The Space I Take

By Toni-Lee Hazlett

Vancouver Aquarium

At first, I didn't want to admit how hard it was.

The aquarium was beautiful, sure... but overwhelming. Loud. Dimly lit. Too many kids running in every direction, with no clear path forward. Being in a wheelchair felt like a video game I didn't sign up to play, dodging bodies, bracing for impact. I was terrified of hitting someone. Scared of being that person... slow, in the way, too visible and somehow still invisible.

And then it happened. I crashed into someone... hard. The jolt sent me into physical shock, cracking open the dam that had been holding the shadowy, lurking beast swimming just beneath the surface.

Frustration swelled. Sadness too. The deep, familiar ache of being unseen. Of needing extra care in a world that rarely pauses. Of being too much work. Of being fragile. Of being feared or ignored or tiptoed around. Of being that person no one looks in the eye.

The beast broke free and began to speak: "You're a burden. You take up too much space. You ruin the flow for others."

I reached out and caught the entitled thing between the thoughts of my slippery mind, then breathed. "This story isn't truth," I whispered to the beast. Its deadpan eyes goggled vacantly into mine. Meeting it stare for stare, I pressed on, "You are only fear, trying to keep me safe, by making sure I stay small."

So I released the beast back to its hidey hole, and chose to swim with a different kind of fish.

Softening and surrendering, I let the moment be what it was. Imperfect. Alive. Real. And slowly, I found my way back to presence.

Still bound to my chair, I began to notice love in the little things. My child leaned over and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I sensed steady hands nearby, and the loyalty of those walking at my pace, making sure I didn't disappear into the crowd. The pity the beast had tried to feed me sank to the bottom of the aquarium floor, leaving devotion in its place.

And I realized: I wasn't in the way... I was the way.

Even the hardest parts of the journey held beauty. Reflected in the lovely fish behind glass, I saw how even the trapped moments were part of the dance. The fish didn't resist the weeds, they played amongst them.

As I sat in the dark, the luminous blue light from the tanks enveloped my heart. I opened to the quiet ways care was being offered to me. So I leaned a little, and as I did so, a tiny silver grey fish swam up to the glass and whispered, "The soul loves it all."

The chaos. The collision. The recalibration. The tenderness in tension. The choice to return to love... again and again and again.

Turning away from the fish, I moved slowly through the currents, and claimed my space in the sea.