Every year, right around this time, I start watching the trees.

It starts subtle — a little orange creeping into the edges of the maples, a few early-turning leaves on the ground when I roll outside in the morning. And then one day I wake up and the whole world has shifted. The hills are on fire with red and gold and amber, and I know it's time.

Time for the ride.

I don't care how I'm feeling that day. I don't care if it's been a rough week, if my body has been giving me trouble, if the last thing I feel like doing is loading up and heading out. I go. Every year, I go. Because I've learned — the hard way, over a lot of years — that some things are worth the effort even when the effort feels like too much.

This is one of them.

Why Getting Outside Actually Matters

I'm not going to dress this up in clinical language. I'm not going to cite studies at you. I'm just going to tell you what I know from living it: being outside, moving through the world, seeing something beautiful — it does something for you that nothing else does.

When you live with a disability, it's easy to let the world shrink. Not because you want it to. But because getting out takes planning. It takes energy. It takes dealing with access issues and logistics and the unpredictability of how your body is going to cooperate on any given day. So you start making calculations. Is it worth it? Is today a good enough day? What if something goes wrong?

And slowly, without meaning to, you stop going. The world gets smaller. The walls get closer.

The fall ride is my annual refusal to let that happen.

What the Ride Looks Like

I'm not talking about anything extreme here. I'm not hiking a mountain or doing something that requires a perfect body day. I'm talking about getting in the car — or the van, depending on the day — and driving somewhere the leaves are turning. Windows down when it's warm enough. Stopping when something looks worth stopping for.

Some years I've gone with Deanna. Some years I've gone with friends. Some years I've gone alone, which has its own kind of value — just me and the road and the trees doing their thing.

The route changes. Sometimes it's up into the mountains where the aspens go gold all at once, like someone flipped a switch. Sometimes it's along a river road where the cottonwoods are dropping yellow leaves into the water. Sometimes it's just driving through neighborhoods where the maples are doing something spectacular and I pull over and sit there for a while.

There's no wrong way to do it. The point isn't the destination. The point is getting out and letting the season in.

What It Does for Me

I'll be honest with you: the first part of the ride is usually the hardest. Getting ready, getting loaded, dealing with whatever my body is doing that day — there's always a moment where I think about turning around before I've even started. Where the couch seems like the smarter choice.

I've learned not to trust that moment.

Because somewhere in the first twenty minutes of driving, something shifts. The tension I didn't even realize I was carrying starts to ease. My shoulders drop. My breathing slows down. The mental noise that's been running in the background — the to-do lists, the worries, the low-grade hum of managing a life with a disability — gets quieter.

It's not magic. It's just what happens when you change your environment and give your nervous system something beautiful to look at instead of the same four walls.

There's research behind this, if you want it — something called attention restoration theory, the idea that natural environments give the directed attention parts of your brain a break and let them recover. But honestly, you don't need the research. You just need to go outside and notice how you feel before and after.

The Access Reality

I'm not going to pretend this is effortless. Getting outside when you have a disability takes more planning than it does for most people, and that's just the truth.

Some things I've figured out over the years:

Scout before you commit. If there's a specific spot I want to stop and get out of the vehicle, I try to know ahead of time whether it's accessible. Nothing kills the mood faster than finding a beautiful overlook with no accessible path to it. Google Street View and disability-specific travel forums have saved me more than once.

Build in more time than you think you need. The ride is supposed to be restorative, not stressful. If I'm rushing, I'm doing it wrong. I give myself extra time for stops, for unexpected detours, for just sitting somewhere longer than planned because it's too good to leave.

Bring what you need. This sounds obvious, but I mean it specifically: medications, water, whatever makes your body more comfortable for an extended outing. Don't leave it behind because you're trying to travel light. You'll regret it.

Lower the bar if you need to. Some years, the ride is an hour. Some years it's half a day. Some years it's driving to a park, sitting in the parking lot with the windows down, watching the leaves fall for twenty minutes, and going home. That counts. That absolutely counts.

The Leaves Don't Wait

Here's the thing about fall color: it's brief. You get a few weeks, maybe less depending on the weather, and then it's over. The leaves fall, the branches go bare, and you're into the gray of late autumn.

I think about that every year. How the window is short. How if I wait for a perfect day, a day when I feel great and everything lines up, I might miss it entirely.

That's true of a lot of things when you live with a disability. Waiting for perfect means waiting forever. The question isn't whether conditions are ideal — they rarely are. The question is whether this thing is worth doing even when conditions aren't ideal.

For me, the fall ride always is.

I hope you get out there this year. Even if it's just for an hour. Even if it's just to a parking lot with a good view. Let the season in. You'll be glad you did.

---

Related reading:

• Fun and Leisure with a Disability
• Traveling with a Disability
• Living Fully: How I Stopped Apologizing for My Disability