Hard Hills

A wheelchair user navigating a park path, symbolizing daily perseverance.
Every hill climbed today is a part of keeping tomorrow within reach.

The door opens. You roll down the ramp at speed, front wheels clattering as you go. Most times you gather enough momentum to feel free for a moment. At the bottom, you start pushing, wishing you could hold on to that speed, knowing you can’t.

You move at a reasonable pace for you — slow by walking standards — arms pumping as you roll along the path. Most curbs you drop down without thought. But sometimes, just as you hit the edge, a wave of fear seizes you. The drop feels enormous. In your head you know it’s nonsense, but stopping makes it harder. So you push through, no matter what your body tells you.

Along the way, people react in different ways. Some smile and say hi. Others pretend not to see you. A few just stare.

The curbs are behind you now, but the hills rise ahead. Small ones slow you, but you keep moving. Then comes the bigger hill. Momentum matters here. You lean forward, arms straining. Your right hand feels like a claw, weaker than your left. Sweat beads, sometimes pouring. On bad days, it’s overwhelming.

At any point, someone might ask if you need a hand. A genuine offer can remind you there is kindness in the world. Unless you’re truly stuck, you thank them and decline. The good ones smile and move on. Others look confused but accept it. Some can’t believe you don’t want help, triple-checking your answer. On good days, you let it slide. On bad days, it burns. Worst of all are those who ignore your answer, who help without asking, or push ahead despite your refusal. Their anger when you decline is baffling. To them you want to say: It’s not about you. It’s about me needing to achieve something myself.

On the hard hills, you know you sometimes look ridiculous. On bad days, you wonder why you bother. But most days, making it to the top gives you something inside — proof that today, you did it. Enough days like that, and life feels lighter. Because someday, somewhere, there will be a hill you must climb with no one around to help.

Closing Reflection

Each push, each bead of sweat, each refusal of unwanted help is more than just about today. It’s training, it’s proof, it’s a way of telling myself that I can still do this. The struggle now is not wasted — it’s an investment against the losses that may come later.

I know there will be a day when the hard hills are too steep, when my body won’t let me climb them anymore. But every time I fight through now, I push that day further away. Every hill I conquer today is a promise to myself that I am doing all I can to hold on to independence, to keep the future at bay just a little longer.

And so the journey ends not with triumph or despair, but with a quiet resolve: today I made it, and tomorrow I will try again.