If you asked me before what I worried about most, it was that Arlo would feel left out—like life was always just a little bit harder, a little bit slower, just because he’s in a wheelchair. I used to stress over the things he might miss. But honestly, I had it all backwards. Arlo’s the one showing me how to live.
We took him to Epcot because he’s obsessed with Mickey and the idea of “the big ball.” Most kids are busy running around, but Arlo? He was just soaking it all in, waving at everyone, flashing this grin so big I swear half the park was smiling back. The cast members treated him like a VIP—high-fives, stickers, the works—and Arlo acted like every moment was a brand new adventure.
He wore this silly scarf with flames on it (his “superhero bandana,” as he calls it) and introduced himself to strangers like he was running for mayor. Every time someone stared at his wheelchair, he just gave them that same smile, like, “Hey, wanna race?” It’s wild how fast people’s faces change when they realize he’s just a happy kid, not some sad story.
I’ve spent so much time worrying about what Arlo couldn’t do, that I almost missed what he could do—what he was already doing. Every day, he showed me how to find joy in the smallest things, how to look at the world with wonder, how to embrace the present instead of waiting for some distant future when things would be “better.” It hit me in a moment at Epcot, as I watched him chat with a woman in a flower shop, telling her all about his favorite ride and how he’d seen Mickey just the other day. She smiled, clearly enchanted, and when she left, she gave him a small plant as a gift. “For your superhero garden,” she said, and Arlo beamed.
I didn’t realize how much I had let my fears cloud my perception of Arlo’s life until that moment. I had always thought of his wheelchair as something that would hold him back, something that would keep him from experiencing life fully. But the truth was, it was never the wheelchair that was limiting him—it was me, the way I had held on to this idea of someday.
Someday, Arlo will be able to walk. Someday, we’ll be able to do this or that without any problems. Someday, I’ll stop worrying.
But what Arlo was showing me was that “someday” didn’t exist for him. For him, now was all that mattered. He wasn’t thinking about what he couldn’t do. He was too busy enjoying what he could.
On the way back from Epcot, he sat quietly for a moment, looking out the window of the car. I glanced at him, thinking he might be tired or overwhelmed from the day. But then he turned to me and said, “Mom, I want to ride a bike.”
I blinked. “A bike?” I asked, surprised. “But Arlo, you can’t ride a bike. You’re in a wheelchair.”
He shrugged, looking at me with those wide eyes of his. “Why not? I’ve seen other kids do it. Maybe there’s a way.”
His words struck me like a lightning bolt. I had been so focused on what Arlo couldn’t do that I hadn’t stopped to think about all the possibilities, the options, the solutions. I’d been waiting for someone else to solve the problem for us, waiting for the perfect moment to appear.
But Arlo was showing me that he wasn’t waiting. He wasn’t waiting for a miracle, for something to change—he was looking for a way to make it happen. He believed that there was always a way forward, even when others might see the obstacles as too big to overcome.
That night, after putting him to bed, I spent hours researching adaptive bikes. My mind raced as I thought about how I could make this happen for him. I found so many different options, from three-wheeled bikes to hand cycles, and even bikes specifically designed for kids with disabilities. I could feel my heart beating faster as I realized just how much potential was out there—if only I had stopped looking at Arlo’s wheelchair as a limitation.
The next day, I took him to try out an adaptive bike. His eyes lit up the moment he saw it. It was a bright red bike, with wide tires and a handlebar he could control with his hands. He gripped the handlebars like a pro, and with a little help from the attendant, he was off—pedaling like he had done it a hundred times before.
The first few minutes were clumsy, and I could feel my anxiety creeping up. What if he falls? What if he’s scared? But Arlo? He was grinning ear to ear, his hands gripping the handlebars tighter with each turn. He didn’t need my worry. He didn’t need my fear. He needed me to let go and trust that he knew what he was doing.
By the end of the hour, Arlo was riding with a newfound confidence I hadn’t seen before. He was laughing, swerving in and out of the cones, and calling out to me, “Look, Mom! Look, I’m riding a bike!”
And in that moment, I realized the biggest lesson of all.
I had spent so much time feeling sorry for Arlo, thinking about how his life would be different if he didn’t have a disability. I had been waiting for the world to change, waiting for him to “catch up.” But Arlo wasn’t waiting for anything. He was living his life, and in doing so, he was teaching me the most valuable lesson I could ever learn: Joy doesn’t wait for “someday.” It’s right here, right now.
Arlo’s ability to find happiness in the present moment, regardless of the circumstances, was something I had never truly understood until now. I had been so caught up in trying to “fix” things, in trying to make everything perfect for him, that I forgot the most important thing of all: He was already perfect just as he was. He didn’t need to be “fixed.” He just needed to be free to explore, to try new things, and to make his own path.
As we rode back home that day, Arlo’s arms still outstretched in the wind, I felt this sense of peace wash over me. The worry that had followed me for years began to fade, and in its place was a quiet acceptance—a realization that we were going to be okay. We didn’t need to wait for someday to experience life. We didn’t need to wait for things to be perfect.
Now was enough. And that was more than I ever could have asked for.
That evening, as I tucked Arlo into bed, he looked up at me with those wide eyes and said, “Mom, I think we should try a skateboard next.”
And instead of feeling overwhelmed, I just laughed. Because now, I knew. We would find a way. And someday—well, it didn’t exist for us. We were already living the life we were meant to live.
If you’re like me, and you’ve spent too much time waiting for “someday,” I encourage you to take a lesson from my son. Life is happening now. The joy you’re waiting for, the adventures you’re dreaming about, they’re all within reach. You don’t have to wait for the perfect moment to start living. You just need to begin.
So, share this post with anyone who needs a reminder to stop waiting for “someday” and embrace the beauty of now. Life’s too short to wait. Let’s live today, together.
