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 always see are the moments when I don’t feel strong at all. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering why some of this feels so much harder than it used to. Why answering one more email feels impossible. Why volunteering—something I genuinely care about—can suddenly feel heavy instead of energizing. And I think I finally realized why: I’ve been in the trenches for a long time. When you’re advocating for your child, it isn’t something you do a few times a year. It becomes part of your life. You learn the terminology. You prepare for meetings. You read evaluations. You ask questions. You celebrate the wins while still wondering what might have been missed. Somehow, you’re always looking ahead to the next thing before you’ve even had time to process the last one. You keep going because your child deserves it and because nobody knows your child the way you do. But sometimes, you get tired. Not because you stopped caring. Not because you...

  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...