OK, that title is probably going to freak some people out, but I don’t care. You all know why I ended up moving to Florida. I’m not going to rehash it again — there are plenty of posts on this site that already cover it. What this post is? A no-filter breakdown of what the last seven years have felt like — as a disabled extrovert who left a vibrant, connected city and ended up in the slow, sandy vacuum of a small town.

I left Madison — a place with services, accessibility, art, music, conversation, and changing seasons — and landed in a town where the highlight of most people’s day is bar trivia. Everyone talks about how beautiful the weather is in Florida. Great. Sunshine. Awesome. But you know what no one talks about? The fact that everything is sand. Sand and wheelchairs? Not exactly a love story.

Here’s the hard truth: the most important thing in your life is your friends and your family. That’s not just a throwaway line — it’s survival. And I’m not talking about family as in “I technically live with my parents.” I’m talking about the people you see regularly, talk with, laugh with, make plans with, go to concerts with, argue politics with, create things with — that whole connection ecosystem. That’s gone for me here.

I’m not 25 anymore, I get that. But I’m also not 80. Where are the people my age around here who aren’t sitting at a bar every night? I don’t enjoy bars. That’s not my scene. So what am I left with? Grocery store small talk? Pot dispensary drive-thrus? A trip to McDonald’s in my wheelchair because that’s as far as I can get on my own? Cool. Freedom.

Yes, I technically have the ability to get to the store. I can go to Walgreens. I can get food. That’s not the point. The point is that in a city like Madison, I had the option to do more. Even if I wasn’t out every night, I could be. In a place like this? The option is gone. You don’t realize how much that matters until it’s stripped away.

Some people can live in a small town and make it work because they have access to transportation or a strong support system that helps them get out and do things. But what happens when that system disappears? What happens when your ride gets sick, or moves, or dies? What’s your plan then? You can have all the contingency plans you want — but you won’t know if they actually work until you need them. And by then, you’re stuck. And you’re alone. And you’re screwed.

And here’s another thing: I’ve realized over time that I am, without a doubt, an extrovert. And being cut off like this has forced me to confront just how much I don’t understand people who aren’t. There are a lot of disabled people who seem to be OK living in isolation — or maybe they’ve been pushed into a bubble for so long they’ve forgotten what life outside it even looks like. That’s not me. I was raised to pop the fucking bubble. To go out and do. And the fact that there are people who don’t want that? It baffles me. I don’t understand it. I’ve tried. But I can’t.

Sometimes I wake up, and I feel like I want to punch the world in the face. Not out of hate — out of pure frustration. I want to grab other disabled people by the ears, look them dead in the eyes and scream, “You deserve better than this! Why don’t you want it?” And yes, I understand that everyone has different circumstances and that not all of us have the same options. But I still can’t quiet the part of my brain that’s shouting, fight harder. I want more for them. I want more for me. I want more for all of us.

And that’s the mindfuck of isolation. It forces you to think about things you can’t easily resolve. You spiral. You overanalyze. And then you look around and realize nobody’s listening. So you stop yelling. And eventually, you stop talking.

No. Fuck that. I’m not giving up. I want to put foot to ass more than ever. I want to push harder. I want to scream louder. And I truly do not understand people who don’t feel the same.

These are the things I’ve learned being a disabled person in a small town — after leaving a city where I had options, opportunities, and the ability to move. These are the thoughts that live in my head every single day. And if they make you uncomfortable? Good