Down the Shore

Seafoam rushes between my five toes. Sand settles, heavy, on my prosthetic foot.

When I swing my thigh to kick it off, it takes so much force that — for just one instant — it feels like it’s my real foot out there, flinging sand into the tide.

Later, I will dismantle my “beach leg,” as I’ve been taught by my prosthetist, Tim.

I’ll rinse it in a cascade of fresh water in the bathtub and watch the day’s residue erupt, volcano-like, from within the footshell.

A mixture of sand and shells and ocean -- seemingly pounds of it — will thunk into the tub like wet cement. And I’ll spend more time bent over, chasing it into lumps and scooping it up with paper towels, than I did in the actual waves.

But for now, I’m here. Wading.

Feeling, with wonder, my two feet in the water.

I had forgotten how much I love the beach...

Coffee Walk

 The other day, my iphone made me one of those videos.

You know — the kind that pops up unsolicited when you open your screen to do something productive, like read an email, or look up directions, or text your mom.

Usually, I don’t like them. They feel manipulative, imposing, intrusive.

Maybe it’s because they start with the words “Over the Years” and then send me hurtling back through time — often so far that I land in the years before the accident.

Wasn’t that fun? the video taunts. “Wasn’t life easy back then?”

Yes. And yes.

But hey — I’ve worked hard to live in the present!

This particular video started playing before I could close it out.

And I knew immediately — between reading an email and texting my mom, of course— that it would make a great postcard.

It was called "Freshly Brewed," and was like a playlist of the best coffees I've had since 2019.

To watch the video, click here.

It was after the accident that I started drinking coffee...

Dancing Queen?

I’m on the makeshift stage of a bookstore — 3,000 miles from home — singing along to “Dancing Queen” with 15 of my newest friends.

Also, it’s 10 PM.

I don’t do evening activities. I can’t carry a tune. And I definitely don’t dance.

To be perfectly honest, I was planning to skip karaoke. When I saw it on the schedule, I didn’t give a single thought to going.

It was the last night of the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference, and part of me didn’t want to miss a moment.

But another part — the physical, practical, protective part — knew my story better. By evening, my body gets the best of me. Doing too much can push me into overload. I need time to rest, unwind, and take my leg off.

And so, when the last workshop ended, I slipped out the back door of the bookstore to walk to the hotel.

Before I settled in, I needed to refill my water bottle. In the glow of the hotel courtyard, I passed by the pool and headed to the fitness center, where there was a cold water fill-up station.

That’s when I heard it. A voice from above...

Progress Isn't Pass/Fail

Hello from Mile Marker 14,432...

It's been a while, I know.  So how to restart??

One, two, three, GO!

That's how I get out the door these days.

You have to start somewhere.  And otherwise, I'll sit there for hours, trying to get my socket "just right."  

Lately, there is no "just right."  There's only better and worse.  (At least prosthetically-speaking...)

The Undercover Lives of My Favorite Baristas

Hello from --

-- I'm not sure what mile it is!

Life has been busy lately -- bursting at its seams.  I haven't had time to total my mileage.

But I learned, way back at Mile 30, that when feelings get too big, it's best to think small.  (And a little bacon goes a long way, but that's another story!)

Bacon aside, I'm grateful for my morning walk.  

If you're new here, a morning walk is nothing heroic...  

Adaptive Travel Tip: Ask about discounts

"If you don't ask, the answer is definitely no."

So says my good friend Elaine.

Back in February 2023, at New York City's MoMA, we put it to the test....

Happy 14th Walking Day!

Stepping into Mile 13,354...

Today marks 14 years since I took my first steps on a prosthetic leg!

You might not remember your first steps, but when you take them a second time around, you remember everything.

I can still hear prosthetist Tim telling me, "Small with the left.  Big with the right."  (Above-knee amputees tend to take an exaggerated step with their prosthetic side.)

I can still hear him say, "Great.  That was great."   (Those words filled me with hope and joy!)

On the night of February 11, 2011, my family and I crowded around the kitchen table to watch that grainy video a thousand times on my laptop!

I knew back then I would never take walking for granted.

It's still true. 

I walk around the block every morning.  
I walk the hospital corridors at work. 
I walk around the kitchen while I'm making dinner.  
I walk in the grocery store.  
I walk on sidewalks, and across streets, and (carefully) over cobblestones.  

The gift of walking never wears off.

But 13,354 miles -- and 14 years -- is a long way from that starting line.  By the time I realize today is "Walking Day," it's mid-afternoon and snow is on the way.

Ugh.  I don't walk in snow, even after 14 years.

So I head to the gym and hop on my favorite treadmill, which offers virtual "walks" in several countries.

No problem.  I'll walk in Singapore!

It's a beautiful walking day there.  Sun reflects off the buildings.  The trees are tropical green.  The path is paved and clean.  

In my earbuds, I turn on an episode of Deviate with Rolf Potts.  He's interviewing Rick Steves about his newest book, On the Hippie Trail, a journal of his 1970's trip from Istanbul to Kathmandu as a 23-year-old.

I'm walking with my two favorite travel writers!  What better way to celebrate the day?

Walking through Singapore reminds me of my friend and fellow writer Sameer, who lives there with his family.  I met Sameer at Rolf Potts's Paris Writing Workshop in 2023.  

And thinking about that trip to Paris reminds me how far I've come.

(That's Sameer on my right!)

When I took my first steps back in 2011, I thought I'd never travel again -- at least not like I did before the accident.

In a sense, that was true. 

I travel differently now, adapting in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

The path in Singapore curves through a shady area.   I walk past signposts, trash cans, spotlights, and call boxes while Rick Steves talks about depending on fellow travelers for directions and information.

 

Wayfinding. 

I don't know why that particular word comes to mind, but it seems especially meaningful today.

I think about my doctors, nurses, and rehab therapists.  Prosthetist Tim and his amazing team.

The friends, old and new, who've helped me march on.  My family who's there for me -- always.

They are my Wayfinders.  I'd be lost without them.

It's not the best "leg day," but it's not the worst either.  I wait to feel the familiar slip of my prosthetic socket, its rub on my skin, or the tiny leak of air that tells me my steps have expired.

I keep walking, longer than I usually do.  

Farther than I think I can. 

(Not that far.  But far for me!)

Finally, my right foot starts aching.  I want to keep going, but I have to stop.  I've learned, in 14 years, to listen to my body and respect its needs.

The path opens up to a harbor filled with bobbing, gleaming yachts.  I focus on that watery horizon.  

And press STOP.

Outside the gym, the first snowflakes swirl beneath the streetlights.  In my earbuds, Rick Steves reaches Kathmandu.  On the screen, Singapore disappears.

I stand there on the treadmill, catching my breath.  Grateful for all these steps.

I could go anywhere, I think.  Anywhere at all.

Happy Walking Day,

Rebecca

 

P.S.  You can read about past "Walking Days" at Mile 335, Mile 930, Mile 2,525  Mile 3,660 and here too!

Why Adaptive Travel?

Hello from Mile Marker 13,345...

Picture this:  Two adaptive travelers are planning a trip together. 

Wait, you don't have to.  Here's a photo.

It was January 2023, and my friend Mona and I had just booked airline tickets for a nine-day trip to Paris! 

We were excited!
(Who cares that the trip was still 7 months away?)

By our sky-high smiles, you might not detect the deliberations we poured into those plans: 

The length of the trip, 

time of the flights, 

disability services at the airport, 

the seats we'd need on the plane. 

We considered packing, pressure changes, legroom, "leg time," and what it would be like for our bodies to be crunched in a seat for 8 hours straight.  (Not to mention the recovery time we'd need at either end!)

Travel is different, and often difficult, with a disability.  But it's also a priviledge, brimming with possibility.

We saw both sides -- and couldn't wait to take that leap!

 

Recently, I was invited to speak with Wilmington Christiana Care's Amputee Education Group.  

It was my FIRST EVER presentation about Adaptive Travel!

I spent a month creating the content and much longer thinking about it.   

You could say I'd been working on it since my very first trip as an amputee.

That was Mile 21, a road trip to Maine
where I got by with A LOT of help from my friends!

 

I started the workshop with some ways to think about travel and what we bring with us -- our individual strengths and struggles, and how they might play out when we're away from home.  

When we travel, we can adapt ourselves, but we can also adapt our environment.  

Who are YOU as a traveler?  

What do you want -- and need -- along the way? 

It's only afterward, that I decide to do this exercise for myself.

(Go ahead.  It's fun to try!)

As a traveler, I'm ______. 

curious.  
resourceful.  
open-minded.  
optimistic.  

I like to laugh, talk to locals, and observe "everyday life" wherever I am.

I love to learn, especially about other cultures
like at this Danish pastry class!

Before my injuries, I traveled solo.

Now I take friends.

I want to do everything, but I need to be selective.  I have to prioritize mobility, comfort, rest, and digestion.  

(It's a delicate balance, one I often neglect!)

I've found some success...

But it's rarely stressless or pain-free.  

My needs outweigh my wants wherever I am.  

Take prosthetic fit, for example -- and the neverending struggle to manage it!

I can walk, but not too far.  

I can stand, but not too long.

I can sit, but not in every seat.

I make mistakes, often the same ones, over and over again...

Adaptability isn't the same as accessibility.  

Being adaptive can't remove all barriers.  Some needs are nonnegotiable.  

We might require elevators, ramps, wider doorways, shower seats, assistive devices, screen readers, closed captions, caregivers, or other accommodations.

But travel goes beyond the physical. 

 

It's a mindset too.

One we can adopt wherever we are!

Here's a secret:  For a budding travel writer, I don't actually travel much.

But seeing myself as a traveler changes the way I experience home too.  

On a morning walk, I pick up patterns on buildings, catch crumbs of conversation, and marvel at the myriad of winter coats worn by dogs.  

I take advantage of opportunities:  sign up for classes, taste new foods, read books, watch movies, and reach out to faraway friends.

Being an adaptive traveler isn't just about where you go, it's about how.  It empowers us to explore, even in our own neighborhood!

My travel-buddy Mona is not just adaptive.  She's wise too. 

Before we embarked on that trip together, she said something that's always stuck with me.  I'll paraphrase it here:

There's no scenerio where I'll be able to travel without my disability.  So if I want to go, I'll have to travel with it.

Merci Mona! 
Tu es très sage!

We shape our experiences.  And our experiences shape us.

That's the why of Adaptive Travel.

Walk on,

Rebecca

P.S.  If you or your group wants to talk more about Adaptive Travel, please reach out.  I'd love to be part of the conversation!  

Daycation: Almost Japan

こんにちは (Kon'nichiwa) from Mile Marker 13,140!

The Shofuso Japanese House and Garden is like dipping your toes into 17th century Japan without leaving 21st century Philly.

It's so peaceful -- I imagine I could live here.

But in real life -- I wouldn't last a day.

(Let's just say, I don't squat well!) 

At Mile 13,140, I step into my 14th year as an above-knee amputee.  

In socks!

It's November 9, and I want to celebrate my Alive Day, but the past few weeks have been exhausting, sorrowful, and filled with difficult news.  

I don't have the energy (or leg time) to go big or go far, but I'm still so grateful to be alive.  

So I'm searching out joy -- at least for a mile or two.

Enter the DAYCATION.

It's short.

It's sweet.
It takes minimal planning.  
And it stays close to home.

Is there nothing more perfect for an adaptive traveler?!

Friends Jasmine and Mark join me for a quick drive to the Shofuso Japanese Cultural Center in West Fairmount Park.  

Technically, we're still in Philly.  Does it even count as a daycation?  

(Jasmine says yes, and she introduced me to the word, so we're going with it!)

Anyway, a daycation is just what the doctor ordered. :)

Here, Japanese maples turn coral in the sun.
A school of koi circles the pond, eyes bulging, mouths gulping.

It's mesmerizing.

House rules.  We remove our shoes.  

Shoe-covers are provided for those who can't walk in socks, but they look a bit slippery.  

I decide to give socks a try.  Luckily, there's a bench to sit on to take off my shoes.

Even after 14 years, this gets a laugh!

The wood is warm in the sun, icy in the shade; the planks and bamboo are unexpectedly soft.  These sensations surprise me.

Because I live in shoes. 

My right foot rejoices.  But I'm surprised, even more, that on these surfaces, my prosthetic (left) foot does have some traction. 

At home, I've learned the hard way not to walk in socks.  (Remember Souperficial Wounds??)

But in "almost Japan," it almost works.  I watch my footing carefully, but it feels almost right.

The house is embedded in nature, its boxy rooms connected by wooden bridges through the foliage.  

Like a treehouse built into the landscape!

There's a Japanese tea cermony about to happen.  We're not invited, but I watch from afar.  

On the sidelines, I spy a hidden pile of modern thermoses and hot pots.  I love a peek behind the scenes. :)

We learn a few tidbits about Shinto, and the Minka style of housing.  

Then I lace up my sneakers again and use trekking poles to navigate the rocky garden paths.

I'm most charmed by one of the guides, Jennie, who tells us about her own recent trip to Japan.  

She describes how, in a restuarant in a rural town, the chef emerged from the kitchen to talk with her friend about her gluten allergy before preparing their food.  They were touched by his welcome and kindness.

I am too.  I love the human side of travel!

A mere hour later, we're back in the car, heading toward Chinatown.

Our daycation ends with a steaming bowl of ramen at a restaurant we've never tried -- Megumi.

It's a 5-Star end to the morning.

And best of all, it's on the way home!

This daycation -- a short, sweet adventure -- leaves me refreshed.  I'm ready to welcome another year on this journey.

Here's to travel near and far! 

Wherever you are, thank you for walking with me.

xo,

Rebecca

Infinity in One Block

Hello from Mile 12,480.

At 7:40 AM, the clouds hang low, but the heat stands on tiptoe, poised to soar.

It's summer in Old City.  I'm used to it.  

I get out early.  

Walk when I can.

It's a "good leg day" so far.

So on the way back from getting coffee, I don't go straight home.  Instead, I pass the doorway of my apartment building and cross the street onto Elfreth's Alley.

It's 100 (or maybe fewer) feet from my door, but when I step onto that cobblestone walkway, I travel.  

Not just because Philadelphians have been walking this block since colonial days, but because I've been walking this block.  For the dozen years I've lived across the street from it, Elfreth's Alley has always been there for me. 

It gives me a place to travel -- without going anywhere at all.

For a few summers, I volunteered at the museum here, meeting travelers from around the world.  I loved answering their questions:

"People still live here?" they'd ask, pointing to an Amazon package on a doorstep. 

(Yes, and they get deliveries.) 

"Women were really homeowners?" 

(Yep, and business owners too.)

And my favorite... 

"Where can we get ice cream?"  

(Franklin Fountain -- try the peach!)

During the pandemic, I wrote a middle grade novel set here.  To this day, each time I walk past the 2nd house on the left -- with its olive green gate and fanshaped flag on the door -- I think, "That's where the Mitternights live."  The Mitternights are an imaginary family who exist only on my pages.

On so many mornings like this one, I walked here with my foster daughter, "Rainbow."  She'd dart between the houses, beneath the canopy of trees that mark a narrow opening called Bladen's Court.  

There, she'd hop along the stones till she reached the old water pump, where she'd hang from the handle, pretending to yank it.  I'd saunter behind, focusing my footwork and sipping my coffee.

To me, it was an easy place we could go for fresh air.  To her, the Alley was a playground.

On this block, I've "sweated out" of my prothesis. 

I've toured with out-of-town friends.

I've crowded with tourists under a tiny roof in a thunderstorm.

I've tripped over the cobblestones. 

I've even fantasized about buying one of these houses, fixing it up, and opening an Airbnb.  I've told my neighborhood friends we should do it together.  They're not quite on board - yet. 

When you get to know a place -- really know it -- it holds unlimited possibility.  You see it up close.  It can encompass the past and future, a whole world in just a few steps.

(In my view, anyway.)

I've signed up for another travel writing class -- the "advanced" version of the one I took last year with Rolf Potts. 

I am super excited for the opportunity.  I'll be in Paris again -- to learn, observe, and write about the city in new ways!

But also... I'm a bit rusty.  

And sort of an imposter.

My classmates will be worldly and well-traveled.  (I've checked out their websites!)  Some have written books.  Some have made a life out of going to, living in, and writing about new places.  

They don't seem to walk the same few blocks day after day.

I wonder what I'll write about.  How my adventures will compare.

It's not a new question.  I expressed it to Rolf last year at my one-on-one writing conference.  

Is there a place for me as a travel writer -- one who takes small steps in small spaces?

He thought there was.  He encouraged me to go deep, to shape my experiences into stories only I could tell.  

I don't go everywhere and can't do everything, yet is there something special -- even unique -- about slowing down and zooming in?

Day to day, I may not travel far.  

But I can see infinity in one block.

And maybe that's a perpective the world needs too.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Hope Walks In

 "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And just like that, hope walks in.

Oh, how I've missed it!

After 2 months on crutches, I tried to get my prosthesis on.

The socket didn't fit.  At all.

Socket fit is finicky, I know.  I'd been struggling with it since my earliest miles as an amputee.   

Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again.  

Even if it wasn't quite perfect -- I knew it wouldn't be -- it would still be the first step to feeling like my old self.  (Well, my old "new" self anyway.)

When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

Six days later -- somewhere around Mile 12,145 -- I arrive at Prosthetic Innovations. 

I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by all that has changed.

But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred.  In fact, he seems happy to see me.  

I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. 

"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.

I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green.  

Yep.  I laugh. 

It's good to be back.

Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg.  

It's still swollen from the fall.  Or maybe its shape has just changed from the injury.  Whatever the cause, it measures 3 1/2 cm larger than it used to.  No wonder my prosthesis doesn't fit.

Tim brings out a pull-bag, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket.  I slide it over my liner.  

We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.

For a split second, I think it'll work.  (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)

But... Nope.

I feel the shadow of discouragement.

"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And with those words, my insides light up. 

He has a plan.  

He'll make me a new socket.  Maybe temporary.  Maybe not.  One that will fit my leg now, not as it used to be.

The SOONER the BETTER, he says.

I am 100% in.

We go into the casting room.  

Wrap my leg in plastic.  

Don the funny shorts.  

Flashback to Mile 2,015.
They're always in style!

The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.

The cast will become a mold for a test-socket, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.

I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side.  It had carried me through a lot.

But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.

Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process.  

In my earliest miles with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments.  

I always felt down beforehand.  

And up afterward.

It became a joke between us --

I didn't just get a leg adjustment. 

I got an attitude adjustment too.

Lucky for us,
they were buy one, get one free!

This time around I know what to expect.  

The journey back to "two feet" is not going to be simple.  It will likely be uncomfortable, maybe even painful at first.  I'll have to rebuild my strength and tolerance.  

It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)

Casting is just the first step.

But I know about first steps too.

And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.

Walk on,

Rebecca

The Hardest Miles of All

I've lost track of the miles.

I haven't worn my prosthetic leg in a month.

But today I roll the liner on.  

Hey, it's a start.  One step closer to moving again. 

Confidence bolstered, I tuck a travel mug into my crutch bag.  Balance on one leg and lock the door behind me.  Take the elevator down.  

I open the first door to the lobby.  I've mastered a maneuver I call the "one-handed hop-thru."  A crutch dangles from my forearm.  

Then -- before I can change my mind -- I push through the second door too, and hop out onto the sidewalk.  Quick.  Like pulling off a band-aid. 

Here I go!

Crutch, step.  Crutch, step. 

One city block down Arch Street.  On my own.

With a ridiculous amount of courage, I make it to Starbucks.

Richard treats me to my first coffee in a long time.

And I am ridiculously proud of myself.

This is it, I think.  I'm moving again!

-----

Mile 12,141 was my last noticeable mileage. 

It happened toward the end of September.  Back then -- maybe you remember -- I was limping around on a stress-fractured right foot.  

I relied on my car to get around.  I wore a boot on my right leg and a prosthetic on my left.  My longest walk was in and out of the hospital, where my dad was a patient.

I ignored my own discomfort, minor in comparison.

----

On October 9, my dad passed away.  

And I haven't counted miles since.

My dad was my very first walking partner -- both before and after my accident.

This blog is filled with our walks...

He's pushing me, a sleepless infant, in a baby carriage,

Or around the block, post-surgery, in a wheelchair.

He's with me on my earliest miles with a prosthesis, 

and behind the scenes
at Flyers games.

He guided me through easy days and hard ones.

He accompanied me on adventures...

to find prosthetics in the least likely places!

He taught me to drive, took me on road trips, and helped me buy cars. 

He drove me to
many (many!) appointments.

All along, he let me pave my own path -- and then he ran defense, removing every obstacle in my way. 

No matter what challenges our family faced,
my dad knew what steps to take.

And always -- even through his own long illness -- he held onto HOPE.

So did we.

----

The day he died, I lost my balance.

I was at my parents' house with the whole family.  At sunset, I went out to move my car into the driveway. 

It was the new car we'd picked out together
from his hospital room.

We stayed up all night by his bedside.  I took off my prosthesis at midnight.  

We lost him two hours later.

As the sun rose, I went downstairs on crutches to email my job and let them know I wouldn't be in.  I sat down at the laptop and typed:

My dad passed away early this morning.  

The words came out on autopilot, like when you walk without realizing how lucky you are. 

I hit send.  

Then, as I stood up and reached for my crutches, I lost my balance.

And fell.

I landed directly on my residual limb -- my little leg -- hitting it so hard the ceiling turned to stars.

I haven't been able to wear my prosthesis since.

I miss my dad.

I miss my leg.  

I miss walking.

I know these things aren't equal, but in the brokenness, they've become intertwined.  

----

I make it home safely with my coffee.  

Set the travel mug on the kitchen counter.

Crutch into the bedroom.

Gently, I roll off my prosthetic liner.  Phew!

I just can't tolerate it yet.  My little leg aches from the pressure and rubbing.  My femur is still so sore.  

I spray some alcohol on the liner to clean it.  And that's when it occurs to me:

The last time I did this was exactly one month ago -- at midnight.  

My dad was in the next room.  

Still alive.

I feel his fingers in mine.  

See his smile.

Hear his voice.  

Smell his aftershave.

The thoughts are both fragile and flooding.

This whole month, I've been struggling to keep moving, with or without my leg.  I've been pushing forward -- full speed ahead -- determined to get back to the way things were before. 

But in this moment, I realize that's not what I need.

I need to pause.  Where I am.  

To think about him. 

Remember him.

Write about him.

I need to take time to feel my dad's absence -- and miss him -- with all my body and heart.

It's been a long journey, but these are the hardest miles of all.

----

November 9 was my "Alive Day."  

It marked 13 years since the accident -- and one month without my dad.

In the days ahead, I'll think about our walks together, keep the memories close, and wish he were here.

I'll make time for what's important.  And give myself space to breathe.

I'll take small steps, slowly and slightly off-balance.  Mostly for coffee.  

And as I navigate the sidewalk, I will remember how lucky I am to be out.  Walking.  On one leg or two.

I don't know what this next year will bring. 

But I will hold onto HOPE.  Always.  

Just like he did.

Love you, Dad.
Miss you, Dad.

xo,
Rebecca