I Came Back Changed. And So Had the Campus, Or Had it?

On place, memory and the tilt-shift lens

I returned to campus this week. Not as a student, varsity swimmer or bridesmaid at a bestie's millennial wedding. I returned as a writer, invited for a photo shoot at U of T’s School for Continuing Studies.

I wasn’t alone (I rarely travel alone, for obvious reasons). My mom—my most dedicated and loyal companion, spry as ever—joined me. At this point in life, it feels like it "should" be the daughter assisting the mother, but that’s not our situation. And I’m infinitely grateful for her physical and mental youthfulness.

I’m always a bit uneasy about returning to places I haven’t been since before I became disabled.

Will there be an Uber WAV available? (Almost never.)
Will the subway elevator be in service? (Hit or miss.)
Will my only option be the Wheel-Trans milk run? (Most likely, yes.)

And what about traversing the campus—its outdoor spaces, buildings, doorways?

I was reluctant, as I always am, to leave my home—where I’m fully independent, where my wheelchair or walker doesn’t attract stares (except from my cat Lilo who thinks both are her perching spots to watch squirrels and birds).

But I was also eager. That inner, able-bodied, curious, extroverted version of myself still enjoys human interaction and exploration of the great urban outdoors.

A momentary wave of anxiety rippled through me. And then I asked myself the single question that always reassures me:

What’s the worst that could happen?
The sun is shining. I’m not going to die.
And in Toronto, there’s a coffee shop on every corner.

Still, I’d just finished reading a post by a fellow wheelchair-user-writer. In a single downtown outing, she encountered one obstacle after another: construction fencing, utility vehicles blocking the cycling path, an “accessible” customer service counter being used as unattended storage. She'd bravely ventured out without her mother or another chaos-navigating companion.

We exited the accessible bus and ventured north along St. George Street. We passed Knox College’s rose garden courtyard where my mom herself took courses as few years ago, as part of the school’s Later Life Learning program. She was delighted to be on campus too. As long as I can remember, my mom (a retired teacher) has always been enrolled in something. And there is a renewing sensation about being on a university or college campus. It’s a place that invites reinvention and imagination, no matter how many times you’ve left and returned.

This time, I arrived with a deeper understanding of access.

As someone with a background in urban planning, I couldn’t help but ask: Had the campus changed, or was I just seeing it differently? Was it more accessible, or was I more attuned to what access looks and feels like?

Maybe both.

Maybe the campus hasn't changed that much at all. Maybe moving at a slower, more intuitive pace has changed how I experience the world.

I noticed the greenery in a deeper way: the lush and multitude of Hostas that lined the sidewalks; the variety of tall grasses that sheltered building signs; the vines that crept stone walls; and the potted plants attended to with devotion. Everywhere, there were gestures of welcome and living wonder.

I noticed historic brick blending with modern glass and ramps tucked thoughtfully into original architecture. And when I arrived for the photo shoot, I had meaningful conversations I would've rushed through before.

I had time—with myself, with the campus, and with my mom. We even found a coffee shop with a sunny patio, just around the corner.

Some days you return to a place and find it familiar. Other days, you realize you’re the one who has shifted. You've slowed to a pace where you can appreciate the life that beats around you, one that helps softens the losses.

This was one of those days.

So thankful for chance to revisit a place that once held a very different version of me and also welcomed me in both of my forms. Also grateful for the opportunity to view it through a shifted lens, with memory and place still (mostly) intact.