The Letter That Started It All
Before this page had a name, I wrote something that carried the exact voice and backbone The Caylin Clause was built on.
A woman in a white SUV weaponized her entitlement at me on a day I could barely walk, and instead of shrinking, masking, or letting it slide, I answered her the only way I know how — with clarity, humor, and the truth laid bare.
I didn’t write that letter to be polite.
I didn’t write it to smooth things over.
I wrote it because the moment demanded an answer with a spine.
And that voice — the one that refuses to let cruelty hide behind a sugary smile — is the heartbeat of The Caylin Clause. Not everyone is ill-intentioned, but some people are. Some are simply careless, some are overwhelmed, and some are just plain mean. This space exists because all of them still need to hear the truth.
So this is where it all began.
No edits.
No softening.
No apologies.
Below is the original letter, exactly as it appeared.
To the woman in the white SUV who backed up to confront me today
I parked in front of your house because construction blocked my street, and that was the closest legal space large enough to fit my vehicle. I’m sure you’ve noticed, the construction crew’s tools have been spilling over onto the opposite side of your street for days. That’s overflow. That’s evidence of how limited parking has become in the whole area.
My spine is compressed. I have degenerative arthritis. I had just come from a doctor’s appointment, already struggling to walk. If I’d parked a quarter-block farther, where you ended up going, that little farther wouldn’t have been a gentle stroll. For me, it means nerve flares, spinal fire, and legs giving out. That block and a half I was already facing is a penalty round. Adding more to it would’ve knocked me out for two or three days, because, honestly, I’m already down for the rest of today and tomorrow at least.
You passed the spot when it was open so you could sit at the stop sign and gossip. I actually saw you there, but I figured you were either pulling off to the right or heading forward since you were talking to someone farther up by the stop sign, not near the parking space. I had time to do an actual five-point turn, park, shut off my engine, and start gathering myself before facing the walk. That’s how long it took for you to decide the spot suddenly mattered. Then you reversed, rolled down your window, and gave me that exaggerated, sugary smile people use when they’re pretending to be polite while trying to bulldoze someone. The kind of smile that feels like customer service at the gates of hell. Then you chirped, Oh, hi, I live here, like that was supposed to override physics, public law, and my disability.
I answered calmly. I told you it was public parking and that I already had a long walk ahead. I hadn’t even gotten to the part about the spinal injury before you cut me off, peeled away, and tossed out, well, you’re a b*h, like it was some kind of signature sign-off from someone with the emotional range of a parking cone.
So let me be crystal clear. Living on a street doesn’t make the curb yours. That’s not how street parking works. That’s not how pain works. And that’s definitely not how kindness works. You didn’t lose a parking spot. You lost the chance to act like a decent human being.
And before you reach for the classic if I’d known you were disabled, I wouldn’t have said that excuse… No. Empathy that only kicks in after you’re called out isn’t empathy. It’s optics. It’s damage control for a character flaw.
Next time, instead of weaponizing your entitlement, try this wild little concept: treat people like you don’t know their story. Because you don’t. But I know yours now — it starts with believing someone else should absorb your inconvenience so you don’t have to take ten extra steps.
That’s not a parking issue.
That’s a character deficiency.
Just Remember…
Be kind. Be clear. And don’t make me write another one of these, because these are why my coffee’s cold again!
— Caylin
Coffee With Caylin 