Leaving Florida

I want to be clear about something: it wasn’t politics that drove me out of Florida. I could ignore politics. I could laugh at the billboards and shut off the news. What I couldn’t ignore was the way the state treated accessibility like an afterthought—or worse, like a burden.

Living as a disabled person in Florida felt like death by a thousand paper cuts. Every curb too steep, every ramp too narrow, every door that looked accessible but wasn’t. Bathrooms where the grab bars were in the wrong place, entrances that were technically “compliant” but still a gauntlet. And every day I was supposed to smile and pretend it worked because on paper, it met code.

At first I adapted. You get used to making workarounds when the world is built for somebody else. But over time, it broke me down. When you fight for basic dignity in every errand, every meal out, every bathroom break, it wears on you in ways even I didn’t realize until I left.

The Bathroom Sink Test

Here’s the irony: Florida actually got one thing right. Down there, when you roll into a wheelchair-accessible stall, there’s usually a sink built in. It’s bigger, it’s usable, it’s yours. Not perfect, but functional.

In Wisconsin? You come out of the stall—sometimes one that barely qualifies as accessible—and then you’re supposed to line up at the same sinks as everyone else. Except the counters are too high, the space too narrow, and my chair doesn’t fit. You roll up, and you’re stuck.

It’s maddening. Florida, the state that failed me in almost every other way, figured out that one simple piece of design. Wisconsin, the state that gave me my breath back, still stumbles over something so obvious. That’s accessibility in America: a patchwork quilt of fixes and failures, with no consistency and no accountability.

The Noise Addiction

Before I left Florida, I filled the cracks with TikTok. While I waited for files to render or processes to finish, I scrolled. It felt like a release valve at first—thirty-second shots of entertainment. Then it became noise: endless outrage, distraction, and nonsense that didn’t matter to me but got into my head anyway.

By the end, it wasn’t politics breaking me. It was accessibility failures during the day and doomscrolls at night. Florida turned living into a fight, and TikTok turned recovery into numbness. That combination almost hollowed me out.

The Move North

That’s when I knew it was time. A friend once told me I reinvent myself every ten years. This is the ten-year mark. Eau Claire is the reinvention.

I rolled into Wisconsin, and the air felt different. The Midwest does move slower, but not in the lazy way people say. It’s a slower pace that lets you breathe. The weight I’d been carrying just slid off.

Local Pride Done Right

Eau Claire is a city trying to define itself. Walk into The Local Store, and you’ll see the word “Eau Claire” on shirts, mugs, posters, postcards—everywhere. It should feel hokey, but it doesn’t. It feels intentional.

It reminds me of the ’90s documentary Hype, where Sub Pop didn’t just sell music; they sold Seattle. Rain, flannel, coffee—an identity you could touch. Eau Claire is doing the same thing, but on a smaller scale. They’re branding their pride before someone else defines them.

The kicker? It works. The merch gets you in the door, but the art—those prints and photos of the city’s seventeen bridges—makes you want to stay.

The Soda You Can’t Get in Madison

Another detail: Eau Claire grocery stores carry Point Soda from Stevens Point. Black cherry, cream soda, a decent root beer. You won’t find it in Madison.

It’s not healthy, but it’s not corporate sludge either. It’s regional, it’s unique, and it’s a small reminder that place matters. Every sip says: this isn’t everywhere. It’s here.

WHYS 96.3 FM: Radio With Edges

And then there’s WHYS 96.3 FM, Eau Claire’s community station. Volunteer-run, listener-powered, gloriously imperfect. Corporate radio sands off every edge; WHYS lets the edges breathe.

Justin Vernon of Bon Iver got some of his first spins there. That’s what happens when you hand locals the mic. It’s messy, but it’s alive. And that’s why it matters.

Still Rolling With Scissors

Not everything has changed. I’m still doing Rolling with Scissors for WORT in Madison, thanks to remote broadcasting. The show keeps me grounded: deep dives, album sets, the weird jokes only a handful of listeners get.

What’s changed is my attitude. I’m not programming around outrage anymore. I’m programming for joy—for the sheer pleasure of following a band’s quirks all the way down.

Accessibility as the Constant

Florida taught me how exhausting it is to fight for dignity every day. Wisconsin has taught me that reinvention doesn’t mean the fight goes away—it just changes shape.

Every state, every city, every building has its own rules, its own blind spots. Sometimes it’s a missing ramp. Sometimes it’s a bathroom sink. Sometimes it’s a design so backwards you wonder if anyone who built it ever imagined rolling up to it themselves.

Accessibility isn’t just policy. It’s culture. And culture changes slowly—slower than bridges get built, slower than local pride gets merchandised, slower even than governments shut down.

The Bigger Picture

Eau Claire isn’t perfect. But it’s a place where I can breathe, where I can notice the bridges instead of just the barriers. A place small enough to know itself, big enough to still surprise me.

I didn’t come here to escape. I came here to show up. To live in a city still writing its story. To keep making radio. To keep demanding accessibility where it’s overlooked. To keep reinventing myself every ten years, one sink rant, one bridge crossing, one full album at a time.

That’s the bigger picture: reinvention doesn’t erase the struggle, but it makes space for living alongside it.

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