Here, then, a roadmap: 
Find the people who can hold your own particular flavor of grief 
Because they have drank from that well before.
Sometimes, you can recognize them in the way 
Their beautifully crumpled bodies mirror yours.
Sometimes, you can't. 

Believe your Crip siblings when they tell you that you belong 
Around this turn, down this path, through this door. 

Learn to read the signs written by your body: 
On being packed into a room of people 
Standing above you—numbness, a cottony chill.
On realizing you can't get into your town's only gay bar 
Because it is up a flight of stairs—exhaustion, dripping. 
On heartbreak—a spiraling of nausea, 
A wish to curl up in a body that does not curl.

When you come across these signs, it's okay to follow them. 
It's okay to leave. Give yourself grace 
On your journey—you're carving out new worlds 
For your people and you were robbed of instructions. 

In my bones, I can feel the potential of all the people like me 
Who never made it this far. Who died before insulin 
Was discovered, before the ADA, 
Before someone thought to install an elevator. 
The spirits who wanted so badly to exist beyond 
Their bodies, but couldn't, because society told them 
That it is too expensive to make our world accessible. 
Too much of a bother. Too hard. 

But your body, despite what the world says, 
Is not too much. Your body, with all of its machine and fragility, 
Is exactly what it needs to be. 
You will learn this lesson again and again. 
Mark it down on your map, 
Circle it, highlight it: 
My body, this one, is enough. 

And when you forget, come back to the roadmap. 
Draw a path to the spaces where you can rest. 
Mark an X where you found joy. Put up a sign 
That says welcome. Build a universe for the future travelers, 
Even if it's just a single wooden bench. 
Even if it's just this — 
One body saying to another: 
You belong here. 
This hard-won life is yours.