Let’s get something out of the way immediately, because apparently it needs saying out loud, slowly, for the people in the back: when I say I want to live an “able-bodied life,” I am not talking about walking. I’m not chasing some inspirational-poster moment where I rise from my chair to tearful applause. Save the violins. What I actually want is embarrassingly, hilariously mundane. I want to work a job. I want to pay bills on time and feel mildly annoyed about it, like a normal person. I want to save money for a house, my house, with a door I picked out and a mortgage that stresses me out at 2 a.m. for completely ordinary reasons.

That’s it. That’s the dream. Not a miracle. A W-2.

But here’s the plot twist nobody asked for: the world looks at me and sees the wheelchair first, the person second, the resume never. People meet my disability before they meet me, like it walks (rolls, really) into the room thirty seconds ahead and does all the talking. Meanwhile I’m back here like, “Hi, I also write. I also do graphic design. I also edit videos. I also write songs. I have, in fact, got skills that fit on a LinkedIn page.” Nobody’s listening though, because they’re still processing the chair.

It’s a strange kind of invisibility, being extremely visible. You’d think being hard to miss would mean being easy to see. It does not. People clock the equipment and skip the person entirely, like scrolling past an ad. I could write you a better headline than half the content out there, I could design you a layout that doesn’t look like a ransom note, I could cut you a video that doesn’t look like it was edited during a hostage situation, I could write you a song that actually has a bridge that goes somewhere. And still, the first impression is the wheels.

Then there’s the delightful bonus round: getting anywhere at all. You want to know a fun fact about “most places”? They don’t have wheelchair access. Not “some places.” Not “the occasional dive bar with a weird step situation.” Most places. So it’s not even just that people see the disability before they see me, it’s that half the buildings in this country have personally decided I’m not invited before I even show up. Cute. Real inclusive energy. Very “come as you are,” as long as “as you are” fits up a flight of stairs that someone, at some point, genuinely approved on a blueprint.

So here’s where this stops being a bit, because I’m not actually trying to be funny about all of it. Underneath the sarcasm is something a lot heavier: I want my dreams done before I die. Not “someday.” Not “eventually, if the stars align and an elevator gets installed.” Before I die. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to move on from this world if I don’t finish what I came here to do. I know how that sounds. I know it sounds dramatic, maybe even a little unhinged to somebody scrolling past this on their lunch break. But I believe the soul doesn’t leave until it’s finished its business here. Unfinished business doesn’t just disappear when the body stops. It lingers. It waits. It wants closure the same way we do.

So no, I’m not writing this to be inspiring, and I’m definitely not writing it so someone can feel good about sharing it. I’m writing it because the clock is a real thing and I’d like to stop being underestimated before it runs out. I don’t need a parade. I don’t need a hashtag. I need someone to read my writing, look at my design work, watch my videos, hear my songs, without mentally filing any of it under “impressive, considering.” I need one building, just one, where the entrance isn’t an afterthought. I need the work to be the headline instead of the chair.

Give me that, and I’ll take care of the rest myself. I always have.