Listen to The Acoustic Signature of Weather. Sighted people have a casual, almost dismissive relationship with the weather. They glance out a window or check an app. The weather is a visual fact, a piece of data. For me, the weather isn't data. It’s a symphony. Or, more accurately, it's a language I've learned to...

Listen to A Field Guide to the Personal Space Violations of Public Transit Public transit is a marvel of modern engineering and a complete failure of human social design. It is a rolling testament to our species’ profound inability to be aware of anyone but ourselves. As a daily commuter, I have become an unwilling...

I have written about hands before. I’ve written about them as weapons, as tools, as instruments of casual violence and clinical detachment. My memory is a museum of the hands that have done me harm, a collection curated by pain. The clenched fist that taught me the sound of bone meeting cartilage. The proprietary...

Listen to A Map of My Scars, Read by Your Fingertips. My body is a secret atlas. Beneath my clothes, my skin is a map of a war I survived, with its topography etched in scars. There are small, circular burns, like angry, faded constellations. There are thin, silvery lines from the edges of things that were sharper...

Listen to Third Grade Letter to Santa Hi everyone. Some context before we begin. This was a writing assignment by my then third grade teacher. Obviously, I took the assignment a tad too seriously. All the same, even if you don't celibrate Christmas, never snuff out a child's imagination. Besides, that imagination...

There's a texture to grief very few examine. People talk about the loud grief—the kind of grief that shatters your soul and rattles your cage of will—but there's another kind of grief that's rarely explored. Watching and listening to your friends losing who they are. I think the climate is foreshadowing for my life....

There's a texture to grief very few examine. People talk about the loud grief—the kind of grief that shatters your soul and rattles your cage of will—but there's another kind of grief that's rarely explored. Watching and listening to your friends losing who they are. I think the climate is foreshadowing for my life....

Mood: Like finding a bird that can finally sing. The morning felt like a bruise. Not the sharp, immediate kind, but the dull and aching throb that settles into your bones and makes the air feel smothering. I canceled all my accessibility meetings for the morning. I didn't have the bandwidth to explain-for the...

This essay was published in the local college newspaper when I attended-- what was then known-- as TCC. Tallahassee Community College. I can vehemently say—given some slight word changes perhaps—I am, overall, still proud of this essay. I hope you enjoy this snapshot in time. When I was little, I did not wander as a...

This was previously published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Making me Time. Reading is essential for those who seek to rise above the ordinary. ~Jim Rohn "I noticed something," my friend Ashley said. "Your bookshelf is empty." I nodded absently, listening to the various park sounds around us. Kids were running and...

At this time of the year, my world always begins to lose its voice. Not because the crushing weight of bureaucracy muffles it, but because the elements are putting the acoustics of my soundscape to sleep for a little while. At least, until the summer. It does not happen instantaneously. It happens gradually, like a...

The air in the bank was thick with the scent of old money and new anxiety. It's a smell I know well. But today, another element was added to the mix: fear. It wasn't my fear. It was coming from the teller's window, and it was pointed, like a weapon, at a man whose only crime was his refusal to be invisible. I...