There are medications to pack. Wheelchair motors to charge. Trays to carry. Medical supplies. CPAP machines. Favorite cups. Sensory chew necklaces, pop tubes, and pop its. Backup plans for the backup plans. Somewhere in between, we remember to throw in our own clothes.
I’ve learned that traveling with Bray Bray doesn’t begin when we leave the driveway.
It begins weeks before.
And yet every year, when the dust settles and the bags are finally unpacked, I realize we weren’t just planning a vacation.
We were protecting a memory that hadn’t happened yet.
This year, we returned to Woodloch Pines in Hawley, PA.
For our family, Woodloch isn’t just a resort. It’s become one of those rare places where disability isn’t treated like an inconvenience to work around. It’s simply part of the landscape. Wide paths. Accessible rooms. Staff who don’t stare. Families who smile instead of pity. Paths leading to the lake instead of ending before it.
Places like that matter more than most people realize.
Because when you’re a caregiving family, accessibility doesn’t just open doors.
It opens possibilities.
~
One of my favorite moments wasn’t during an activity or a show.
It was simply watching him look up through the trees.
Most people see branches.
He sees a ceiling made of light.
The wind moved through the leaves while he stared into that endless patch of blue, completely captivated by something the rest of us nearly walked past.
He reminds me over and over that wonder isn’t found by looking farther.
It’s found by looking in the first place.
~
Kids, now coming of age, who have grown alongside his wheelchair instead of around it.
There is something beautiful about children who never learned to separate disability from family.
To them, Bray Bray isn’t the cousin in the wheelchair.
He’s just Brayden.
The one who laughs.
The one who drums on tables.
The one who suddenly bursts into the biggest smile in the room.
Watching them gather around him reminded me that inclusion isn’t about a program.
It’s about the relationships.
There were sunsets over the lake that felt painted rather than photographed.
Morning walks.
Matching USA 1776 shirts.
Cold drinks on hot afternoons.
Family photos where someone blinked.
Where someone else looked the wrong direction.
Where perfection never showed up…
…and somehow made the picture better.
Because that’s what families actually look like.
~
There is no cure.
Only care.
I used to think those words sounded heavy.
Now they feel freeing.
Care has given us this.
Care loaded the van.
Care pushed the wheelchair.
Care remembered every medication.
Care made room for cousins, grandparents, laughter, and one more sunset over the lake.
Care isn’t what prevented this vacation.
Care is what made it possible.
~
The honest answer?
We don’t always know.
We simply keep saying yes to another memory.
Yes to another adventure.
Yes to another chance for Bray Bray to feel the wind against his face and laugh at something only he understands.
One day these vacations will live mostly in photographs.
A bucket hat.
A favorite T-shirt.
A dock stretching into still water.
A family squeezed together beneath a giant WOODLOCH sign.
~
The point was that we kept going.
That love refused to stay home.
And maybe that’s what this year’s vacation gave me more than anything else.
Not rest.
Not escape.
Perspective.
The realization that joy doesn’t always announce its arrival.
Sometimes it rides beside it in a wheelchair, stopping every few minutes to look up through the trees… reminding all of us that the sky has been beautiful the whole time.
~
My memoir piece about my journey with Bray Bray was ACCEPTED for publication by Exceptional Parent Magazine in their July 2026 issue!!! Subscribe to EP Magazine for free here, and check out the lead image for the 3-page spread below!
That’s all from me — Chris B.
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.