I hate waiting.

Not in a quirky “haha I’m impatient” kind of way.
I mean it makes my chest tight. My brain loops. I start planning things six steps ahead before step one is even started.

So when I finally bought the adaptive equipment to make my car hands-free and driveable—two months ago—I expected to be on the road by now.

But I'm not.

Because apparently when I’m ready, the world isn’t.

The kit is literally sitting there.

Paid for. Ordered. Waiting.

It’s supposed to help me reclaim freedom, independence, movement—everything I’ve been missing since the amputation.
But instead, it’s become another symbol of that frustrating limbo I keep finding myself in.

It’s like my life is just… paused.
By other people’s schedules.
By paperwork.
By the pace of a system that doesn’t feel the urgency I feel.

I wish people had the drive I do.

I wish they felt the way I feel—that once something is in motion, it should stay in motion. That if a task has a finish line, we sprint. We don’t wander.

But that’s not the world I live in.

So instead of speeding up the process, I’ve had to slow myself down.

That’s the part no one tells you.

About healing.
About disability.
About being stuck.

The physical stuff is hard—but the emotional waiting game?
That’s the real killer.

And yeah, I’m learning patience.

Not because I want to.
Not because I suddenly had a Zen breakthrough.
But because I don’t have a choice.

There’s no Uber for personal freedom.
There’s just a lot of hurry-up-and-wait.

And in the middle of that wait, I’m trying not to let frustration eat up all the hope.