This morning I went out for a drive—not to clear my head, but to get a damn donut. That’s it. A little sugar. A little music. A few minutes to feel human again. But like most days lately, the world decided to throw me a few reminders I didn’t ask for.

While I was out, a word kept circling in my brain: integrity.

It probably took me longer than I’d like to admit to fully understand how important that word really is. I like to think I always tried to live by it, but I know I didn’t always get it right when I was younger. As I’ve gotten older—and yeah, probably a little wiser—it’s become impossible not to notice how much it’s missing from everyday life. Doing what you say you’re going to do. Following through. Treating people with decency—not because someone’s watching, but because it’s the right thing to do.

This isn’t the first time I’ve driven around thinking about all of this. I used to do it a lot in downtown Madison—looping through side streets, sorting through frustration, asking the same questions over and over: Why don’t people follow through? Why don’t they give a damn when someone’s counting on them?

But something had changed today. And it wasn’t just the geography.

It was the soundtrack.

Back in the day, I might have been blasting something heavy, something angry—trying to outpace the thoughts in my head. But this morning, it was John Statz’s Our Love Was Made for Canada. A quiet, heartfelt, criminally underrated album by one of the kindest people in music. John’s music hit different today. It reminded me that decency still exists, even if it feels like it’s in short supply. His voice felt like someone steadying me while everything around me was teetering.

And then the sidewalk punched me back into reality.

For those who don’t know: you can’t safely drive a wheelchair in the street. You probably can, but you definitely shouldn’t—especially in Florida, where traffic laws feel like an afterthought. So I stay on the sidewalks. But as I was rolling along this morning, I came across a car.

Not across the sidewalk. On the sidewalk. Like it was a street.

And behind that car? Two more. All lined up like they were tailgating a parade. Tarps out. Camped in. On the sidewalk. In the middle of downtown.

Now, this part of town is patrolled by the sheriff’s department, and let me tell you—they do not enforce traffic laws. People block sidewalks all the time and no one says a thing. But when you use a wheelchair and the sidewalk is your only option, that kind of shit isn’t just annoying—it’s dangerous.

Still, I kept rolling.

Eventually I reached a crosswalk, and a woman actually saw me coming and backed up her car to give me space. I thought, “Okay. There’s someone who gets it.” But as I started crossing, a minivan decided it didn’t feel like waiting. It turned into the lane and nearly clipped me right there in the middle of the crosswalk.

I stopped. Dead in front of them. Looked straight through their windshield and asked,

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Their response?

“Get the fuck out of my way. I’m driving.”

Let that sink in.

“I’m driving.” Like the fact that they were behind the wheel gave them the right to ignore basic human decency. Like I was the inconvenience for simply trying to exist safely in public space.

And that’s when the word integrity came roaring back.

This is what happens when people stop giving a damn—not just about the law, but about each other. This is what happens when no one is held accountable. When the sheriff doesn’t enforce rules. When drivers think crosswalks are suggestions. When sidewalks become parking spots. And when people who need the system to work are left dodging danger just to get a donut.

This is what it looks like when integrity dies.

And maybe that’s the real question today:

What the hell happened to common decency?

Because it’s not just missing in traffic enforcement or public planning—it’s missing in everyday life. In the way people show up (or don’t). In the promises they make (and break). In how we treat each other when no one’s watching.

I still got my donut.

But I also got a reminder I didn’t ask for.

And John Statz? He was the one keeping me centered through all of it. A reminder, in his own quiet way, that kindness still exists—and we need to protect it like hell.