Second and First I was my mother’s first child and my father’s second. It sounds like a completely insignificant fact when you say it out loud. A line on a family tree. A technicality. Except I’m starting to realize it probably shaped a whole lot more of me than I ever gave it credit for. For my mom, I was the first. The first pregnancy. The first baby. The first time someone handed her an actual human being and essentially said, “Okay, good luck.” Every milestone was new. Every fever was probably terrifying. Every decision carried the weight that only first-time parents understand because there was absolutely no evidence yet that the kid would, in fact, survive childhood. I was the experiment. Sorry, Mom. But I was also the one who made her a mother. There’s something really special about that relationship. Your first child is the person you learn motherhood on. You grow up together in a strange way. The child is becoming a person while the mother is becoming a mother. And then there ...
People often tell me I'm a strong advocate. What they don't see are the moments when I don't feel strong at all. Lately, I've found myself wondering why everything feels so much harder than it used to. Why answering one more email feels impossible. Why volunteering, something I genuinely care about, suddenly feels heavy instead of energizing. Then it hit me. I've been in the trenches for a long time. Advocating for a child with additional needs isn't something you do a few times a year. It's a way of life. It's learning the laws, preparing for meetings, reading evaluations, asking difficult questions, celebrating small victories, and wondering what was missed. It's constantly looking ahead to the next hurdle before you've even had a chance to catch your breath from the last one. You fight because your child deserves it. You fight because no one knows your child the way you do. And sometimes... you get tired. Not because you've stopped caring....