A Reflection on presence, energy, and living fully.

There’s a phrase I’ve always disliked: “confined to a wheelchair.”

It suggests restriction, limitation, and loss. And in my experience, it misses the truth.

The truth is that assistive devices don’t confine us.

They often free us to be more present, more engaged, and more fully ourselves.

We all move through seasons where our bodies ask for something different. Sometimes it’s temporary. Sometimes it’s gradual. Sometimes it arrives unexpectedly. How we respond to those moments, and the stories we tell ourselves about support, can shape how fully we continue to live.

Presence for what matters 

My stepfather had COPD. He could walk just fine. But by the time he arrived at a family gathering, he was often out of breath and exhausted, needing time to recover before he could truly participate.

I suggested to my mom that they consider using a wheelchair to make getting to family events easier. Her immediate response was, “He’s not ready for a wheelchair. He can walk just fine.”

She was right. He could walk.

But the question wasn’t about walking. It was about presence.

I gently reframed it: if he didn’t have to expend so much energy just getting there, he might be able to be fully present once he arrived. To laugh. To engage. To enjoy being with family instead of recovering from the effort of arrival.

They tried it.

And the change was noticeable.

Using a wheelchair didn’t diminish him. It allowed his happy, carefree self to show up again at family gatherings. The device didn’t take something away; it gave something back.

Doing the things we love, just differently

My husband, John, and I always loved to travel. When cancer treatment brought fatigue, we made a conscious decision: we wouldn’t stop traveling. Instead, we would travel differently.

Instead of strolling for hours through cities, we took hop-on, hop-off buses. We found ways to see the places we loved while honoring his energy. At airports, I requested wheelchair assistance. There was no reason to spend his precious energy navigating long terminals and security lines.

I still remember running behind a young man pushing John’s wheelchair through the bowels of LaGuardia Airport. It was, without question, the fastest I’ve ever exited LaGuardia.

More importantly, it meant John arrived with energy left for what mattered, time together, shared experiences, and the joy of still being out in the world.

The wheelchair wasn’t a symbol of decline.

It was a tool that helped us keep living the life we loved.

Choosing support earlier, not later

Now, I find myself on the other side of the equation.

I recently had a hearing test that showed some loss in higher tones. For example, I can hear men’s voices more clearly than women’s. The audiologist explained it using the words death and deaf. In context, my brain understands which word is being said but my ears don’t actually hear the difference in those higher frequencies.

I have a large family, and we love to gather around food and conversation. Being able to hear clearly, to follow the flow of discussion, and to have meaningful conversations matters deeply to me.

So this week, I’m getting a hearing aid.

I don’t feel reluctant or embarrassed. I feel excited. This is an assistive device that will help me stay connected, engaged, and fully present in the moments that matter most to me.

A different way of thinking about support

Assistive devices are often framed as a last resort, meaning something we turn to only after exhausting ourselves, compensating endlessly, or pushing through discomfort.

But what if we thought about them differently?

What if we saw them as tools that:

• conserve energy for what matters most
• support connection rather than signal loss
• help us participate more fully in our own lives

Living fully doesn’t mean doing everything the same way forever. It means adapting with intention, compassion, and honesty about what helps us show up at our best.

Questions to consider

You might find yourself gently reflecting on questions like these:

• Where am I expending energy unnecessarily?
• What would help me be more present in the moments I care about most?
• Is there support I’ve been resisting, and if so, why?
• What might become possible if I allowed myself a little more ease?

Assistive devices don’t mean we’re giving in.

Sometimes, they mean we’re leaning in—to life, to connection, and to what truly matters.