The Adventures of Living with Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type II
Waking up in the morning feels like rebooting an old computer that desperately needs an update.
My wheelchair is faster than your Wi-Fi, but somehow people still walk in front of it.
Every door with a heavy push button is my mortal enemy.
Why does every supposedly accessible bathroom feel like a labyrinth designed by a prankster?
I’m basically a Jedi when it comes to using grabbers to fetch stuff from across the room.
“Can I help you?” is code for “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m going to try anyway.”
Doctors always say, “Wow, you’re so strong,” and I’m like, “Thanks, I do emotional bench presses daily.”
Elevators are my best friends, but when they break, it’s betrayal at the highest level.
Airports are like Hunger Games for disabled people—may the odds be ever in your favor.
People love to call me “inspiring,” but I’m just here trying to order tacos.
My power chair battery dying mid-outing is the adult version of a toddler’s meltdown.
Spinal muscular atrophy sounds intense, but really it’s just a fancy way of saying my muscles ghosted me.
I’ve got a Ph.D. in adapting and a master’s in turning awkward situations into comedy.
Finding accessible parking is like playing a very stressful game of hide and seek.
Every ramp I see is either a lifesaver or a death trap—there is no in-between.
When people crouch down to talk to me, I feel like they’re about to propose or tell me a secret.
I’ve perfected the art of balancing sass with charm—it’s a survival skill.
Living with SMA is like playing life on hard mode, but with an unbeatable sense of humor.
Some days are tough, but honestly, I’ve survived worse—like Windows 95 crashing mid-paper.
Life with SMA isn’t just about surviving; it’s about thriving in the most unpredictable, ridiculous ways.
If you see me rolling, know that I’m out here living my best life, one wheelie at a time.
