Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

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....

  Lately, I've found myself asking a simple question. Why? Why do I volunteer? Why do I spend evenings working on projects that don't come with a paycheck or a title that really means anything? Why do I keep saying "yes" when life already feels full? For a while, I wasn't sure of the answer. I started wondering if I was just keeping myself busy. If I was filling every free moment because that's what I'd always done. Maybe I needed to step back. Then today happened. I found myself surrounded by people who care deeply about their families and their community. As I listened to conversations and watched people connect, something clicked. My volunteer work isn't about the committees, the planning, the emails, or the events. It's about the people. It's about seeing someone leave a little more hopeful than when they arrived. It's about helping someone find a resource they didn't know existed. It's about creating a space where people feel s...

Today's adventure was supposed to be simple. Famous last words. It was J's eight-year well visit. (Only a couple of months late...which still counts as "this year," so I'm calling it a win.) T just needed a quick hemoglobin check—a tiny finger prick. In and out. Easy. Parents everywhere are laughing already. Things actually started off great. The kids were behaving. We even ran into a friend's husband and their kids in the waiting room. He looked at me politely, clearly trying to figure out who I was, while J whispered, "Mom...who's that?" Thirty seconds later, J runs over and gives him the biggest hug imaginable. Apparently he knew exactly who he was. So we head back, and because I've learned a thing or two over the years, I warned J ahead of time about the finger prick. We talked through it. He asked thoughtful questions. He seemed calm. I thought, Wow...look at this maturity. I should've known better. The moment that little lancet came...

  Functionally Mute Functioning isn't the same thing as feeling okay. There is so much of my time that I spend functionally mute. I have the words. They are all there, mentally lined up and ready to go. I know what I need to say. I know what I need to do. But I can't make myself move. I can't get the words out. I just sit there. It feels like total-body paralysis. There are projects I need to handle. Phone calls I need to make. Paperwork, appointments, insurance, replacing my car... every task feels bigger than it should. I look at the list, and instead of starting somewhere, I become completely overwhelmed. Frozen. Since the accident, I've realized that trauma doesn't always look the way people expect it to. Sometimes it looks like going to work every day. Taking care of your kids. Making dinner. Smiling through conversations. Answering emails. Crossing things off your to-do list. From the outside, it probably looks like you're doing just fine. In many ways, I ...