Kevin Núñez

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September 21, 2026

School starts after Labor Day in New Jersey, and as a kid, that always meant new clothes, new school supplies, and a brand-new wheelchair. This year was different. My new chair didn’t arrive until March.

The price tag on the chair I’m sitting in to write this? Nearly $60,000.

When you hear a number like that, it’s easy to do some dark math. Is $60,000 the price tag on my independence? Am I worth $60,000? Why does basic human mobility cost as much as a luxury sedan? That’s an algorithm for insurance companies and policymakers—a topic that usually sits above my advocacy pay grade. But here’s what I can tell you: this technology keeps me from being confined to a bed. It would feel unlivable. With it, I can roll out into the world, make my voice heard, and face life head-on.

For years, living in a wheelchair meant existing in a world built for vertical people. Everyone else’s chest or waist was where I always saw the world from. But this new chair comes with hydraulic elevation.

Not long ago, I was at a bar with high-top tables where everyone was standing. Typically, I’d be at a huge disadvantage, craning my neck up just to participate in the conversation. This time, I hit a button on my joystick, elevated my seat, and held a conversation at true eye level. For the first time, I wasn’t being talked down to—literally or figuratively. That single moment alone was worth the price of admission.

Since I spend at least six to eight hours a day in this chair, I’ve learned a thing or two about how the rest of the world interacts with mobility devices. For those of us who use them—and for the non-disabled allies reading this—here are a few basic ground rules:

Running someone over with a wheelchair isn’t a funny prank like in the movies; it’s the exact equivalent of hitting someone with your fist. Treat a person’s mobility equipment with the same respect you’d treat their personal space.
Wheelchairs are highly technical, custom-built, and absurdly expensive. Well-meaning people often try to grab the handles or push without asking. You could easily damage the chair or throw off the user’s balance. Always ask first.
Bodies break down, and chairs break down. They collect dust, weather, and yes, the occasional stray French fry in the cushions. Keeping a chair clean is part of the routine of staying functional.

A chair can feel restrictive at times, but so can any human body. Ultimately, it isn’t a cage; it’s a platform. It’s the tool that lets me show up to council meetings, write books, host my podcast, and advocate for our community.

Your mobility device doesn’t define your worth, but it can certainly amplify your power. Take care of your gear, demand respect for your space, and never let anyone talk down to you—no matter what height you’re sitting at. Keep on rolling. Keep on living.

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LFL: Vulnerability on Wheels

September 14, 2026

Reclaiming our Unity

I usually don’t post a community blog on Fridays. In fact, I have a personal policy of limiting the number of blogs I publish each week. But today is a very special day for all the wrong reasons. Today marks the 25th anniversary of the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and on America as a whole.

To me, September 11th has always been a deeply somber day. I often feel, sadly, that America has forgotten the tragic realities and ultimate sacrifices made that morning—the people who were forced to leap from burning towers to find a merciful end, the individuals who burned alive, and those who couldn’t even make a final phone call to loved ones as their hijacked planes carried them toward tragedy.

It is striking how, 25 years later, a day that once united all Americans in shared grief has given way to a country more divided than ever. We have built a quasi-psychological civil war. It feels as if every time we meet someone new, we run them through an ideological checklist. If they disagree with us on any single political point, we automatically brand them as the enemy.

On September 11, 2001, it didn’t matter what color you were on the outside you wore on the outside. The blood we shed was all red on the inside. In the hours and days following the attacks, the first thing visible across the nation was a line of citizens standing together, eager to donate blood and volunteer their time to aid the injured and support their country. On that day, there were no red states or blue states—there was simply the United States.

Today, we have degraded into a culture of constant complaining. Instead of seeking genuine solutions to our collective problems, political factions find it far easier to point fingers and blame specific individuals or political parties.

We are better than this, America. We should not require a catastrophic national tragedy to remind us of how great our country is, can be, and will be in the future. We must remain focused on what it truly means to be Americans, to hold genuine pride in our nation, and to look after our fellow citizens.
Don’t give up. Don’t forget. Don’t let evil win.

Don’t give up. Don’t forget. Don’t let evil win. God bless our troops and God bless America.