Who cares about what we care about?

There is a quiet but powerful difference between a thermometer and a thermostat.

A thermometer tells you what the temperature is. It observes. It reports. It reflects reality exactly as it stands.

A thermostat does something braver. It adjusts. It responds. It changes the environment to create comfort.

I have been noticing, especially in families around us, how differently daily life unfolds depending on the support available – and this difference between simply observing and intentionally adjusting has become impossible to ignore.

It is easy to be a thermometer. We notice when spaces are not accessible. We observe when someone in a wheelchair struggles with a narrow doorway. We see when a child with sensory sensitivities feels overwhelmed at a loud event. We acknowledge that a differently abled neighbor may need more time, more patience, or a different kind of support.

We see it. We register it. We move on.

But being a thermostat asks more of us.

It asks: How can we adjust?

When we are among the majority who can move freely, speak easily, and participate without barriers, we hold a quiet power. We can design gatherings with accessibility in mind. We can lower the music. We can provide seating. We can ask, “What would make this space more comfortable for you?” We can slow down. We can listen.

Accommodation is not charity.

It is community.

True inclusion is not one-sided kindness. Differently abled individuals are not simply recipients of support; they are contributors of resilience, creativity, perspective, and strength. When we give space, we receive wisdom. When we adjust the temperature, everyone benefits.

I know there are many organizations and volunteers working tirelessly to ensure that every person feels visible and valued in our community. Their work matters deeply. But organizations alone are not enough.

Inclusion cannot be outsourced.

Each of us must take responsibility for the spaces we occupy – our homes, our events, our workplaces, our sidewalks. It is in the small, everyday adjustments that real belonging is built. Making someone feel seen, heard, respected, and supported is not a grand gesture. It is often a simple one.

Today I was reminded of a familiar story.

A little boy was walking along the shore, picking up stranded fish and throwing them back into the ocean. A passerby stopped and said, “The ocean is enormous. There are thousands of fish. You cannot possibly save them all.”

The boy picked up another fish, gently tossed it into the water, and replied, “I made a difference for that one.”

Sometimes we look at inclusion the same way. There are too many needs. Too many barriers. Too many systems to fix.

What difference can one ramp make?

What difference can one thoughtful invitation make?

What difference can one moment of patience make?

Maybe not for everyone.

But for someone, it changes everything.

Being a thermostat does not mean solving every problem. It means adjusting the dial where you can. It means caring enough about what you care about to act on it. And here is the beautiful part: when you adjust the room for someone else, you change the temperature for yourself too.

Compassion warms everyone.

Every acknowledgement matters.

Every adjustment matters.

Every consideration matters.

Every intention matters.

Every kindness matters.

So let’s not simply measure the discomfort around us.

Let’s not just report what is missing.

Let’s be ready to reach for the dial.

Because community is not built by observation alone. It is built by those willing to adjust – one space, one moment, one person at a time.

Pooja Thakkar is working to build connections, and you can read her column each week in the pages of The Reporter.