I did it today.
I parked a couple of blocks away from where I wanted to go, and standing there beside my car, I had that moment. The one where you know exactly what would help, and you still do not want to do it because of what it means. I was hurting so badly I could feel it in every step before I even took one, but I was embarrassed. Embarrassed to pull it out. Embarrassed to be seen. Embarrassed to admit that at 34 years old, this is where I am.
But I wanted to go anyway. I wanted one small thing that might make me happy, so I opened the back of my car, pulled out my transport chair, left the footrests behind, unfolded it, set my backpack in the seat so I would not have to carry that extra weight on my back, and started walking. I never sat down in it. Not once. I used it more like a walker, something steady to hold onto, something that made my body feel a little safer. And that alone changed everything.
Thirty pounds does not sound like much until your body is already struggling just to hold itself upright. Taking that backpack off my back felt like taking one more hand off my body. Having something to grip with each step meant I was not bracing every part of my core just to move forward. I could feel the difference immediately. The pain was still there, but it was not swallowing me whole in the same way. My body was not fighting quite so hard to keep me from folding in on myself.
I walked those two blocks to the plant shop feeling like every set of eyes on the street had landed on me. Maybe they had. Maybe they had not. That is the cruel part of it sometimes; the fear of being seen can feel louder than anything anyone actually says. I kept going anyway. I went into the plant shop. I looked around. I let myself have that little bit of joy. And then, after that, I even went to a flooring store and walked around there too.
Honestly, it was amazing to realize how much easier it was to walk when I was not forcing my body to compensate for every single movement. I was not white-knuckling my way through each step. I was not carrying everything alone, literally or physically. For the first time in a while, I was moving through the world with just a little less strain, and that matters more than my pride wants to admit.
I never imagined this would be part of my life. I never imagined being 34 and using a mobility aid, even a transport chair, even in this way. There is still something in me that wants to argue with it, to insist I should not need it, to grieve the fact that I do. But today proved something important to me: needing help is not the same thing as giving up. Using something that makes life more manageable is not weakness. It is wisdom. It is adaptation. It is survival.
Maybe part of what made today easier was that I was alone. I did not have to hear the questions. I did not have to wonder what my husband was thinking or try to read the room or explain myself to my kids. It was just me, my pain, my pride, and the quiet decision to do what I needed anyway.
So yes, I did it today. I used the transport chair. I did not sit in it, but I leaned on it. I let it help me. I let myself be seen. And when I got back to my car, I realized something I was not expecting: I do not regret it.
Not even a little.
#MomWithATube
#LetItHelp #ChronicIllness #ChronicPain #DynamicDisability #MobilityAid #TransportChair #InvisibleIllness #NoShameInSupport #LittleWinsMatter
