Driving
I'll never forget the day I realized exercise was the thing that would get me out of the wheelchair. Not a pill. Not a procedure. Not a cure someone promised was ten years away. Exercise. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't fast, but it changed me in ways I didn't think were possible.
When I was in the chair — and later on the walker — every day was a fight. Getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Going to the grocery store. Things that used to be nothing became the whole day. And the physical part was only half of it. The other half was what it did to my head. I felt like I'd lost who I was. Like my body had quit on a mind that was still running full speed.
The hardest part wasn't the falling. It was the depending. I needed somebody to get me anywhere. That does something to you — you start to feel like a weight other people are carrying. I stopped doing things I loved. I stopped seeing people. The world kept moving and I watched it through glass.
There's no clean way to describe losing your independence. You're in a loop of needing help to do the thing that would help you need less help. And you can't see the exit.
Then something clicked. I had a choice: let this define me, or take it back. I took it back.
It started small. Exercises I could do sitting down. Lift my arms. Move my legs. Anything to get my heart rate up. I dug up adaptive workouts online, stuff built for people with disabilities, and I pulled from what I'd learned rehabbing a broken femur years earlier.
Slow, but every single day. Hours. I pushed a little further each time, tried things that scared me, finished exhausted and lit up at the same time. And then it started showing up — legs higher, arms faster, heart hitting harder.
The first time I stood without help, I was shaking and holding the wall like it owed me money. But I was standing. I can't explain that feeling. Top of the world doesn't cover it.
Here's the short version of what came after: I was forced out of the wheelchair. Then forced off the walker. Then down to walking sticks. Then forced off those too. Forced. That word matters — because comfort is where progress goes to die. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. That's not a slogan I made up to sell something. It's the actual mechanism.
I THEN HAD A CHOICE. WALK OR CRAWL.
Somewhere in there I realized I wasn't just getting physically stronger — I was getting mentally harder to break. So I started setting goals that scared me. And then it happened: I could drive the Tesla I bought in 2021.
Sitting behind that wheel — being able to go where I wanted, when I wanted, without asking anybody — was surreal. That's not transportation. That's your life back.
Why the technology matters (and what it actually does in 2026)
The Tesla helped. If a new car is realistically in your budget, it's worth a serious look — but go in with your eyes open, because there's a lot of hype out there and I'd rather give it to you straight.
What driving is actually like with a neurological condition. Traffic, headlights, horns, construction noise — sensory overload makes it hard to hold focus on the road. Executive function problems make route planning and split-second decisions exhausting. Coordination and reaction time don't do you any favors. For a lot of us, add anxiety about interacting with other drivers, pedestrians, or a cop at a traffic stop. Every one of those is a brick in the wall between you and independence.
And the alternatives aren't great. Public transit is unpredictable, crowded, and often not built for us. Rideshare works until it doesn't — wrong route, no help getting in, driver who doesn't get it. So you end up depending on other people again. Back in the loop.
Here's what Tesla's system actually is right now. It's called Full Self-Driving (Supervised), and the word Supervised is doing heavy lifting. It's a Level 2 driver assistance system. You are still the driver. You are still legally responsible. It steers, changes lanes, handles stop signs and lights, navigates parking lots, and does most of the driving on most trips — and it's genuinely good at it. Tesla reports vehicles with FSD engaged see meaningfully fewer collisions than those driven without it.
YOU HAVE TO BE PRESENT, ALERT, AND READY TO TAKE OVER AT ANY MOMENT. No exceptions. If your condition means you can't reliably take the wheel in a second, this is not a workaround for that — and I'd rather tell you the truth than sell you a fantasy.
What it does do is take most of the load off. The lane keeping, the spacing, the constant micro-corrections that wear you down — the car handles that. You're supervising instead of grinding. For a brain that's already working overtime, that difference is enormous.
How it works. Current cars run on cameras and neural networks — no radar, no ultrasonic sensors on newer builds. The system learns from the entire fleet, which has now logged over 8 billion miles with FSD engaged. More miles, better system. It also has Actually Smart Summon (yes, ASS — Tesla knew exactly what they were doing), which brings the car to you across a parking lot from your phone at walking speed. If crossing a parking lot is the hard part of your day, that feature alone is worth something.
Two things to know before you buy. First: hardware matters more than model year marketing. Hardware 4 cars run the full current software. Older Hardware 3 cars — including mine from 2021 — run a lighter version, and Tesla has said HW3 won't reach unsupervised driving no matter what updates come. If you're buying, ask which computer is in the car. Don't assume.
Second: fully unsupervised driving for personal cars isn't here. Tesla's unsupervised robotaxis are running in Austin with a small fleet and a handful of cities planned, but for a car in your driveway, the timeline has moved before and will likely move again. Buy the car for what it does today, not what it might do someday.
Which is the whole point, and the same reason LWA exists. Medicine keeps pointing at someday while nobody asks what your life looks like today. Don't build your independence on a promise. Build it on what works right now.
Looking back, exercise was the catalyst for all of it. Not just the body — the toughness, the stubbornness, the refusal to accept the ceiling somebody else drew for me. The car didn't give me my freedom. The work did. The car just gave me somewhere to take it.
No matter what gets thrown at you, you still choose how you answer it.
Get Comfortable With Being Uncomfortable.
When I was in the chair — and later on the walker — every day was a fight. Getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Going to the grocery store. Things that used to be nothing became the whole day. And the physical part was only half of it. The other half was what it did to my head. I felt like I'd lost who I was. Like my body had quit on a mind that was still running full speed.
The hardest part wasn't the falling. It was the depending. I needed somebody to get me anywhere. That does something to you — you start to feel like a weight other people are carrying. I stopped doing things I loved. I stopped seeing people. The world kept moving and I watched it through glass.
There's no clean way to describe losing your independence. You're in a loop of needing help to do the thing that would help you need less help. And you can't see the exit.
Then something clicked. I had a choice: let this define me, or take it back. I took it back.
It started small. Exercises I could do sitting down. Lift my arms. Move my legs. Anything to get my heart rate up. I dug up adaptive workouts online, stuff built for people with disabilities, and I pulled from what I'd learned rehabbing a broken femur years earlier.
Slow, but every single day. Hours. I pushed a little further each time, tried things that scared me, finished exhausted and lit up at the same time. And then it started showing up — legs higher, arms faster, heart hitting harder.
The first time I stood without help, I was shaking and holding the wall like it owed me money. But I was standing. I can't explain that feeling. Top of the world doesn't cover it.
Here's the short version of what came after: I was forced out of the wheelchair. Then forced off the walker. Then down to walking sticks. Then forced off those too. Forced. That word matters — because comfort is where progress goes to die. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. That's not a slogan I made up to sell something. It's the actual mechanism.
I THEN HAD A CHOICE. WALK OR CRAWL.
Somewhere in there I realized I wasn't just getting physically stronger — I was getting mentally harder to break. So I started setting goals that scared me. And then it happened: I could drive the Tesla I bought in 2021.
Sitting behind that wheel — being able to go where I wanted, when I wanted, without asking anybody — was surreal. That's not transportation. That's your life back.
Why the technology matters (and what it actually does in 2026)
The Tesla helped. If a new car is realistically in your budget, it's worth a serious look — but go in with your eyes open, because there's a lot of hype out there and I'd rather give it to you straight.
What driving is actually like with a neurological condition. Traffic, headlights, horns, construction noise — sensory overload makes it hard to hold focus on the road. Executive function problems make route planning and split-second decisions exhausting. Coordination and reaction time don't do you any favors. For a lot of us, add anxiety about interacting with other drivers, pedestrians, or a cop at a traffic stop. Every one of those is a brick in the wall between you and independence.
And the alternatives aren't great. Public transit is unpredictable, crowded, and often not built for us. Rideshare works until it doesn't — wrong route, no help getting in, driver who doesn't get it. So you end up depending on other people again. Back in the loop.
Here's what Tesla's system actually is right now. It's called Full Self-Driving (Supervised), and the word Supervised is doing heavy lifting. It's a Level 2 driver assistance system. You are still the driver. You are still legally responsible. It steers, changes lanes, handles stop signs and lights, navigates parking lots, and does most of the driving on most trips — and it's genuinely good at it. Tesla reports vehicles with FSD engaged see meaningfully fewer collisions than those driven without it.
YOU HAVE TO BE PRESENT, ALERT, AND READY TO TAKE OVER AT ANY MOMENT. No exceptions. If your condition means you can't reliably take the wheel in a second, this is not a workaround for that — and I'd rather tell you the truth than sell you a fantasy.
What it does do is take most of the load off. The lane keeping, the spacing, the constant micro-corrections that wear you down — the car handles that. You're supervising instead of grinding. For a brain that's already working overtime, that difference is enormous.
How it works. Current cars run on cameras and neural networks — no radar, no ultrasonic sensors on newer builds. The system learns from the entire fleet, which has now logged over 8 billion miles with FSD engaged. More miles, better system. It also has Actually Smart Summon (yes, ASS — Tesla knew exactly what they were doing), which brings the car to you across a parking lot from your phone at walking speed. If crossing a parking lot is the hard part of your day, that feature alone is worth something.
Two things to know before you buy. First: hardware matters more than model year marketing. Hardware 4 cars run the full current software. Older Hardware 3 cars — including mine from 2021 — run a lighter version, and Tesla has said HW3 won't reach unsupervised driving no matter what updates come. If you're buying, ask which computer is in the car. Don't assume.
Second: fully unsupervised driving for personal cars isn't here. Tesla's unsupervised robotaxis are running in Austin with a small fleet and a handful of cities planned, but for a car in your driveway, the timeline has moved before and will likely move again. Buy the car for what it does today, not what it might do someday.
Which is the whole point, and the same reason LWA exists. Medicine keeps pointing at someday while nobody asks what your life looks like today. Don't build your independence on a promise. Build it on what works right now.
Looking back, exercise was the catalyst for all of it. Not just the body — the toughness, the stubbornness, the refusal to accept the ceiling somebody else drew for me. The car didn't give me my freedom. The work did. The car just gave me somewhere to take it.
No matter what gets thrown at you, you still choose how you answer it.
Get Comfortable With Being Uncomfortable.
