March is known as International Women’s Month.
It is also National Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month.
For a long time, I quietly wrestled with how these two identities fit inside me. Was I supposed to focus on being a woman? Or on being someone who lives with cerebral palsy? Sometimes it felt like the world made more room for one conversation than the other.
But this year, I see it differently.
I don’t have to choose.
Instead of focusing on why it sometimes feels like one gets more recognition than the other, I want to shift the conversation.
I want to talk about the women who have made an impact on the cerebral palsy community — and the disability community as a whole.
Some of these women live with cerebral palsy themselves.
Others may not have CP, but they have fought for disability rights, inclusion, accessibility, and dignity. They have spoken up in rooms where disability was misunderstood. They have challenged systems that were never built with us in mind. They have worked so that future generations would not have to fight the same battles alone.
Because of them — whether you are a woman with cerebral palsy or someone living with another disability — our lives are different.
Stronger.
More visible.
More possible.
Without their advocacy, courage, and determination, many of us would not have the rights, services, therapies, education, community spaces, and opportunities we have today.
We would not be here in the same way.
We would not be as heard.
We would not be as understood.
And that matters.
Women Who Changed the Conversation
I had the opportunity to hear Maysoon Zayid speak during a CP conference for World CP Day. I remember thinking, This is so cool.
Here was a woman with cerebral palsy speaking boldly, confidently, and unapologetically. She owned the room. She didn’t shrink to make others comfortable. She was funny. Honest. Powerful.
Listening to her made me realize something important:
Women with CP are not meant to shrink.
We are meant to take up space.
Representation plants possibility where doubt once lived.
Judy Heumann was one of the most influential disability rights activists in American history. She helped lead the 504 Sit-In, pushing the government to enforce Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, which protects people with disabilities from discrimination.
Because of her leadership and courage, accessibility became more than a request.
It became a civil right.
Her work laid the foundation for protections many of us benefit from today — in schools, workplaces, and public spaces.
Geri Jewell broke barriers in television as one of the first actors with a visible disability to have a recurring role on a mainstream sitcom. At a time when disability was rarely seen on screen — and almost never portrayed by someone who actually lived it — she showed up as herself.
That visibility mattered.
It expanded what audiences believed was possible.
It gave young girls with disabilities someone to point to and say, “She’s like me.”
Tammy Duckworth, a U.S. Senator and Army veteran, has also used her platform as a woman with a disability to advocate for accessibility and inclusion at the highest levels of government.
Her presence reminds us that disability belongs everywhere — in classrooms, on stages, in boardrooms, and in Congress.
When “Yes I Can” Became Personal
There are moments in life that feel small when they happen — and only later do you realize how powerful they were.
In the late 1980s (aired in the early 1990s), I was part of a “Yes I Can!” public service announcement connected to the Foundation for Exceptional Children. The campaign celebrated students with disabilities — not for overcoming who they were, but for being exactly who they were.
The spokesperson was Lynda Carter — Wonder Woman herself.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to stand in front of a camera and say, “Yes, I can.” I was just a girl with cerebral palsy being told that my achievements mattered. That my voice mattered. That my future mattered.
But I didn’t just participate.
I also received a Yes I Can Award.
Now I understand what that meant.
It meant someone saw ability.
It meant someone saw effort.
It meant someone saw me.
That award wasn’t just recognition.
It was a seed.
And I’m still growing from it.
When I think about these women — their courage, leadership, humor, and advocacy — I see strength in many forms.
And when I look at my own story, I see a little girl who once said, “Yes, I can.”
And she still can.
March is not about choosing which part of myself to celebrate.
It is about honoring every part.
Honoring one does not take away from the other.
It strengthens both.
— Marie 🌻
OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES 