I love when summer approaches. Warm weather revs up my energy for adventure and travel. Growing up, I was fortunate to travel a lot. Nothing fancy or exotic, just places different from what I knew. My parents adhered to a “swing by” philosophy when determining our family travel, taking any opportunity to see a new place, even if it meant going out of the way. Like, if we were visiting my grandparents in Philadelphia, we’d “swing by” Niagara Falls, because it’s “in the area” — the “area” being the entire northeast region of the country. Despite at times begrudging the long car rides, my siblings and I grew up with the itch to see the world.

Then in college came my spinal cord injury. Suddenly some of the far-flung places I’d always dreamed of visiting — China, Africa, New Zealand, India — felt nearly impossible to reach. Previously, I thought I could just figure it out … work to raise the money, then hop on a plane with a moderately sized bag and go with the wind.

But post-injury, it felt like there were so many logistics. I couldn’t just wing it without risking major snafus like not having an accessible place to sleep or workable transportation. Everything required more planning and investigation to make sure that what was advertised as “accessible” actually was — and typically required more money. Then you pile on the extra luggage, long plane rides without stretching or bathroom access, lack of accessibility at the destination, oftentimes needing a companion, and all the other unpredictable elements of spinal cord injury — urinary tract infections, upset stomachs, broken equipment, skin issues — and it almost didn’t feel worth the hassle.

“I was reminded that there are folks with disabilities in every part of the world, and one of our greatest travel assets is connecting with them.”

On top of it all, I’ve always had a bit of snobbish idea of how to travel: I wanted to get away from the touristy spots, off the beaten path. To me, this meant venturing into wildly inaccessible places. I was crushed to think that my only remaining options would be cruises or Las Vegas.

I was compelled to rethink what I truly valued in travel:

• Exposure to something unfamiliar.
• Immersion in the sights, sounds, smells and sensory input of a different culture or community.
• Getting to do something I’d never get to do at home.
• Feeling a sense of accomplishment.

I realized that distance or exoticism weren’t necessarily the most important factors. Yes, the definition of “travel” is to go from one place to another, typically over a great distance. But as any of us who has ever used a mobility aid can attest, the impact of distance can be relative. I mean, pushing around the

hills of downtown San Francisco can leave me with a sense of accomplishment equivalent to someone else’s running a marathon. And distance doesn’t necessarily guarantee an expansive experience; sometimes going to another section of the same city can provide insights akin to traveling halfway across the world.

Getting Back Out There

I started, slow and small. A road trip back to college in California. A work retreat to Boston. Simply driving by myself somewhere that I’d never been within a couple hours of home. I started to develop a sixth sense for accessibility in new places and honed my processes for finding hotels, loading onto planes, packing judiciously and venturing into unfamiliar territory. I learned to ask for help when I needed it.

I also started to discover unique programs like Mobility International USA, which provided my first opportunity to travel internationally to Japan as part of an exchange program for young adults with disabilities. I felt totally supported and was surrounded by an international community of people, with and without disabilities. I was reminded that there are folks with disabilities in every part of the world, and one of our greatest travel assets is connecting with them.

As my entire attitude around travel shifted, I saw through the veneer of others’ travel experiences. Friends of mine would flash impressive selfies from far-off places where they climbed a famous mountain, visited a famous site or posed in a famous bar. But they often didn’t really get to know the essence of a place or its people. They played it safe, doing the same thing halfway around the world as they’d do at home. Aside from selfies, the most meaningful parts of their experience would boil down to a person they met, getting out of their everyday comfort zone, and feeling a sense of accomplishment — all things you don’t have to travel to Timbuktu to find.

I still love to travel, and I’ve done it a LOT in the last 21 years. Work and pleasure opportunities have taken me to Japan, Dubai, Italy, Switzerland, Mexico and more. When I go far away, the very act of doing so feels 10 times more special because I know what a big accomplishment it is. And getting outside the U.S., especially as a person with a disability, gives you perspective about accessibility, opportunity and human rights.

Domestic travel has been just as eye-opening. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve driven cross-country by myself in my accessible van. Traveling alone, I’m more apt to connect with people I don’t know, and I’ve discovered fascinating places and people all over the U.S.

I still love cool, off-the-beaten-path spots. Taking the time to research has led me to memorable places, like the kitschy accessible African safari hotel I stayed at outside of Dachau, Germany. And as I’ve strengthened my travel wheels, I’ve felt more comfortable to go with the wind and have some pretty wild experiences. But I also don’t turn up my nose at cruises or Vegas, both of which I really enjoy for different reasons, including eclectic humanity and broad accessibility. Now I prioritize fully accessible accommodations, so that I can spend my energy on exploring a place and not wasting it on maneuvering in a bathroom.

I still have some big goals on my travel list, but others have fallen off — not because they aren’t possible, but because my priorities have changed. I’ve also added some spots that are just a 30- to 45-minute journey away.

If we’re open to it, we can get outside our comfort zone the second we leave our pad, by chatting with our cabbie, getting to know the random guy at the coffee shop, or turning left instead of our usual right. Sure, it’s still nice to have the Instagram selfie of the hammock in a rainforest. But you can dig deep and cultivate a new story regardless of how far you get.

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