below about a morning walk that started small and became something bigger. 

Read it here:  The Undercover Lives of my Favorite Baristas

It features a few of my favorite 
morning walk buddies!

Thanks, as always, for joining me on the journey!

Walk on,
Rebecca

Bright Umbrellas in the Rain

A rainy wave from Mile Marker 13,898...

I get home from work exhausted, just as the rain begins.

I drop my lunchbag in the kitchen, my backpack on the dining room chair.  

I limp into the bedroom.  Contemplate lowering the shades.  The sky is dark already.  Can the neighbors see in?  But I'm too tired even to make that decision.

Instead, I leave the overhead lights off.  
Strip off my work clothes.  
Slide on an Old Navy tee-shirt.  

Then I sit on the edge of my bed and -- Ahhhh! -- finally pop the vacuum seal on my prosthesis and peel off the sweat-soaked liner.  Sweet relief.

I am glad it is raining.
I needed an early sunset.

These long days of summer wear me down.

Summer feels noisy, with its trash-strewn sidewalks, weird smells, and steamy steps through endless construction zones.  

It makes my body noisy too: sweaty skin, slipping prosthetic liner, slashes of nerve pain.

Each day, I start out fresh -- and end up exhausted.

But sleeping is a reset.  
And I feel better the next morning.

Today, when I turn on my laptop, this pic fills the screen.

It's me.  In the rain.  In Paris!

I remember that week in 2023, when a lunchtime downpour caught me and others at an outdoor café covered only by tiki umbrellas.  

I laughed with the Australians at the next table as water poured off our makeshift rooftops.  If it weren't for the cobblestones and croque-madames, we could have been on a waterfall hike together, instead of a Parisian sidewalk.

I stare at the photo now, at my bright umbrella, electric in the rain.

It was a gift from my mom just before the trip, and I loved it immediately.  

It reminded me of Paris -- and hope -- the maillot jaune of my own Tour de France.

Every day that week, it rained on and off, torrential and soaking, with small breaks of sunshine.  I ran out of dry shoes and sloshed around in my wet ones.

But my umbrella wasn't the only bright spot.  For a city of muted colors, Paris was flooded with bright umbrellas.

Rain makes Paris shimmer.

I'm smiling in that photo, but I remember, too, that it wasn't the best "leg day."  

I had just descended a narrow, twisty flight of stairs to refit my prosthesis in a humid restaurant bathroom.  It was already slipping off again, and I still had a long walk back to the Métro.  

But I'd also just finished the Paris Writing Workshop!  

I had learned to navigate the city and -- through that struggle -- felt like I was part of it.

I'm smiling because, at that moment, I wished for nothing better than a Paris rainstorm.

Here, at Mile 13,898, the rain outside my window reminds me of that feeling.

I stand in my dim bedroom, taking one breath.  

And then another.

My leg is dry again, refitted (for the moment) well enough to stand and make dinner. 

I've written about the rain before -- at Mile 255, and 610, and 733, and probably others.  Each time, it has meant something different to my journey.

But tonight, I accept it for exactly what it is.

A chance to wear pajamas.

Read my friend Wendy's writing.  
Call my mom.  
Wash the dishes.  
Get ready for bed.

A chance to wipe the day clean.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Expect the Unexpected

Hello from Mile 13,890 at Jefferson University!

After sharing my story with these wonderful first-year medical students, the unexpected happened.

I almost fell.

Almost -- because a quick-thinking young woman in a brand-new white coat stepped in and caught me.

I stumbled backwards onto my prosthetic leg, and for some reason it buckled.  With a microprocessor knee like mine, that doesn't usually happen.  I stumble sometimes, but I expect it to catch me.

This time, something went wrong. 

I didn't expect the unexpected. I lost my balance and couldn't regain it.  

I was in free fall.  

It felt dramatic.  
And long.

Then that student grabbed my arm.  

And what we all thought was about to happen... didn't.

It must have looked like some kind of "trust" game.  I wobbled -- nearly toppled -- and she caught me, and we laughed it off.  

We went on talking.  The class ended.  The students filed out.   

Only now, hours later, my mind dwells on what could have happened.

I could have hit my head on the nearby desk.
I could have landed on my newly rehabbed shoulder.
I could have damaged my right leg.
I could have sustained a serious injury like when I fell in 2023.
I could have ended up in the hospital.

Day to day, I am a confident walker.  I focus on footwork, but more times than not, I forget how vulnerable I am -- how one false move, one slip of balance, one lapse in concentration could lead to months of immobility.

A PT friend once told me, "walking is a series of controlled falls."  

Not just for amputees, he meant, but for all humans.  It's what happens when we walk upright.  If our bodies work correctly, we take biomechanics for granted.

After today, I've got a new spin on this idea.

I think LIFE is a series of controlled falls.

Most of the time, it goes as planned.  How often do we drive to work?  Cross a street?  Arrive home safely?  

But in the unexpected moments, everything can change.  (That's pretty much the gist of my journey.)

So... Did you stay off the ground today?

Yes?  Consider it a win. :)

Heartfelt thanks to this wonderful group -- and especially to the student who hopped into action. Your future patients will appreciate your instinct and quick reflexes.  

I know I do!

Welcome to Jefferson, Class of 2029!  You're already making a difference.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Capturing A Moment in Time

The desire to capture a moment in time has always been part of my nature...

So began my college essay, typed on a typewriter, back when there was no such thing as a Universal App, only blanks to fill in on dozens of pages, carefully unstapled and imperfectly aligned under the paper bail.  

(I looked it up -- that's the name of that silver roller bar!)

My dad photocopied the applications at his office so I could do rough drafts.  Because once you started typing, the pressure was on.  There was no going back.

Greetings from 1987, where everything was analog.  

Except maybe the VCR.

Ten years before that -- on my 8th birthday -- I got an instamatic camera with 4 flashcubes and a roll of film scrolled up like a tiny Torah.  

Cue the Fotomat envelopes -- every 12 or 24 snaps -- stuffed and sealed and mailed at my dad's office.  

Like magic, my photos "came back."

They were trendy, really --
Squared edges and faded hues,
decades before Instagram!

By the end of 8th grade, I'd earned enough babysitting money to buy myself a real camera.  

35 millimeter.  $199.  Ordered from New York City through the mail!

For 2 decades, that Nikon FG dangled around my neck.

It was almost as big as I was!

Fast forward many more years and miles.

Now, like most people, I carry a do-it-all iPhone, but my desire to capture a moment in time is still firmly grounded.  

In analog.

I'm a collector of moments.  The kind you can hold in your hands.

Just ask my travel buddies, who roll their eyes at the growing pile of sugar packets, candy wrappers, napkins, ticket stubs, brochures, and receipts on every trip we take.  

I can't help it.  

To me, "found souvenirs" capture the journey better than any keychain or magnet!

But what do you do with all that stuff once you get home?

At Mile 13,853, I try making a zine.

What's a zine?
A handmade magazine of storytelling + collage,
two of my favorite things!

I learned about zine-making at a workshop at Elfreth's Alley, in my neighborhood.  

But my memory of zines stretches back much farther.

In college, my friend Chip created one.  He wrote the content, patched it together with scissors and glue, and Xeroxed copies the old-school way at Kinko's.

Zines are still self-published and old-school, but it seems they're making a comeback.

Some bookstores have shelves for them.  There's even a Zine Library in Philly.  (Haven't been there yet, but it's on my list!)

I'm a beginner though, so this one's just for me.

I gather up scraps from my April weekend in London, print a few pics, and pull some key words from my journal.  I uncap a glue stick.

In an hour or two, I wrangle them into a pocket-sized reader.  

Have a look!

Cheerio!

Notting Hill landmarks

Yogurt and buses and tea, oh my!

Mushy peas?  Yay or nay?
(I say YAY!)

Chatting up one of the
King's bodyguards...

...and yes, the Crown Jewels gave me a migraine.  
(Seriously!)

Zines are small but mighty.  

A single page can recount the lifetime journey of a Romanian leather-maker named Yanos, a clever rhyme we learned about the Thames*, and a chance meeting with friend-of-a-friend flight attendant Stacey!

Small world!

*The end of the rhyme.
It's a joke -- get it? :)

Sure, we need digital to keep up with today's breakneck pace.

But scissors, scraps, and gluesticky fingers bring me back to my old self.

1980's style!

How do you capture the moments?

Walk on,
Rebecca

Jar of Stones

Greetings from the Schuylkill Expressway.  

At Mile 13,810, I've never been happier to be speeding toward that Philadelphia skyline.

It's been a tough travel weekend.

I could show you the highlight reel...

The Chelsea Flea Market
with the best sister ever!

A wild game of UNO with my favorite threesome.

A one-pound baby goat named Onyx.

And an evening stroll
through sleepy Montpelier.

Those were good moments -- fresh air, farm life, family fun -- and I wouldn't trade them for not going at all. 

My mom and I have done this roadtrip dozens of times.  We've learned to love its rhythm and pick the best rest stops along the way.

But this time felt different.  I was preoccupied; my body, more demanding.  

A lowlight reel unspooled, like static, beneath it all.

Was it the weather?  The food?  The terrain?  Too much time in the car?

It's challenging to manage my health at home and harder away from home.  Always.  

I know this already -- I've learned to expect it -- but this trip was sort of a tipping point.

There were no emergencies, no hospital visits (thank goodness!).  It was just my body being my body.  Disability stuff.  Health stuff.   A bit louder than usual.

You know that analogy of stones in a jar?

It goes like this:

If life is a jar, we should fill it with big stones first -- the most important, most necessary things -- and let the smaller pebbles and grains of sand -- the less important things -- fall in between.

In theory, I like it.  It's about priortizing what's most important. 

It's the reason I drive 8 hours to see my nieces and nephew (even if my body doesn't love the plan).

And there lies my issue.  Or more precisely, my jar...

The biggest stones are difficult to fit.  Some lurk down at the bottom -- taking up space and clogging things up -- and sometimes they grow larger without warning.  

Everything else, no matter how much I love it, gets piled on top.  

And sometimes the jar overflows.

I yearn to move freely -- to be 100% in the moment wherever I am -- to float to the top and leave the distractions of my body behind.  

That's not always easy.

When the Philly skyline comes into view, I am flooded with relief.  It bubbles up and runs down the sides of my jar.  

I let it.

I am just minutes from home -- a place where I can revel in routine, regenerate my body, and (hopefully) recalculate an easier route for the next journey.

Because yes, of course, I'll take it.

What's in your jar?

Walk on,
Rebecca

P.S. While writing this postcard, I heard the latest episode of Kate Bowler's podcast, 'Everything Happens.'  It spoke to me.  If your jar is feeling a bit too full this summer, perhaps it'll speak to you too.  Listen here.

A Postcard from Above

 Happy 4th from Mile 13,790... 

... 3 stories up!

A couple passes on the sidewalk below.

My friends and I call them "The Nines."

They're in freshly-pressed whites -- she, a collared dress; he, a tee with dark jeans -- and matching straw hats.  They look good, as always.  

Dressed to the.... Well, you get the idea. :)

A blue Prius drives by, then a red Accord.  Both have the soft hum of electric engines which I've heard are just a sound effect for safety, yet always unnerve me.  They sound sneaky, like the breath of Darth Vader.

To the south, an airplane buzzes toward the airport.
To the north, a train rumbles over the Ben Franklin Bridge.

I'm up here on my balcony perch, observing it all.

I could venture out, explore the festivities.  

And maybe I should, but I know what my body needs.  

Tomorrow I'm driving to Virginia to see my friend Amy.  And Rule #1 of Adaptive Travel (at least for me) is "Pace yourself."

So I watch from above as icy Starbucks drinks bob along the sidewalk below.

"Aaah-oooo!"  A loud sneeze echoes off the buildings, so forceful it drops the "ch" all together.

"Daddy, you scared me!" says a small voice.

It belongs to a girl in a one-piece sunsuit, the kind I grew up wearing in the 70's.  It's blue and white gingham, buttoned at the shoulders, with red roses sprinked across the crinkly fabric.  She skips ahead to take her dad's hand.  

Cars clink over the manhole cover.
Bikes pass silently in the bikelane.

I watch people walk.  Always.

There are long legs,
bow legs,
short shorts,

swishy sundresses,
Crocs,

Birkenstocks, 

Hokas.

Me?

I watch from above with one shoe off and one shoe on.  (The prosthetic foot doesn't get hot!)

Since early this morning, I've been thinking about people, here and around the world, who don't have independence -- or won't in the days ahead.  

I often feel my own independence is tied to ability -- or disability.

But that's really just a small part of it.

Independence is like quality of life.  It's the freedom to make our own decisions, to write and speak and live in peace, to maximize our health, to safely access what we need.

Today, from up here, I'm grateful to have it all.

Happy 4th!

Walk on,

Rebecca

Sunflowers

Hello from Mile Marker 13,772 at Substack!

I feel like a stranger in a strange land here, but lucky for me, I've got a wondeful guide.  Fellow writer Gabrielle Kaplan-Mayer has a beautiful Substack called Journey with the Seasons, and she asked me if I'd write a guest post.

At her Summer Solstice Writing Circle last week, a 4-minute prompt planted the seed for this story.  I'm so grateful to share it with you.

Some walks shine brighter with time.  To me, this is one of them.  

Just click on the sunflowers below. :)

Thanks for walking (and reading) with me!
Rebecca

My first Substack piece! Thank you so much @Gabrielle Ariella Kaplan-Mayer for planting the seed for this story and spreading its light!

- Rebecca Levenberg

Read on Substack

Adaptive Travel Tip: Take a friend

I used to travel solo.

Now I rarely travel on my own.

This might be the biggest change to my travel habits since acquiring my disability...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Consider cultures close to home

You don't have to go far.

On my "Alive Day" each year, I like to focus on being present and grateful for... well, being alive.

I always want to do something special and out of the ordinary, but that's a bittersweet time of year for me, and often my energy is in short supply.

So where do you go when you're feeling drained -- and only have a few hours? ...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Choose "right-size" adventures

Travel isn't one-size-fits-all.

I don't know about you, but travel pushes my body into overload.

I walk more than usual, eat different foods, get less rest, carry more than my share of emergency supplies (see this tip!), and -- like even the most able-bodied traveler -- face weather and time changes.

Keeping pace, while keeping my body on an even keel, can be challenging!

Luckily, travel comes in many sizes...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Use trekking poles... sometimes!

Ability and disability can vary day-to-day and moment-to-moment.  

So using an assistive device isn't an "all or nothing" decision...

Adaptive Travel Tip: Ask about discounts

"If you don't ask, the answer is definitely no."

So says my good friend Elaine.

Back in February 2023, at New York City's MoMA, we put it to the test....

Adaptive Travel Tip: What's your best time of day?

Identify your best time of day -- and savor it.

Good morning?  Or good night?

With an amputation and chronic health issues, I get frustrated by the unpredictable nature of my body. 

It's taken me 14 years (and lots of good therapy!) to realize...

I don't just move through the world differently than able-bodied people.  

I move through TIME differently...

Adaptive Travel Tip: It's OK to overpack!

"Wait, what?"

I know.  I know.  Most travel gurus advise traving light.  

After all, everyday essentials are available almost anywhere in the world. 

When I hear them say this, I cringe a bit.  I'm not an expert, but I believe there's a caveat for amputees and others who travel with disability...

Adaptive Travel Tips from 13,500 Miles - Even the Smallest Steps Count

This was travel...

... BEFORE.

The summer before the accident, I did a home exchange with a family from Bordeaux, France.  

And the year before that, I exchanged with a family from Provence.  

It was the perfect way to travel.  I could go solo, live in someone's house, hop on their bicycle, and explore the world like a local.  

I was convinced it was how I'd travel for the rest my life...

Happy 14th Walking Day!

Stepping into Mile 13,354...

Today marks 14 years since I took my first steps on a prosthetic leg!

You might not remember your first steps, but when you take them a second time around, you remember everything.

I can still hear prosthetist Tim telling me, "Small with the left.  Big with the right."  (Above-knee amputees tend to take an exaggerated step with their prosthetic side.)

I can still hear him say, "Great.  That was great."   (Those words filled me with hope and joy!)

On the night of February 11, 2011, my family and I crowded around the kitchen table to watch that grainy video a thousand times on my laptop!

I knew back then I would never take walking for granted.

It's still true. 

I walk around the block every morning.  
I walk the hospital corridors at work. 
I walk around the kitchen while I'm making dinner.  
I walk in the grocery store.  
I walk on sidewalks, and across streets, and (carefully) over cobblestones.  

The gift of walking never wears off.

But 13,354 miles -- and 14 years -- is a long way from that starting line.  By the time I realize today is "Walking Day," it's mid-afternoon and snow is on the way.

Ugh.  I don't walk in snow, even after 14 years.

So I head to the gym and hop on my favorite treadmill, which offers virtual "walks" in several countries.

No problem.  I'll walk in Singapore!

It's a beautiful walking day there.  Sun reflects off the buildings.  The trees are tropical green.  The path is paved and clean.  

In my earbuds, I turn on an episode of Deviate with Rolf Potts.  He's interviewing Rick Steves about his newest book, On the Hippie Trail, a journal of his 1970's trip from Istanbul to Kathmandu as a 23-year-old.

I'm walking with my two favorite travel writers!  What better way to celebrate the day?

Walking through Singapore reminds me of my friend and fellow writer Sameer, who lives there with his family.  I met Sameer at Rolf Potts's Paris Writing Workshop in 2023.  

And thinking about that trip to Paris reminds me how far I've come.

(That's Sameer on my right!)

When I took my first steps back in 2011, I thought I'd never travel again -- at least not like I did before the accident.

In a sense, that was true. 

I travel differently now, adapting in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

The path in Singapore curves through a shady area.   I walk past signposts, trash cans, spotlights, and call boxes while Rick Steves talks about depending on fellow travelers for directions and information.

 

Wayfinding. 

I don't know why that particular word comes to mind, but it seems especially meaningful today.

I think about my doctors, nurses, and rehab therapists.  Prosthetist Tim and his amazing team.

The friends, old and new, who've helped me march on.  My family who's there for me -- always.

They are my Wayfinders.  I'd be lost without them.

It's not the best "leg day," but it's not the worst either.  I wait to feel the familiar slip of my prosthetic socket, its rub on my skin, or the tiny leak of air that tells me my steps have expired.

I keep walking, longer than I usually do.  

Farther than I think I can. 

(Not that far.  But far for me!)

Finally, my right foot starts aching.  I want to keep going, but I have to stop.  I've learned, in 14 years, to listen to my body and respect its needs.

The path opens up to a harbor filled with bobbing, gleaming yachts.  I focus on that watery horizon.  

And press STOP.

Outside the gym, the first snowflakes swirl beneath the streetlights.  In my earbuds, Rick Steves reaches Kathmandu.  On the screen, Singapore disappears.

I stand there on the treadmill, catching my breath.  Grateful for all these steps.

I could go anywhere, I think.  Anywhere at all.

Happy Walking Day,

Rebecca

 

P.S.  You can read about past "Walking Days" at Mile 335, Mile 930, Mile 2,525  Mile 3,660 and here too!

Why Adaptive Travel?

Hello from Mile Marker 13,345...

Picture this:  Two adaptive travelers are planning a trip together. 

Wait, you don't have to.  Here's a photo.

It was January 2023, and my friend Mona and I had just booked airline tickets for a nine-day trip to Paris! 

We were excited!
(Who cares that the trip was still 7 months away?)

By our sky-high smiles, you might not detect the deliberations we poured into those plans: 

The length of the trip, 

time of the flights, 

disability services at the airport, 

the seats we'd need on the plane. 

We considered packing, pressure changes, legroom, "leg time," and what it would be like for our bodies to be crunched in a seat for 8 hours straight.  (Not to mention the recovery time we'd need at either end!)

Travel is different, and often difficult, with a disability.  But it's also a priviledge, brimming with possibility.

We saw both sides -- and couldn't wait to take that leap!

 

Recently, I was invited to speak with Wilmington Christiana Care's Amputee Education Group.  

It was my FIRST EVER presentation about Adaptive Travel!

I spent a month creating the content and much longer thinking about it.   

You could say I'd been working on it since my very first trip as an amputee.

That was Mile 21, a road trip to Maine
where I got by with A LOT of help from my friends!

 

I started the workshop with some ways to think about travel and what we bring with us -- our individual strengths and struggles, and how they might play out when we're away from home.  

When we travel, we can adapt ourselves, but we can also adapt our environment.  

Who are YOU as a traveler?  

What do you want -- and need -- along the way? 

It's only afterward, that I decide to do this exercise for myself.

(Go ahead.  It's fun to try!)

As a traveler, I'm ______. 

curious.  
resourceful.  
open-minded.  
optimistic.  

I like to laugh, talk to locals, and observe "everyday life" wherever I am.

I love to learn, especially about other cultures
like at this Danish pastry class!

Before my injuries, I traveled solo.

Now I take friends.

I want to do everything, but I need to be selective.  I have to prioritize mobility, comfort, rest, and digestion.  

(It's a delicate balance, one I often neglect!)

I've found some success...

But it's rarely stressless or pain-free.  

My needs outweigh my wants wherever I am.  

Take prosthetic fit, for example -- and the neverending struggle to manage it!

I can walk, but not too far.  

I can stand, but not too long.

I can sit, but not in every seat.

I make mistakes, often the same ones, over and over again...

Adaptability isn't the same as accessibility.  

Being adaptive can't remove all barriers.  Some needs are nonnegotiable.  

We might require elevators, ramps, wider doorways, shower seats, assistive devices, screen readers, closed captions, caregivers, or other accommodations.

But travel goes beyond the physical. 

 

It's a mindset too.

One we can adopt wherever we are!

Here's a secret:  For a budding travel writer, I don't actually travel much.

But seeing myself as a traveler changes the way I experience home too.  

On a morning walk, I pick up patterns on buildings, catch crumbs of conversation, and marvel at the myriad of winter coats worn by dogs.  

I take advantage of opportunities:  sign up for classes, taste new foods, read books, watch movies, and reach out to faraway friends.

Being an adaptive traveler isn't just about where you go, it's about how.  It empowers us to explore, even in our own neighborhood!

My travel-buddy Mona is not just adaptive.  She's wise too. 

Before we embarked on that trip together, she said something that's always stuck with me.  I'll paraphrase it here:

There's no scenerio where I'll be able to travel without my disability.  So if I want to go, I'll have to travel with it.

Merci Mona! 
Tu es très sage!

We shape our experiences.  And our experiences shape us.

That's the why of Adaptive Travel.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  If you or your group wants to talk more about Adaptive Travel, please reach out.  I'd love to be part of the conversation!