Viktor E. Frankl said, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” 

Welcome to The Soul Podcast. I'm Stacey Wheeler. 

We've all known those spaces, haven't we? The brief pause where discomfort meets decision, and something unexpected shifts the light. That's where this story finds us: an ordinary morning, touched by a quiet awareness of strain, and a stranger's words that opened a window I didn't know was there. It was one of those warm autumn days where the sun invites ease—air gentle, sky open and unhurried. I was in shorts, my legs carrying me toward the doctor's office with a slight limp, the right knee holding a persistent twinge that had lingered for more than a week. Each step brought a subtle reminder of its presence, but nothing that demanded drama—no hand gripping the railing, no breath held tight against the effort. Just the quiet companionship of awareness as I neared the clinic's entrance. And there, just outside the doors, sat a man in a wheelchair. His bandages—clean and recent, wrapping the space where legs might have been—caught the light like fresh linen. He met my gaze with an ease that belied the newness of it all, a tilt of his head, and then, with a spark of playfulness: 'Nice legs.' The words landed lightly, unexpectedly—a bridge across the space between us, offered without a trace of reference to my own uneven gait. It felt genuine, almost celebratory, as if recognizing what was simply there on display in the warmth of the day. I paused, holding his eyes for a beat, and replied, 'Thank you... I needed that perspective today.' A smile broke through as I moved inside, the echo staying with me, softening the edges of that morning's awareness. What was it about those two words, from that particular place, that lingered? Let's sit with that for a moment.

Looking back, those bandages told their own story: fresh, unfrayed, suggesting a healing still in its tender early days. Not the worn markers of long acquaintance, but the quiet evidence of a profound shift—a body remapping itself, one breath at a time. I didn't speak with him beyond that exchange, wouldn't presume to, but in the waiting room's hush, my thoughts wandered with care. What might it be like, those first weeks without the familiar ground beneath you? A sudden absence, perhaps from an accident's swift turn or a surgery's necessary severance, leaving mornings to relearn balance in a world redesigned overnight. The wheelchair, still carrying that subtle unfamiliarity in his hold—a slight hesitation in the turn—hinting at the patient work of integration. And yet, there he was, meeting the day with an openness that chose connection over withdrawal. That comment, 'Nice legs,' felt like more than a passing remark. In its lightness, I sense a deliberate practice: humor as a thread to weave through the unraveling, a way to reclaim agency in the face of what can't be undone. It's a recognition that even in loss, there's room for levity—a nod to the absurdity of it all, the shared human dance of moving forward, whether on wheels or weary steps. What if, in that playful exchange, he was reminding himself as much as me? A small act of defiance, choosing wit over weight, to honor the life that remains." 

[Brief pause for reflection.]

There's something profound in that choice for levity, isn't there? A way to hold space for sorrow without letting it eclipse the whole. Consider how, in moments of realignment like his, humor becomes a quiet ally—not a mask, but a mirror that reflects resilience. It's the kind that turns inward with kindness, affirming our strengths amid the fractures, rather than dimming another's light. This approach treads a subtle path distinct from self-deprecation, which often masquerades as humility but can quietly undermine our sense of worth over time, eroding the very ground it seeks to lighten. 

Here, the humor serves a deeper invitation: toward acceptance, where we learn to embrace our situations not through diminishment, but through a compassionate gaze that reveals our enduring wholeness. 

Quietly, there's wisdom in the research that echoes this: studies on those navigating chronic shifts or persistent discomfort show that this self-nurturing wit—often called self-enhancing humor—can soften the intensity of what's hard, fostering a sense of buoyancy and connection, while its self-defeating counterpart correlates with greater isolation and distress. It invites the mind to reframe, not deny—dialing down isolation, lifting the veil on shared humanity. For someone like my stranger, it might mean greeting each encounter with a quip that says, "I'm here, fully, and so are you." A practice that soothes not by erasing the ache, but by making room beside it for wonder. A loss of limbs would leave any of us to evaluate the reality of our world... of our life suddenly changed. In that moment, we may shrink away from the challenge of it or lean into the truth of it. It would not have been surprising if my stranger had simply sat silently that day as I passed him, unnoticed. How often have we passed people silently suffering—and didn't even know it? This man was learning to survive and embrace the reality of his situation. Not shrinking... rising. 

In our lives, the loss may be less obvious to the outsider. Not a limb...perhaps the loss is of a friend, a love, a job, a marriage. In our own lives, we've all felt that shift like this. And how have we moved forward? A well-timed laugh can loosen the knot, and remind us we're more than the moment's weight. If we can only rise, not shrink. 

By the time I settled into the doctor's chair—the paper rustling softly, the light steady overhead—my knee still held its familiar protest. The examination was straightforward: a diagnosis of inflammation, recommendations for rest and care. Practical steps, as expected. But beneath it all, his words hummed—a gentle reframing. What had felt like an unrelenting interruption now appeared in softer focus: not a barrier, but a temporary companion, one that allowed legs to carry me still. Leaving the office, the steps felt different—not healed, but held. Gratitude arrived not as a thunderclap, but a slow unfurling: an awareness of function, of fortune, borrowed from his vantage. In that borrowed lens, the twinge became a teacher, whispering of perspectives beyond my own. Have you known such a pivot? A fleeting exchange that invites you to see your story through another's eyes, and suddenly, the frame widens.

In the end, this encounter points us toward a deeper truth: each of us navigates with something in tow. Sometimes it's visible—the bandages, the chair, the careful gait that speaks its history. Other times, it moves in silence: the inner currents of doubt, the quiet griefs we carry like unseen companions, the aspirations paused mid-breath. We cross paths daily, offering glimpses, often unaware of the loads we share. Yet in those crossings lies possibility—not to compare or console, but to truly see. To offer a word that honors the whole, visible and veiled alike. If a man in fresh adaptation can illuminate a stranger's stride, what small graces might we extend? 

As Frankl reminds us, in that space between what comes unbidden and how we meet it, we hold the power to choose—and in choosing connection, we find our freedom. Let's practice that openness: noticing the unspoken, stepping into the response that widens the light for all. As we close, I leave you with this: This week, when your own challenge arises—be it a twinge in the body or a deeper ache in the spirit—draw from the quiet rising of my stranger in the wheelchair. Meet it with a touch of humor, whether a private quip to steady your inner world or a shared lightness extended outward. Let it become the companion that carries you forward, not fleeing the hurt, but embracing its place in the unfolding. Thank you for joining me here. Until next time, may you find freedom in the spaces between.