Real measurements. Honest assessments. Refusing to wait for perfect conditions.

The ER Bed

I was lying in an ER bed, waiting for X-rays to tell me if I’d broken something important.

Five falls in five years. This was the fifth. The one that nearly ended everything.

The thought that terrified me: This is how active life ends. This is how I become someone who USED TO travel. Past tense. All past tense.

I was 68. My husband was 70. We’d moved to Wisconsin specifically for the lakes—all 15,000 of them. We bought four kayaks and a paddleboard. We were finally living the dream we’d spent decades working toward.

And I’d just slipped and fallen on wet bathroom tile.

The X-rays came back. Nothing broken. Crutches. Four to six weeks recovery.

The doctor said what doctors say: “Be careful. Take it easy.”

What I heard: You’re finished. This is the beginning of the end.

I went home with crutches and absolute certainty that active life was over.

The Five Falls (And What They Took From Me)

Fall #1: The Ice

Gravel driveway. Winter ice.

My foot just… went out from under me. One second I was walking, next second I was down on the gravel.

Bruises. Soreness. The usual aftermath of hitting ground hard.

I told myself it was a fluke. Ice happens. Everyone slips on ice.

Narrator: It was not a fluke.

Fall #2: The Puppy Pull-Down

County park. Winter ice. I was walking our dog Rocco. (PP—perfect puppy, not always perfect timing.)

The puppy saw something exciting. He lunged. The leash yanked. My balance on ice was already questionable.

Down I went. Hard.

Scraped hands. Bruised hip. Wounded pride.

The puppy looked back at me like: “Are you coming or what?”

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Fall #3: The Lake (And What the Puppy Was Really Saying)

Paddleboarding. I was attempting to master it.

Rocco was across the lake, barking his head off. I thought he felt left out, like he was missing all the fun.

Narrator: The puppy was trying to tell me something else entirely.

I paddled to the other side of the lake. The first shallow rock bed passed beneath me—I cleared it. Didn’t even scrape.

But for a second, I thought: There’s a chance the underside of the paddleboard could get caught on the rocks.

And then I did what any reasonable person would do with that information.

I kept paddling toward the next rock bed, heading for my turnaround point.

Rocco’s barking got more insistent.

I was almost to the turnaround point anyway. Everything was going great.

Then the second rock bed appeared beneath me.

Except this time, it didn’t just pass beneath—it caught me.

The paddleboard wedged on the rocks. I felt myself tipping, tried to compensate, overcorrected—

And went straight down into the rocks.

Scraped. Bloodied. In the water.

The paddleboard had drifted away from me when I fell.

I swam over to retrieve it, shaken and thoroughly schooled by a shallow rock bed.

Rocco was still barking across the lake.

That’s when it hit me.

He hadn’t been saying “I want to come with you!”

He’d been saying “TURN AROUND. NOW. I’M SERIOUS. DON’T GO TO THAT NEXT ROCK BED. DID YOU NOT HEAR ME—oh for crying out loud, I TOLD YOU SO.”

I paddled home bloodied, humbled, and thoroughly out-judged by a dog.

Lesson learned: Wear a life vest. Always. Even in shallow water. Even when you think you know what you’re doing. Even when the puppy seems like he’s just being dramatic.

Because water levels change. Rock beds appear. And you might end up swimming to retrieve your paddleboard while scraped and bleeding.

Second lesson learned: When the perfect puppy is warning you, maybe—just maybe—listen.

Fall #4: The Steps (The One That Won’t Heal)

Inside our home. The stairway. In the dark.

I slipped on the last steps and fell on the hard floor.

Crack.

I heard it. Felt it. My foot.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Just sat there on the floor, terrified to move, terrified to find out how bad it was.

Orthopedic sandal to keep my foot from flexing. I wore it for a few weeks. Ongoing care. I’ll be following up with an orthopedic surgeon.

This fall scared me more than the others. Not just because I’d heard my own body breaking.

But because unlike the other falls, this one didn’t just heal and go away.

This is the injury I’m still living with.

And it happened in the dark. On stairs. That’s why I have protocols now.

Fall #5: The Bathroom Tile That Led to the ER

Bathroom. Morning routine. Wet tile floor.

I slipped. Fell hard.

Somehow in the fall, I got a black eye. I’m not even sure how—maybe hit the sink, maybe the toilet, the counter edge. Everything happened so fast.

Emergency room. X-rays. Black eye swelling while I waited. Crutches.

The nurse asked if I felt safe at home. Standard question for someone my age with a black eye.

“I slipped on wet tile,” I said. “I fell. I keep falling.”

That’s when it hit me: This is my life now. Someone who falls. Someone who needs crutches. Someone who ends up in the ER with a black eye from a bathroom floor.

This time, I was sure I was finished.

The Puppy (A Brief Sidebar on Rocco’s Ongoing Campaign Against My Dignity)

Our dog Rocco has some… quirks.

Quirk #1: The Dock Situation

We have a dock. A perfectly good dock. Our dock.

Rocco refuses to walk on it. Won’t cooperate. Zero interest.

But when we go kayaking, he jumps in the water—surprise swimming!—and immediately swims to strangers’ docks. Their docks are apparently superior. He’ll climb onto their docks, shake off, investigate their boats if possible, and generally act like he owns the place.

Our dock? He won’t touch it.
Strangers’ docks? His life’s mission.

Logic? None apparent.
Consistency? Perfect. Perfectly backwards.

Quirk #2: The Momentum-Sail Discovery

Before I figured out basic paddleboard balance, Rocco figured out paddleboard physics.

He discovered that if he launched himself onto the board with enough enthusiasm, the momentum would sail him across the lake. No steering. No control. Just physics and confidence.

Meanwhile, I was attempting to stand upright while he barked from across the lake. Instructions? Warnings? Encouragement? Hard to tell.

Sometimes warnings. As I learned the hard way.

The puppy is four now. Still a hazard. Still won’t use our dock. Still apparently knows better than me.

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Quirk #3: The Face-Dive Incident

I was sitting on the couch. Minding my own business. Reading.

Rocco decided he needed to be on the couch. Immediately. With maximum velocity.

He launched himself from across the room, misjudged the trajectory, and landed directly on my face.

Not a fall—I was already sitting down. But definitely an impact.

Bruised lip. Blood. For a second I thought he’d knocked out a tooth.

The dog was unrepentant.

PP—perfect puppy. Perfect chaos.

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Days 1-3: The Wallowing Period

After the bathroom fall, I sat on my couch—the same couch where the puppy had face-launched into me—with those crutches next to me like monuments to failure.

Barely moved. Let my husband bring me things. Felt sorry for myself and angry that I was feeling sorry for myself.

I mentally canceled hikes I hadn’t planned yet. Started imagining a new identity: Mary, 68, former kayaker, current couch person, expert at five different types of falls, defeated by bathroom tile.

My husband watched me with concern. He didn’t say much. He’d had four joint replacement surgeries over the years—two knees with physical therapy for each, then later two hips. Four separate recoveries. He knew what it was like to wonder if you’d ever move normally again.

But he also knew something I’d forgotten: Recovery is possible. But you have to decide to fight for it.

Day 1: I wallowed.
Day 2: I wallowed more effectively.
Day 3: I mentally quit everything and accepted my new life as someone who used to do things.

Day 4: The Turning Point

I woke up angry.

Not sad. Not defeated. Angry.

I looked at those crutches leaning against the couch and thought: I’m not done. I refuse to be done.

I don’t remember deciding to fight back. I just remember feeling something shift from despair to fury.

Five falls don’t get to write the ending of my story.

Three Stairs (Where Recovery Actually Started)

I picked up the crutches. I faced the stairs in my house.

Not the stairs from Fall #4—those had betrayed me. With Fall #5, I began using the steps closest to me for the beginning of my recovery. Three of them.

Both crutches. I couldn’t grip the railing, but I stayed as close to it as possible. My heart pounding.

I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down.

Three stairs down. Then three stairs back up. You can do this.

There are most likely those of you thinking how reckless it was of me not to have a spotter or someone holding on to me.

You’re absolutely right. I most surely should have.

And Rocco was not warning me not to do it, so whatever PP says, I do!

I was putting all of my confidence in perfect puppy.

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I started down. Slow. Careful.

The crutch slipped.

My breath caught in my throat. For a second, I thought I’d fall again—right here, right now, trying to recover from the last fall.

But I didn’t.

I made it down. Three steps. Just as hard as I knew going up would be.

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Then I turned around at the bottom, facing those same three stairs.

Three steps back up.

Slow. Determined. Just as difficult as coming down.

But I did it.

Exhausted. Triumphant.

Three stairs down and three stairs up—both felt like conquering Everest.

Recovery Without PT (What Actually Worked)

I didn’t do physical therapy after Fall #5.

The ER doctor didn’t suggest it—just sent me home with crutches and “be careful, take it easy.” My husband had done PT after his two knee replacements. I’d watched him work with therapists, do his exercises, fight back to mobility. I knew PT worked.

I just… didn’t pursue it myself.

I’m not recommending this. I’m not saying skip PT. I’m just being honest about what I actually did.

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What I did: chiropractor visits. Stretches he gave me. Massage therapy—my massage therapist played a major key role in my recovery and healing. My three-stairs method. And a lot of stubborn determination.

The fact that I have no lasting condition from Fall #5 feels miraculous to me.

I attribute it to something that started 10 years ago—when our son was struggling with substance dependence, I coped by getting outdoors. Walking. Hiking. Moving my body when everything else felt out of control.

I didn’t know then that I was building the resilience that would save me after a bathroom fall a decade later.

But that’s exactly what happened.

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Ten years of walking. Ten years of hiking. Ten years of staying active through my son’s addiction, my husband’s four surgeries, our move to Wisconsin, everything.

That foundation—built one walk at a time while coping with something completely unrelated—gave my body the strength to recover from Fall #5.

And along the way? I lost 30 pounds. Slowly. No crash diets. Just showing up, day after day, year after year.

I’m working on losing another 20 before we leave for Europe in August. Not because I need to be “perfect” to travel. But because every pound makes the cobblestones a little easier, the stairs a little safer, the falls a little less likely.

The chiropractor’s stretches helped. The massage therapy was essential—working with a professional who understood how my body compensated after the fall made all the difference. The three-stairs method worked.

But the real reason I recovered with no lasting condition?

I’d been preparing for years without knowing it.

Week 1-2: Three Stairs

Every day. Sometimes twice a day. Three steps down, three steps up.

Both crutches. Staying close to the railing. Careful.

But showing up.

Just like I’d shown up for walks during my son’s addiction.
Just like I’d shown up for hikes after my husband’s surgeries.
Just like I’d kept moving after Falls #1, #2, #3, and #4.

Showing up is the whole thing.

Week 3-4: Six Stairs

Still both crutches. Still staying close to the railing. But six stairs now instead of three.

Some days felt easier. Some days I needed to move slower, rest more.

I learned: Recovery isn’t linear. Some days you can do more. Some days you need more support. Both are normal.

Week 5-8: The Full Staircase

One crutch. Then eventually just the railing.

Still slow. Still careful. But moving.

Bad days: I used both crutches and took my time.
Good days: I used the railing and felt almost normal.

I stopped expecting every day to be a good day. I started planning for both.

Month 3-4: Walking Outside

Short distances. Flat terrain. My husband nearby.

50 feet at first. Then 100 feet. Then further down our scenic rural road.

I measured everything. Not just distance, but energy required. Terrain type. Recovery time needed after.

I started understanding: “Short walk” means nothing without context.

• 50 feet on flat paved trail = low energy
• 50 feet on gravel with 5% grade = medium energy
• 50 feet on uneven rocks = high energy, possible fall risk

Same distance. Completely different experiences.

This is when I started thinking about measurements differently.

This is when I realized: if I need these measurements to plan my own activities safely, other people probably do too.

Tourism boards call things “accessible” without defining what that means.

“Wheelchair accessible” tells me nothing.

But:

• Doorway width: 36 inches (wheelchair accessible)
• Bathroom door: 32 inches (tight for wheelchairs, fine for walkers)
• Parking to entrance: 150 feet, paved, flat
• Grab bars: Yes, toilet and shower
• Roll-in shower (no step)

Now I know if I can stay there.

Month 5-6: Back to the Lakes

Kayaking. Our own lake. Flat water. Life vest—always now, after the paddleboard lesson. My husband at home, waiting for me to return safely.

Short trips at first. 15 minutes. Calm water only.

The first time back in the kayak, I cried. Not from pain. From relief.

I’m not finished. I’m still here.

Today: Full Circle

Months have passed since those first three stairs.

Today, I regularly walk an hour to an hour and a half. No serious effects. No dramatic setbacks.

I kayak for about an hour at a time.

And I’m back on the paddleboard.

The same paddleboard that caught on rocks. The same one I fell from, bloodied and shaken, while Rocco barked warnings from across the lake.

I paddleboard the same distance I kayak now. About an hour.

Life vest always. Calm water. I listen when the puppy barks.

This is what consistent showing up looks like.

Three stairs became six stairs became the full staircase became 50 feet became 100 feet became an hour of walking became kayaking became paddleboarding again.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just… progress.

Fall #3 didn’t win. Fall #5 didn’t win.

I’m still here. Still on the water. Still moving.

42-Degree Water (This Morning)

This morning, the lake temperature was 42 degrees.

I knew because I checked before I went out. I always check. Temperature. Wind. Wave conditions. I plan everything now.

42 degrees is cold. Cold enough that falling in could be dangerous. Cold enough that most people wouldn’t kayak.

I went anyway.

My foot from Fall #4 still isn’t healed. Ongoing care. I’ll be following up with an orthopedic surgeon.

But Fall #5? That one healed. The crutches are in the closet. The black eye faded months ago.

Both things are true:

• One injury healed completely (I fought back, I won)
• One injury ongoing (still working through it, still challenging me)

And I’m kayaking anyway.

Why?

Because I’ve spent five years afraid of falling. Five years being careful. Five years letting fear make decisions.

And this morning, I was tired of fear being in charge.

Here’s what “careful” looked like:

✓ Our own lake (I know every shallow spot, every rock bed now)
✓ My husband at home (knows when I left, when to expect me back)
✓ Life vest (always, every time, no exceptions—I learned that lesson on the paddleboard)
✓ Phone in waterproof case (in case I need help)
✓ Calm water (no wind, no waves, perfect conditions)
✓ One hour on the water (staying visible from shore)
✓ Dressed for immersion—for water this cold, a dry suit would be ideal (it’s on my wish list). A wetsuit would work but mobility would be much less, so I paddle carefully and stay close to shore

This isn’t reckless. This is calculated risk with safety protocols.

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I pushed off from shore. The kayak wobbled slightly—it always does. My balance compensated. Muscle memory from months of recovery kicked in.

I paddled. Cold air. Cold water. My hands stiff from the chill even through gloves.

And I felt alive.

Not scared. Not fragile. Not finished.

Alive.

One hour on the water. No falls. No panic. No disaster.

Just a 68-year-old woman in 42-degree water, refusing to let five falls define the rest of her life.

The same woman who’s back on the paddleboard—the one she fell from onto rocks.

The same woman who walks an hour and a half regularly.

The same woman who started with three stairs and both crutches.

I came back to shore. Got out safely. My husband was waiting.

“You okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

And I was.

Our 20-Year Story: Learning to Refuse to Wait

This isn’t just about five falls. This is about 20 years of learning that waiting for perfect conditions means never doing anything.

Twenty Years Ago: Mission Field

My family was part of a team that provided clinical care, children’s outreach, and construction projects overseas. Work happened in a church with one roof and one wall. Patients sat on a pew. Women hung tablecloths and sheets for privacy.

I became seriously ill in a country with limited medical resources. The symptoms lingered for years after we returned.

I learned what it’s like when every day is hard, and I stopped saving “good days” for later.

Ten Years Ago: Our Son’s Recovery (And Mine)

Our son struggled with substance dependence. He spent weeks in treatment in South Padre Island, then moved to recovery housing in Austin. We visited him many times at both places, some visits longer than others. We went back and forth. Some weeks and days more critical than others.

I coped by getting outdoors. Walking. Hiking. Moving my body when everything else felt out of control.

I didn’t know then that I was building the foundation that would save me a decade later.

He’s been sober for 10 years now. He graduates from college in 2026.

And the walking I started during his darkest days? That’s why I could recover from Fall #5 with no lasting condition.

We learned: Tomorrow isn’t promised. Perfect timing doesn’t exist. You show up and do the work.

And sometimes the work you do to survive one crisis becomes the thing that saves you in the next one.

The Move to Wisconsin: Choosing the Dream

We moved to Wisconsin for one reason: the lakes.

After years of dreaming about living near water, we finally did it. Bought four kayaks and a paddleboard. Learned water sports in our 60s.

Then I started falling.

But we’d already chosen the dream. Five falls didn’t get to un-choose it.

My Husband’s Four Joint Replacements

Two knees with physical therapy for each. Then years later, two hips. Four separate surgeries. Four separate recoveries.

I watched him fight back to mobility four times. I watched him refuse to accept “this is as good as it gets.”

He taught me: Recovery is possible. It’s hard. It takes longer than you want. But it’s possible.

When I was on that couch after Fall #5, convinced I was finished, he didn’t tell me I’d be fine.

He just said: “Start with three stairs. That’s all. Just three.”

He remembered. Because that’s where he’d started too.

Safety Protocols (Because “Refusing to Wait” Doesn’t Mean “Being Stupid”)

People hear “I kayaked in 42-degree water” and think I’m reckless.

I’m not reckless. I’m careful with calculated risk.

Here’s the difference:

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Reckless:

❌ Kayaking alone in 42-degree water
❌ No life vest
❌ Ignoring weather conditions
❌ Pushing through pain
❌ No emergency plan
❌ Ignoring warning signs (like a dog barking or rocks in shallow water)

Calculated Risk:

✅ Life vest every time (learned that lesson)
✅ Our own familiar lake (know every condition, every shallow spot)
✅ My husband at home (knows when I left, when to expect me back)
✅ Check conditions before going out
✅ Stay visible from shore
✅ Know my limits (good days vs. bad days)
✅ Phone in waterproof case
✅ Dressed for immersion—for water this cold, a dry suit would be ideal (on my wish list); a wetsuit reduces mobility, so I stay extra cautious
✅ Pay attention to warnings (even from dogs)

Good Days vs. Bad Days (The Honest Truth)

Some days I can walk 300 feet uphill without stopping.

Other days, 100 feet on flat ground with rest stops is my maximum.

I plan for both.

And here’s the thing: good days keep getting better. In my earlier recovery days, I started out slow—50 feet felt like a victory. Now I’m back to my longer walks, an hour to an hour and a half regularly. But I still have days when 100 feet is enough.

Both are normal.

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Good day protocols:

• Longer distances okay
• More challenging terrain acceptable
• Higher energy activities possible
• Still cautious, just more capable

Bad day protocols:

• Shorter distances
• Flat terrain only
• Lower energy activities
• Extra rest stops
• Taking my time—never in a rush
• Using support where I need it

Stairs protocols (every single time, good days and bad):

Fall #4 happened on stairs in the dark. That’s the fall I’m still living with. I heard my foot crack. I felt it break. That fall changed everything about how I approach stairs now.

So here are my non-negotiables:

• Always use the railing—or hold on for dear life. That’s not being dramatic. That’s being realistic with a lasting injury.
• Never rush. Never. I don’t care if the phone is ringing, if I’m late, if someone’s waiting. Stairs get my full attention.
• Make sure it’s well lit, especially in the dark. This is why I fell. If I can’t see the edge of each step clearly, I wait or find another route. No exceptions.
• If it’s dark and I can’t turn on a light? I don’t go. I sit down and wait. I use my phone flashlight. I ask for help. I do not risk stairs in the dark anymore.

These aren’t suggestions. These are the protocols that keep me out of the ER.

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The key: I don’t wait for good days to do everything. I adjust what I do based on what kind of day I’m having.

Some activities require good days. I accept that.

Some activities work on bad days. I do those too.

But some safety protocols apply EVERY day—like never taking stairs in the dark.

Refusing to wait doesn’t mean ignoring reality. It means working with reality instead of being defeated by it.

Europe: August 2026 (Why We’re Not Waiting)

In August 2026, my husband and I are attempting 10 weeks across Europe.

We’re 68 and 70. He’s had four joint replacements. I’ve fallen five times in five years. I’m still working through an injury from Fall #4.

We’re going anyway.

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The Itinerary:

4 days Ireland – First time, testing accessible travel in a new country

3 days Switzerland – Zurich, preparing for the scenic train

Zurich to Milan scenic train – Accessible train travel experiment

3 days Lake Orta – Italy’s hidden gem, checking accessibility

1 night Bologna – Stopover en route

8 weeks Abruzzo – Meeting ancestry researchers, visiting my grandparents’ village, exploring the region

3 days Rome – Urban Italy accessibility before flying home

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Why Abruzzo?

My grandparents emigrated from Abruzzo as teenagers. Over 100 years ago, they left their village and came to America.

For the past year, I’ve been working with two groups of experts. Ancestry researchers in Abruzzo have been finding my grandparents’ birth records, marriage documents, the pieces of family history I need. Dual citizenship experts in Chicago have been guiding me through the complex application process.

In August, we’re meeting the ancestry team in my grandparents’ village. They’ll share the important dates and places that came up in their research. Then we’ll spend eight weeks exploring Abruzzo on our own—visiting sites they’ve uncovered, walking streets my grandparents walked, experiencing the region at our own pace.

I have an appointment at the Italian Consulate in Chicago in November 2027 for my dual citizenship application. Depending how that goes, I might need to return to Italy to work with local government offices. It’s a complex, lengthy process.

But this August trip isn’t just about paperwork and documents.

It’s about seeing where my grandparents were born. Understanding the place they left behind. Connecting with my heritage in person, not just through records.

At 68, with an ongoing foot injury from Fall #4, I’m not waiting for perfect health to explore my heritage.

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What We’re Planning For:

Accessibility challenges we know about:

• Cobblestone streets in medieval villages (terrible for balance)
• Older hotels (narrow doorways, no elevators, small bathrooms)
• Rural Abruzzo (limited accessible infrastructure)
• Long travel days (energy management critical)
• Language barriers (asking about accessibility in Italian)

Our approach:

• Research thoroughly beforehand
• Book accessible rooms (verify measurements in advance)
• Plan rest days (not trying to see everything)
• Have backup plans (bad day? We adjust the schedule)
• Medical info in Italian (in case of emergency)
• Accept imperfection (not everything will be accessible, and that’s okay)

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Why We’re Going Despite the Challenges:

Because waiting for perfect accessibility in rural Italy means never going.

Because my grandparents left that village over 100 years ago, and I want to see where they came from.

Because my foot from Fall #4 might never fully heal, and I refuse to let that stop me.

Because tomorrow isn’t promised.

Because I fell five times and learned: You don’t wait for perfect conditions. You work with the conditions you have.

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And maybe—just maybe—my husband will join me on the water in Europe.

He hasn’t kayaked with me since I started falling. On our Wisconsin lake, he waits at home while I paddle. He knows when I leave. He knows when to expect me back.

But in Europe? If we find calm water, an accessible launch, the right conditions?

Maybe we’ll kayak together again.

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I’ll Document Everything:

Every hotel accessibility detail (doorway widths, bathroom measurements, parking distances)

Every cobblestone challenge (which villages are navigable, which aren’t)

Every good day and bad day (honest assessments of energy requirements)

Every accessible win and accessibility failure (real experiences, no marketing fluff)

Because if I can help one person with mobility challenges plan their Italy trip, all the cobblestone bruises will be worth it.

What This Means for You

If you’re reading this because you’ve fallen.
If you’re reading this because someone you love is struggling with balance.
If you’re reading this because you’re wondering if active life is over.

Here’s what I want you to know:

1. Five Falls Don’t Define You

I fell five times in five years.

I’m kayaking in 42-degree water.

I’m back on the paddleboard I fell from.

All of these things are true.

Your falls don’t write your ending. You do.

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2. Recovery Isn’t Linear

Some days I need extra support for simple tasks.
Some days I kayak in cold water.
Some days I paddleboard for an hour.

All of these days are part of recovery.

Good days and bad days aren’t failure and success. They’re just… days.

Plan for both. Work with both. Stop expecting every day to be the same.

3. Start Smaller Than You Think You Need To

Three stairs felt like a small goal.

Three stairs was exactly right.

Start where you are. Not where you think you should be. Not where you used to be. Where you are right now.

If three stairs is your mountain, then three stairs is your goal.

No shame in starting small. Only shame in not starting.

4. The Activity You Do Today Might Save You Years From Now

I started walking 10 years ago to cope with my son’s addiction.

That walking saved me when I fell in the bathroom a decade later.

You never know what you’re preparing for.

Move your body. Stay active. Not because you know you’ll need it.

But because someday, you might.

5. “Accessible” Means Nothing Without Measurements

After falling five times, I started measuring everything.

“Accessible hotel room” tells me nothing.

But:

• Doorway width: 36 inches (wheelchair accessible)
• Bathroom door: 32 inches (tight for wheelchairs, fine for walkers)
• Parking to entrance: 150 feet, paved, flat (manageable on good days, challenging on bad days)
• Grab bars: Yes, toilet and shower (actual support available)
• Roll-in shower (no step to navigate)

Now I know if I can stay there.

This is why I’m starting this blog. Because vague “accessible” claims aren’t helpful. Real measurements are.

6. Refusing to Wait Doesn’t Mean Being Reckless

I kayak in 42-degree water.

I paddleboard on the same lake where I fell onto rocks.

With a life vest. On my own familiar lake. With my husband at home knowing when I left. With emergency protocols. With careful planning.

Refusing to wait means: calculated risk with safety protocols.

Not: ignoring danger and hoping for the best.

There’s a difference between brave and stupid. Know which one you’re being.

And sometimes, listen to the dog. He might know something you don’t.

7. You Can Move Forward Even With Ongoing Injuries

My foot from Fall #4 still isn’t healed. I’ll be following up with an orthopedic surgeon.

I’m planning 10 weeks in Europe anyway.

You don’t have to wait for perfect health to live your life.

You work with the body you have. You plan for limitations. You schedule rest days.

You adjust. You adapt. You go.

8. Sometimes You’re Preparing For Something You Don’t Know About Yet

The walking I did during my son’s addiction prepared my body for a fall I didn’t know was coming.

The stairs I climbed after Fall #5 prepared me for kayaking I wasn’t sure I’d ever do again.

The kayaking prepared me for paddleboarding I thought I’d never return to.

Every step you take now is preparing you for something.

You just don’t know what yet.

So keep taking steps.

9. Wear the Life Vest

Even in the shallowest water. Even when you think you know what you’re doing. Even when everything seems safe.

Because anything can happen. Anytime.

The paddleboard can catch on rocks. The ice can be slicker than you thought. The bathroom floor can be wet.

You can’t control everything. But you can wear the life vest.

Whatever your “life vest” is—literal or metaphorical—wear it.

10. Sometimes, Trust the Perfect Puppy

When Rocco barks warnings, I’ve learned to listen.

When Rocco doesn’t bark, I trust him completely.

Find your “perfect puppy”—whatever or whoever that is for you.

The thing that helps you know when to be cautious and when to move forward with confidence.

Why I’m Starting This Blog

After five falls, countless hotel rooms with misleading “accessible” descriptions, and years of measuring doorways myself, I realized:

People with mobility challenges need real information. Not marketing fluff.

So I’m creating what I wish had existed when I was planning trips:

Accessible travel guides with actual measurements.

• Doorway widths in inches
• Walking distances in feet
• Terrain descriptions (paved/gravel/cobblestone/grade percentage)
• Energy requirements (low/medium/high with explanations)
• Good days vs. bad days assessments
• Honest evaluations of what works and what doesn’t

No stock photos. No recycled tourism board content. Just real measurements from personal visits.

I’ll document:

• Wisconsin destinations (Door County, Milwaukee, Madison, Wisconsin Dells, Lake Geneva)
• Our 10-week Europe journey (Ireland, Switzerland, Lake Orta, Abruzzo, Rome)
• Hotel accessibility (real doorway measurements, bathroom details, parking distances)
• What actually works for people with balance issues, walkers, canes, wheelchairs
• Good days AND bad days (because both exist)

If you’re tired of vague “wheelchair accessible” claims that tell you nothing useful.

If you need to know exact doorway widths, parking distances, and terrain types before you book.

If you want honest assessments from someone who’s fallen five times, ignored a warning from a dog, learned to listen to that dog, got back on the paddleboard anyway, and kept traveling.

I’d love for you to follow our journey.

I’ll share every measurement. Every accessible win. Every accessibility failure. Every cobblestone disaster and every surprisingly navigable medieval village.

Because if I can help one person with mobility challenges plan their trip with real information instead of marketing guesswork, every fall will have been worth it.

The Bottom Line

I fell five times in five years.

I heard my foot crack on dark stairs.

I slipped and fell on wet bathroom tile and ended up in the ER with a black eye.

I fell off a paddleboard onto rocks, swam to retrieve it bloodied and shaken, because I ignored the warning signs—and the dog trying to warn me.

I sat on my couch for three days convinced I was finished.

Then I got angry.

I climbed three stairs—down and up, both equally hard—while putting all my confidence in perfect puppy.

I kept showing up.

I got back on the paddleboard.

I kayaked in 42-degree water.

In August 2026, I’m spending 10 weeks in Europe with an ongoing foot injury and a history of falling.

I’m documenting every measurement so you don’t have to guess.

I’m refusing to wait for perfect conditions.

Because perfect conditions don’t exist.

And life is happening right now.

Thank You

If you made it this far—all 8,600 words—thank you.

Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for caring about three stairs and paddleboards and a dog who barks warnings. Thank you for believing that 68-year-olds who fall can still do hard things.

I hope something here resonated with you. Maybe you’ve fallen and wondered if active life is over. Maybe you’re planning a trip and wondering if you can really do it. Maybe you’re just tired of vague “accessible” claims and want real information.

That’s why I’m starting this blog.

To provide the measurements, the honest assessments, and the real experiences people with mobility challenges actually need.

If this article helped you in any way, I’d love to hear from you. Reply to this email, or visit my blog to leave a comment.

Because tomorrow isn’t promised. And life is happening right now.

For Elizabeth

This blog—this whole adventure—is dedicated to my daughter Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, I’m so very proud of you.

You’re an artist. Color is your specialty. You see beauty where others see blank walls, create vibrancy where others see ordinary. Your gift for bringing spaces to life through color, your stunning textiles, your eye for design—you transform the everyday into something beautiful.

But it’s not just your art that inspires me. It’s everything you do. Your music. Your remodeling work. Your baking and cooking that brings people together. Your adventurous spirit. Your sincerity. Your refusal to give up when things get difficult. Your patience. Your endless willingness to lend a helping hand.

You’re a creator through and through.

When I was on that couch after Fall #5, convinced I was finished, I thought of you. Your resilience. Your ability to take something ordinary and transform it with vision and the right touch.

If you can do all that, I thought, I can climb three stairs.

Thank you, Elizabeth. For being exactly who you are. For showing me what showing up really means. For teaching me that difficult things are worth doing. For bringing color and beauty into the world—and into my life.

This blog exists because of you.

Mary

Mary | Age 68 | Wisconsin → Europe (August 2026) | Five falls, still paddleboarding

P.S. If you know anyone who’s fallen and is scared, anyone with mobility challenges planning travel, or anyone tired of vague “wheelchair accessible” claims—please forward this to them. It might be exactly what they need to hear today.

Affiliate Disclosure: This blog contains affiliate links. If you book through our links, we may earn a commission at no extra cost to you. This helps us keep measuring doorways and testing grab bars so you don’t have to guess.