The driver who picked me up from LAX was young —a college kid, I thought, as I handed over my bags. I’ll call him Marcus.

I’d just flown home from the American Association for Homecare’s (AAHomecare) legislative conference in Washington, D.C. I’d been up well before dawn to catch my flight out of Reagan National, so I was a little tired.

But Marcus had a ready smile as he pulled into less-than-friendly L.A. traffic. “Were you traveling for business or vacation?” he asked.

“Business,” I said.

“What kind of work do you do?”

Almost by rote, I gave my usual basic description of Complex Rehab Technology (CRT) and durable medical equipment. I said I write about technology that supports independence and optimizes function for children, adults, seniors. Some of them were born with disabilities; some acquired disabilities after birth or aged into them.

Usually, this answer is the end of the polite driver-passenger small talk. But Marcus followed up: “What kind of assistive technology, exactly?”

Well, now he’s just begging me to talk about carbon fiber and seat elevation, right?

I described ultralightweight wheelchairs made from carbon fiber and titanium, the materials of Formula 1 racecars. I told him about power wheelchairs that can raise people or stand them up, and about smart technology that senses obstacles or collects and transmits data.

Marcus followed up with “What do you think is the hardest part about being disabled? Is it the disability? Or something else?”

So we talked about ableism, inclusion, and how representation is so important. He said he noticed that one of the “Barbies” in the Barbie movie used a wheelchair.

I explained that a spinal cord injury, for instance, can feel like the end of so many possibilities, but how adaptive sports or adaptive gaming can flip that script.

“Are other people the biggest problem sometimes?” he asked. “Like, when they make assumptions or don’t understand what a disability is?”

“Yes,” I affirmed. “Like when people without a placard park in a disabled parking space or in the blue-striped loading zone right next to that parking space, and they say they just need to park there for a minute.”

Marcus laughed knowingly. “Or when they don’t understand what a real service dog is, or when they try to fake a disability at the airport so they can board first.” He’d personally seen that, apparently.

Then he asked about you — the professionals who assess clients and take measurements; who do the fittings and deliveries; who file prior authorizations and claims; who design seating and mobility that must be robustly functional for such low reimbursement amounts.

“It must get frustrating,” Marcus guessed.

I agreed. “Parents might be still absorbing their child’s new diagnosis,” I said. “Or a client is still processing what having ALS means. Sometimes, our professionals go into homes where a patient is being neglected. They are trying to help clients when those clients are scared, angry, frustrated or in pain.”

We finally arrived at my home. Marcus parked, jumped out, grabbed my bags, and set them down. I thanked him for the ride, but he paused.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” he said. “Your industry needs to keep doing what they’re doing. Because they’re helping a lot of people. And that’s so important.”

He flashed another smile, he got back into his car and drove off.

It’s easy to get caught up in the daily minutiae — in the policies that too often run contrary to better outcomes … or common sense. It’s easy to get weighed down and discouraged by codes, red tape, delivery delays, everything that keeps you from helping the clients who are the reason you’re in this industry in the first place.

Sometimes, it takes someone from outside our little world to point out how truly remarkable CRT is — how innovative, how smart, how creative, how life changing, in addition to how stressful the processes can be.

On that drive home, I learned how taking a step back can give you a closer look at the truth.

Thanks, Marcus.