At prom, only one boy asked me to dance because I was in a wheelchair. Thirty years later, I saw him again—and this time, he needed help.

I also learned how many spaces fail the people inside them.

I studied design because I was angry—and that anger helped. I worked through school, took the jobs no one wanted, pushed into firms that liked my ideas more than my limp. Eventually, I started my own company because I was tired of asking permission to create spaces people could actually use.

By fifty, I had more money than I expected, a respected architecture firm, and a reputation for making public spaces more inclusive.

Then, three weeks ago, I walked into a café near a job site and spilled hot coffee all over myself.

The lid came off. Coffee hit my hand, the counter, the floor.