Conner with Friends in the Park
we're not kids anymore.
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
cherry valley forever
dirt enthusiast
AnasAbdin

Origami Around

#extradirty
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noise dept.
KIROKAZE
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Cosmic Funnies

oozey mess
DEAR READER

if i look back, i am lost
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
trying on a metaphor
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@natewelsh12496
Conner with Friends in the Park

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Ava at the Science Museum
Hacky Sack: Hey Callum, you got this!
Clip from Ava's Intro

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The rhythm of a gas pump is one of the most mundane sounds in the world—a rhythmic, mechanical thrum that usually signals nothing more than a $40 dent in a college student’s grocery budget.
For Elena Moore, a 21-year-old architecture major at State University, that sound was the soundtrack to the last 45 seconds of the life she used to know. On a Tuesday night in October, Elena pulled into a brightly lit station on the edge of campus. She was thinking about her midterms and the cold pizza waiting in her fridge.
She didn't hear the shouting inside the convenience store. She didn't see the two men bolt through the glass doors. She only felt a sudden, sharp "electric pop" in her back, followed by a terrifying, heavy silence in her legs.
Elena was the victim of a "stray" bullet—a term that suggests something lost or accidental. But for Elena, the bullet was devastatingly precise. It severed her spinal cord at the T8 vertebrae, instantly paralyzing her from the waist down.
The robbery netted the thieves less than $200. It cost Elena the ability to walk.
"It’s a strange thing," Elena says, sitting on her balcony, drinking coffee. "One minute you’re worried about a Calc II exam, and the next, you’re learning how to sit up without falling over. Your entire universe shrinks down to the size of a hospital bed."
Before the shooting, Elena was known for her intricate models of skyscrapers. Now, her focus has shifted downward. After six months of grueling physical therapy, she returned to campus this spring with a new perspective—literally and figuratively.
"I spent three years designing buildings for people who look like the old me," she says with a wry smile. "Now, I’m looking at every curb, every heavy door, and every 'accessible' ramp that’s actually too steep to climb. The world isn't broken, but it’s definitely not finished."
Elena has become a fierce advocate for Universal Design on campus. She’s working with the university’s planning committee to ensure that "accessible" doesn't just mean "possible," but "graceful."
The transition hasn't been without its dark days. Elena is candid about the frustration of a world that often sees the chair before the woman, as well as relearning how to drive with hand controls and navigating a campus built in the 1920s.
Yet, Elena refuses to be a cautionary tale or a tragic headline. She’s back to carrying a full course load, she’s joined a wheelchair basketball league ("I'm terrible at it, but I’m fast," she laughs), and she still stops at that same gas station—though she uses the "full service" pump now.
This summer, Elena will intern with a firm specializing in adaptive housing. She wants to design homes where a wheelchair doesn't feel like an intrusion, but a natural part of the flow.
"People keep calling me 'brave' or 'an inspiration,'" Elena says, Adjusting her grip on her wheels. "But I’m just a girl who wants to finish her degree and get on with life. I’m not 'overcoming' my paralysis; I’m living with it. There’s a big difference."
As she rolls toward the door to catch the campus shuttle, Elena looks like any other student—rushed, caffeinated, and determined. The only difference is that she’s no longer just building structures; she’s building a blueprint for a life that refuses to be sidelined.
Lainey Selfie
Burke Discussing Accessibility in Class
Spring Break Airport Girl
Emily in Lecture

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Carter and the Secret Handshake

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Hockey Girl
OAK CREEK — The sound of a hockey stick blade striking the ice is a familiar one at the Oak Creek Community Center, but on Tuesday night, it sounded a little more like a victory.
Seventeen-year-old Hannah Miller, once a leading scorer for the Oak Creek High Mustangs, made her official return to competitive hockey this week. But she wasn’t wearing the standard skates that carried her through three varsity seasons. Instead, she was strapped into a custom-built sled, dual sticks in hand, proving that a life-altering injury was just a temporary timeout.
It has been exactly 364 days since the "freak accident" that changed everything. During a standard puck-battle along the boards in a pre-season scrimmage last November, Hannah took a heavy, awkward hit. The result was a fractured T10 vertebra and a permanent loss of sensation in her legs.
"For a few months, I didn't even want to look at a rink," Hannah said. "Hockey was my life. When the doctors told me I wouldn't walk again, I thought that meant I wouldn't play again. I was grieving the sport as much as my mobility."
The transition to sled hockey (also known as para-hockey) hasn't been a simple "plug and play" switch. While the spirit of the game remains the same, the mechanics are a world apart. Players sit in aluminum frames (sleds) balanced on skate blades and use two shortened to propel themselves.
"She’s a natural," says Coach Mike Ricci, who leads the regional sled hockey team. "Most people spend their first month just trying to stay upright in the sled. Hannah was hitting corners and checking people by the end of week two. That 'hockey sense' doesn't go away just because you’re sitting down."
For Hannah’s teammates and the local community, her return represents a sense of closure to a difficult year. When she took to the ice for her first shift on Tuesday, the small crowd of parents and friends erupted.
"People tell me all the time that I'm crazy going back to the same sport that paralyzed me," Hannah admitted with a grin, "but I love it."
Hannah hopes her story encourages other athletes facing disabilities to explore adaptive sports. As for her future, she already has her sights set on a new goal: the U.S. Women’s Developmental Sled Hockey Team.