"Rerouting."
It's one of those words we barely notice anymore. You're driving to work. Traffic comes to a standstill. A road is closed. Someone decided construction season was the perfect time to tear up every road you needed.
Your GPS doesn't sigh dramatically. It doesn't tell you your trip is ruined. It doesn't announce that you'll never reach your destination because one road is blocked.
Instead, within seconds, it calmly says, "Finding a faster route."
No panic. No self-pity. No apology. Just... another way.
I've often thought that's exactly what living with a disability looks like and that the only difference is my GPS has been rerouting me for thirty-four years.
People often ask me what it's like to live with cerebral palsy. They expect some grand explanation about determination or courage. The truth is much less dramatic.
Most days, it's just rerouting.
My fingers don't cooperate when buttons are involved. Rerouting.
I button my shirt before I put it on. My right hand shakes too much for certain tasks. Rerouting.
I learn different grips. Different tools. Different techniques.
Stairs don't always agree with my balance. Rerouting.
Sometimes I look for another entrance. Sometimes I take them slowly. Sometimes I laugh because my ankle has decided today is an excellent day for an unscheduled protest.
Computer mice require movements my hand doesn't particularly enjoy. Rerouting.
A touchscreen lets me work faster than most people ever expected.
Coffee cups have challenged me more than any college exam ever did. Rerouting.
Some days I hold them differently. Other days I simply accept that my shirt is getting a splash of coffee whether I approved the decision or not.
Then there are the roads you can't see.
The interview where someone notices my walk before they notice my résumé. Rerouting.
The stranger who assumes I need help before asking. Rerouting.
The meeting where someone mistakes tremors for nervousness. Rerouting.
The assumptions. The awkward stares. The lowered expectations. Rerouting.
People often think resilience means pushing through walls. Sometimes resilience is simply realizing there was never supposed to be a door where you're standing.
So you look for a window, or another hallway, or maybe you build your own entrance entirely.
What fascinates me is that nobody calls a GPS inspirational.
Nobody says,
"Wow... look how brave your GPS was when the freeway closed."
We expect it to adapt. We trust it to find another way.
In fact, we'd be annoyed if it spent the next thirty minutes repeating,
"Road closed. Good luck."
Yet that's often how society views disability. If one path isn't available, people assume the destination must be impossible.
They see the closed road. They don't imagine another route exists.
But those of us living with disabilities become expert navigators. We calculate, improvise, engineer, and adapt. Not because we're extraordinary, but because Tuesday still has to happen.
Kids still need breakfast, work still needs to get done, groceries still need to come home.
Life doesn't pause while we wait for every road to become accessible. So we reroute.
And over time, something remarkable happens. You stop focusing on the roads that are closed ad you become incredibly good at finding the ones that are open.
Maybe that's why I rarely describe my life as overcoming cerebral palsy.
I've simply learned how to navigate it. The route simply looked different than people expected.
I think there's something all of us can learn from a GPS. It never wastes energy arguing with the road that's closed. It simply starts looking for the one that isn't.
Maybe that's what advocacy is really about. Not pretending barriers don't exist. Not demanding that every road disappears overnight. But helping people realize there is almost always another route—especially when we're willing to design one together.
Because accessibility isn't about creating special roads. It's about making sure everyone has a way to reach the same destination.
And maybe resilience isn't extraordinary after all. Maybe it's just excellent navigation.
