It was a beautiful afternoon.
Outside my window, sunlight radiated through blue skies. The branches of the trees barely budged in the light breeze.
It was one of those mid-winter days in Texas that just begged everyone to get outside. To enjoy the temperate conditions before they gave way to the muggy slog of spring and the searing heat of summer.
But on this day, I was not heeding the call. On this day, I remained indoors.
I was recuperating from a recent ankle surgery. And I had been ordered to wear a protective boot whenever I was away from home.
Getting that boot on my foot was quite a challenge. Walking in that boot was another. And cleaning that boot was no picnic, either.
It seemed prudent to avoid all of this when possible. So, I tended to stay indoors — even on beautiful days like these.
Although I craved the light, I remained in the shadows.
That protective boot now sits in my closet, collecting dust.
But my memory doesn’t.
I might have recovered from my injury. But all around me, I see plenty of others amid their own tribulations.
At the ballgame, the grocery store, and the airport, I see the marks of recuperation. People are sporting slings, crutches, and protective boots. And I feel for them.
This is not a Baader-Meinhof situation. That happened when I purchased my SUV, and then suddenly noticed dozens of others like it.
No, I had noticed people with disabilities before. But where I’d once gotten out of the way of them, I now did what I could to help.
I would hold a door open for them or give up my seat to them. All with a knowing nod.
I understood their plight. And I wanted to lessen the burden.
In late 1989, the Berlin Wall came down.
For a generation, the treacherous concrete barrier had defined the divide between East and West, between communism and democracy. But now, it was gone. And the USSR would soon follow.
The Cold War was over.
I was playing with Matchbox cars and watching Sesame Street when this occurred. I understood little of what was going on.
But now, as an adult, I frame my life story around this event. I was born during the Cold War but grew up after it.
This narrative is factual. But it omits another seismic event from that time.
In mid 1990, the United States Congress passed the Americans with Disabilities Act. The legislation afforded protections to anyone facing an impairment.
In one fell swoop, it brought those with disabilities out of the shadows and into the light.
Remnants of this legislation were everywhere during my youth. Public facilities were being retrofitted to comply with the law. Public announcements were educating the masses on the accommodations.
And yet, I couldn’t quite relate. I was able-bodied and had no reason to believe I wouldn’t be. This wasn’t my fight.
So, I continued to ignore the narrative around me. I would pay no mind to the revolution at home, and instead wax poetic about events that occurred far afield.
It would take three decades for me to change my tune.
When the COVID pandemic hit in 2020, we got a glimpse of the shadows. Confined by lockdowns, business closures, and mask mandates, we all got to see how the 26 percent of Americans with disabilities live.
Like many, I loathed this experience. I did my best to get some distance from it as the pandemic receded.
But I could never fully escape.
About two years after the COVID shutdowns, I was to meet my family in Houston for a vacation. A few days before the trip, my mother informed me that she would be showing up in the Bayou City in a wheelchair.
I knew my mother had been dealing with some knee issues. But I was still caught off-guard by this announcement.
As a longtime Texan, I knew my state wasn’t the easiest to navigate by wheelchair. And I spent hours ticking through contingency plans.
What if we needed to change up our seating at the rodeo? What if the Johnson Space Center had exhibits that were only accessible by stairs?
Everything ended up working out just fine. But I remained hyper-aware of the challenges facing those with disabilities.
Then I went under the knife and experienced those challenges firsthand.
As I navigated that time in the shadows, post-procedure, I was introspective. I was ashamed of how badly I’d overlooked those with disabilities for so much of my life. And I was determined to do better.
I’ve lived by that creed ever since.
I’m determined to show compassion to those with disabilities, helping them emerge from the shadows. And I’m hoping my actions inspire others to do the same.
This might seem like a noble quest. But it has its challenges. And perhaps not the ones you might think.
The Washington Post has employed a slew of high-profile journalists over the years. Perhaps the most recent of these is Taylor Lorenz.
Before joining the Post, Lorenz made her name writing about internet culture for the New York Times. As the online world has evolved in hyper speed, Lorenz has covered every bit of it — garnering both acclaim and outrage along the way.
If you follow Lorenz on social media though, you’ll find something else. Namely, a long-running critique of loosened COVID pandemic restrictions.
In much of American society, this point is a non-starter. The worst of the pandemic has passed, medical interventions are now available, and a yearning for normalcy percolate.
But Lorenz is either immunocompromised or carrying the flag of those who are. She will not stop criticizing the world for “moving on.”
I can see where Lorenz is coming from, to a degree. There are some similarities between being injured and immunocompromised — particularly when it comes to societal isolation.
It was frustrating when I found myself alone in the shadows. Still, I never once expected others to stay inside during my recuperation, just because I was deprived the outdoors. That would have been an unreasonable request.
It’s no more feasible for the immunocompromised to demand that the world remain perpetually locked down. It’s several bridges too far.
So yes, Lorenz’s advocacy should remain off the table here. But so should the status quo.
It’s time for us to embrace the spirit of the Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s time to provide reasonable accommodation to those we’ve banished to the shadows.
That means awareness. It means compassion.
It means giving a hand up, but not necessarily a handout.
Making this compromise might seem daunting. But those with disabilities are making compromises of their own too.
We owe it to them to meet them halfway.