When I was a kid, I dreamed of living in an ancient stone castle, filled with winding narrow stairways and secret passageways that led to hidden slides and magnificent towers: Think Game of Thrones meets Chutes and Ladders meets Goonies.

As I got older and aged out of childhood fantasies, I still hung onto hope for a future three-story Victorian house situated on rugged farm terrain, or a seaside cottage with steep stairs leading down to cliffs to a beach where I could host bonfires.

And then I became a wheeler. I immediately felt doomed to the all-too-common reality of accessible living: uninspired urban ADA units in boxy, affordable apartment buildings. No castle slides, no Victorian cottages, no beach stairways. In the absence of making billions of bucks to build an accessible beach castle worthy of MTV’s Cribs, the textured designs of my future dreamhouses seemed impossible.

I cannot be the only wheeler who is envious of walking people who get to see 10 completely different styles of apartments or houses in 10 different parts of the city. Not once do they have to worry about whether they can turn around in the bathroom, fit through the doorways, reach the stove controls, count the number of elevators, or worry about the shoulder strain from pushing over plush carpet.

From day one as wheelers, our power to choose where we live is revoked. Forget about amenities or design … often we’re lucky just to find an accessible unit in the absence of practical, comprehensive search mechanisms.

My first home post-injury was a hotel. It was temporary housing while I waited for my parents to renovate the home where I would move in with them … in an over-55 senior living community. Every 20-year-old’s dream!

Don’t get me wrong, I know I was one of the lucky ones, having parents eager to host and help me, and not having to find accessible public housing or move to an assisted care facility. But it was still their house, built for the bipedal. With an inaccessible front door, my entrance was a temporary ramp in the garage. I couldn’t get to the backyard or the basement, and the kitchen was a tight squeeze.

My room and bathroom were beautifully accessible, but in the common areas, my parents — bless their souls — got sucked into setting things up in a “normal” way. When guests came over, my bathroom equipment would get moved into the closet. Furniture was positioned in a “traditional” configuration (code for inaccessible), so I got lots of exercise moving chairs and tables out of the way.

I’m a pretty Zen person, but sometimes I’d lose it. After enough times getting wheels caught on the edge of a rug, getting wedged under an antique table, or spilling a drink while straining for something on a shelf that was too high, I’d want to smash everything with a baseball bat. I would yell directly at chairs, “Move the fuck outta my way!” Often followed by flipping the chair on its side (it felt therapeutic). Regardless of how nice a place is, it can feel suffocating when you can’t make it your own.

Discovering My Inner Marie Kondo

An epiphany came when I went to Japan for the first time in 2006. I did a homestay with a woman who used a wheelchair and lived in a teeny-tiny apartment in Yokohama. It was my first exposure to the joys of Japanese functional design mixed with accessibility and style.

Her apartment was barely 200 square feet, but she had no issue maneuvering. Everything had its place. Her counters were an ordered mosaic of dishes, appliances and tools. Little bowls, a mini rice cooker, small fridge, washer/dryer combo at her level, small bed right at her height, shelves that didn’t get higher than her head. Nothing extra or unnecessary, only what she needed, exactly where she could reach it.

There were no hints of indulging the expectations of the bipedal world. If people came into her space, they had to adjust as necessary. After all, in the world beyond her apartment, she was continually having to adjust to a world that wasn’t fit to her … this is the one place where her needs and wants could take priority. Everything was designed for HER.

I realized how previously brainwashed I had been by western gigantism and clunky form. Here things were small, light, perfectly fit, with a whimsical quality to their arrangement. Castle-like sprawl suddenly seemed overwhelming, and I got giddy about using less space more intentionally. I started geeking out on videos of tiny European apartments where everything is adaptive, or tiny houses that utilize every inch of space with purpose.

I have lived approximately 15 places since becoming a wheeler, and each residence has helped me become a more forceful advocate for living where I want to and setting up my space my way. I have learned to fight for my style and needs and resist any pressure from family or friends to do it however they think is best.

I don’t want to be in a location that doesn’t feel good to me, or set things up in ways that are unworkable for me … even if my preferences seem unconventional or unworkable for others. I don’t care about what the “experts” at Restoration Hardware or Crate and Barrel recommend … I prefer something more akin to Pee Wee Herman’s kitchen — playful, adaptive, functional.

I own my space. I put grab bars where I need them. If guests want to use the bathroom, they can move my equipment — I don’t hide it. I feel no pressure to get “normal” home furniture or other items if it’s not something I will use. I prioritize space for the things that serve me most — a massage table where I do yoga, low shelves for my favorite books, good closet space where I can organize all my extra chair stuff and medical supplies. I love finding good organizing tools that keep things at my level, and feel no pressure to put things in cabinets if it’s easier to access them from a counter.

And I don’t take on more than I can handle living alone. I only have three small plants because that’s what I can water regularly. I resist the pull of Costco bulk-buying if I don’t have the space to store the stuff. I am consistently Marie Kondo-ing … it’s typical of me on a Saturday to look around and find five things that feel like they are serving no purpose but to clutter. In essence, I make things as easy for myself as possible, and I configure my space exactly as I want it.

Sure, a beachside castle still sounds kinda fun, and maybe someday I’ll have billions to build a fully accessible dream villa. But I’ve discovered that the true joy of a home is in the details, the little nuances of how we make a space our own, and use it to the fullest potential. Once the container is there, everything can be adapted.

Dream big about little spaces. Design your corner of the world in a way that makes you feel good. A 200-square-foot apartment can feel more ideal than a castle, as long as you throw out traditional ideas of how to make a home and make it for YOU.