Cory, aged 30, was diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy （脊髓性肌萎缩症）at a very young age. Because of his condition, he began using a wheelchair at age 4. His mother, Sandy Gilbreath, raised him as a single parent. Although taking care of a child with a disability was challenging, she ensured that Cory didn't miss out on the fun things in life. Sandy took him on road trips during summer breaks throughout his childhood. The exciting experiences of exploring new places inspired him to set a lifelong goal of visiting all seven continents.

Fortunately, Cory was able to do that just before the COVID-19 started. He and his mother traveled to Antarctica in February, just before the borders closed. It was the seventh and final continent off his list. He became the first-ever wheelchair user to visit all the seven continents!

According to Cory, traveling in a wheelchair requires a wide range of planning and research. He starts his research six to twelve months before each trip, making sure that there are accessible transportation options in the location. He would also call up hotels or rental homes to confirm if they are truly as accessible as they claim to be.

When Cory started going on adventures, there weren't many online resources discussing accessible travel. To help other travelers with disabilities explore the world as he does, he decided to share his knowledge in his blog. Aiming to promote representation of the wheelchair-using community, Cory and his mother wrote a children's book, titled Let's Explore with Cor Cor, which is about a boy who travels around the world in his powered wheelchair.

Traveling to all seven continents wasn't something I was sure was going to be possible," he said. "But if you stay determined and keep a positive attitude, the opportunities are limitless."

You taught me how to drink grapefruit juice. It was bitter and hurtful, bright and sharp. Like something grownups would drink. My first taste made me cough. You laughed. You were bright and bitter, too. You had your own grapefruit juice, but it was different. Not for kids, you warned me. It was stored atop the fridge and you kept it out of my reach,

We are in your kitchen. My mother, your sister, is not with us. Sometimes I ask why, but you cannot say. Neither of us knows what, besides death, keeps a mother from her child. So instead I sit and keep my eyes on you. I sit on the chair in the kitchen. You have told me this is my special spot. Adults are always telling kids that-something is special. Kids are always believing it. This makes me feel important. Like you need me. Like I am part of you.

We talk about all manner of things. Movies, sports, toys and school. Sometimes I ask you about your life, your own youth. About when you were 20 and living in New York, and everyone said you were the most beautiful. Only 5ft tall in a black mini dress, you dated Yankees and partied with stars. You tell me your life while we watch movies. I sometimes fall asleep in your giant bed, mirrors and glass and candles. It is not a place for kids, but you carve out a place for me.

When I grew we spent less time together. I became too tall to sit in your tiny kitchen. You were no longer the fun, joke-cracking aunt. You were just another lady Certainly nice, certainly family, but not special any more. I was a teenager, nothing was special any more. I had moved so many times, broken so many bonds, that I didn't know how to rest my heart with anyone.

We lost control of our lives slowly, the way a driver drifts into the wrong lane after too many drinks. My own life happened beyond my control. I had developed a taste for your adult grapefruit juice, and spent most of my days drunk. Sometimes you and I talked on the phone, and I was always fine. You were always fine. It was always great to hear from one another. It was always time to go.