For a long time, I believed something very strongly:
I didn’t want to fall in love with someone who had a disability.
Not because I didn’t respect people with disabilities—but because I was still struggling to accept my own. Loving someone else with challenges felt overwhelming when I was still learning how to live inside my body, my needs, and my limits. I thought loving someone without a disability would somehow make life easier.
What I didn’t understand then was that I wasn’t afraid of their disability.
I was afraid of facing mine.
Life has a way of gently—and sometimes stubbornly—teaching us what we need to learn.
Some of my earliest lessons about connection began during the Birth to Three program. While the children learned and played, parents gathered in another room, sharing fears, victories, and survival strategies. Disability didn’t feel isolating there. It felt shared.
That’s where I met George.
George had Prader-Willi syndrome, a rare genetic condition that affects growth, hunger, learning, and emotional regulation. As kids, none of that mattered. Our families leaned on each other, and for a while, our lives were deeply intertwined—until time and adulthood pulled us apart.
Years later, we found each other again in the most ordinary way—on a bus. Then again through the transportation company we both used. Conversations grew longer. Drivers teased us, telling me I should meet someone they didn’t realize I already knew.
We went on a date. We tried to be more than friends. But our disabilities were different, and romance never quite fit.
What did fit was the bond.
For more than twenty years, George has been one of the greatest loves of my life. We share a love of cars, motorcycles, family, sports, and showing up for each other—through big moments and small ones. He taught me that love doesn’t need romance to be real.
Later, after starting WOWCP—Workout With Cerebral Palsy—I met Thomas.
I had already read his story. I had shared it. And suddenly, there he was.
Thomas had cerebral palsy and was deaf due to complications from CP. Trust came slowly. Communication took creativity. Our phone conversations required a third person to relay between us. It was strange at first—getting to know a man through someone else’s voice—but connection found a way.
We fell in love.
Our relationship lasted several years, until COVID changed everything. Distance, life changes, and growth shifted us into something new. Ending the romantic relationship was painful, but what remained was deeper—a friendship rooted in honesty and respect. Thomas is one of my closest friends, and he always will be.
Then there was Lorenzo.
By the time he entered my life, I wasn’t running from disability anymore—mine or anyone else’s. I knew who I was. I knew what I needed.
Lorenzo didn’t arrive dramatically. He arrived naturally.
We’ve been together for four years now. We would love to live together. We would love to get married. But the systems meant to support us would take too much away if we did. So we adapted.
He lives in the apartment next to mine.
It’s not the dream I once imagined—but it’s the life that fits us.
Looking back, the truth is undeniable:
The three greatest loves of my life all live with disabilities.
Through them, I learned how to love deeply, patiently, and honestly.
More importantly, I learned how to love myself.
Gratitude, I’ve learned, isn’t about getting the life you imagined.
It’s about recognizing the life that shaped you.
And for every version of love that taught me how to accept myself, I am endlessly grateful.
OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES 