Author: OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Hi, I am Marie I live with my challenges from my disability (cerebral palsy) every day. There have been times when and still will be times when I am not fond of my disability. Somewhere in between all the challenges I found the beauty within them. I'm hoping to show you the beauty in you challenges while also showing how you can be an independent person with and be able to stand up for yourself and not be seen as just a disability.
Disability

March Is More Than One Celebration

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

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 🌻

Disability

Grateful for Healing: Learning to Pause Without Guilt

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Healing has never come easily to me.

I struggle with sitting still. By letting my body recover. By giving myself permission to rest without feeling like I’m failing. Whether I’m healing from a long day, an illness, or emotional exhaustion, slowing down can feel like giving up.

But that belief has cost me more than once.

Living with cerebral palsy means my body needs more time to recover. Healing looks different for me—it’s slower, less predictable, and often layered. I learned that deeply when I broke my leg. What should have been a simple recovery turned into two years of healing because my body kept rebreaking the same injury.

That experience changed me.

It taught me that healing is not something you force. It’s something you allow.

Healing isn’t linear.
Healing doesn’t follow timelines.
Healing requires patience, surrender, and compassion.

I’m learning that taking time to heal isn’t giving up on myself—it’s how I protect my future. It’s how I respect the body that carries me through my life.

Today, I’m grateful for healing. For the slow kind. The imperfect kind. The kind that teaches me to pause without guilt.

Disability

Learning When Is Enough

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Balance is something I’ve had to learn the hard way.

For a long time, I believed that doing more meant moving forward. I wanted to do everything at once, keep up, and prove to myself—and sometimes to others—that I could handle it all. But more often than not, that approach didn’t move me ahead. It pushed me backward.

Living with cerebral palsy means balance isn’t optional for me—it’s essential. When I forget to focus on balance, my body reminds me quickly. Pushing too hard, moving too fast, or taking on too much at once has always come with consequences.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to see this more clearly.

Balance isn’t about doing less.
It’s about doing things in a way that allows me to keep going.

I’ve learned that rushing through life doesn’t make me stronger. Listening to my body does. Knowing when to pause, when to slow down, and when to stop has become just as important as knowing when to move forward.

There was a time when I ignored those signals. I paid for it with exhaustion, setbacks, and frustration. Now, I understand that balance protects the life I’ve worked so hard to build. It helps me stay independent, present, and grounded.

Choosing balance means pacing myself.
It means respecting my limits without letting them define me.
It means understanding that rest and restraint are not failures—they’re tools.

Today, I’m grateful for balance—not because it’s easy, but because it allows me to move forward without losing myself along the way.

Disability

WOWCP-Honoring Movment

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Working With My Body, Not Against It

Movement has never been simple for me.

Living with cerebral palsy means my body doesn’t move automatically. Every movement requires intention, patience, and awareness. Some days my body cooperates. Other days it feels heavy, slow, or unpredictable. Still, I choose to move—because for me, movement is about independence.

WOWCP—Work Out With Cerebral Palsy—isn’t just about exercise.
It’s a mindset.

Some days WOWCP looks like going to the gym.
Other days it looks like walking outside, pacing hallways, or standing and shifting my weight at home. Movement doesn’t have to be impressive to matter. It just has to be honest.

Through movement, I learn my body. I pay attention to what strengthens me, what supports my balance, and what helps me stay as independent as possible. Staying active is one of the ways I care for my future—not out of fear, but out of respect for my body.

WOWCP reminds me that movement isn’t about forcing my body to perform. It’s about listening. Adapting. Respecting my limits without letting them define me.

Every step, every stretch, every small effort is an act of self-advocacy. It’s my way of saying:

I am still here.
I am still capable.
I am still moving forward.

In WOWCP, movement is measured by presence—not speed, distance, or perfection.

And today, that is enough.

Disability

Healthy You, More Independent You: Financial Health Counts Too

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

I was recently looking back through my blog and realized I haven’t written in my Healthy You, More Independent You series in a while. I usually focus on food and nutrition in this space—but you know what else belongs here?

Financial health.

Financial health, just like physical health, plays a huge role in independence.

I’ve always been honest that healthy eating hasn’t come naturally to me. Right now, though, I’m working very hard on that part of my life. I’m seeing a nutritionist and using MyFitnessPal, and for the most part, I’m doing well. Could I do better? Of course. But I’m showing up, making better choices, and doing what I can.

Along with nutrition, I’m also going to speech therapy to strengthen muscles that are affected by cerebral palsy. That work matters. It’s part of taking care of my body and investing in myself.

Now that I finally feel like I have a better handle on the nutrition side of my health journey, I’ve realized something important:

It’s time to work on my financial health, too.

Years ago, in my 20s, I relied heavily on credit cards. I put myself into so much debt that my parents had to help me get out of it. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the long-term impact of those choices.

Now that I’m on my own, debt is my responsibility. But I’ll be honest—I still find myself going to the “Bank of Mom” or asking my brother for help at least once a month. They are willing to help, and I’m grateful for that support, but I also know it isn’t right—and it isn’t helping me grow.

If I want true independence, I need to take responsibility for my financial health the same way I do my physical health.

One of the biggest things I’m learning is the importance of prioritizing. I need to be more intentional about how I spend money—what I truly need versus what I simply want in the moment. Just like food choices, financial choices add up.

I know saving is important, even though I live on a very limited budget that doesn’t allow much flexibility. For a long time, that made me feel like saving wasn’t possible at all. But I’m learning that saving doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing.

Right now, I can save $50 a month.

It may not seem like much, but it’s a start. And starts matter.

This journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about awareness, accountability, and small steps forward. Just as learning healthier eating habits takes time, patience, and grace, building healthier financial habits does too.

A Healthy You isn’t just about what you eat.
A More Independent You isn’t just about living on your own.

It’s about caring for your whole life—your body, your choices, and your future.

I’m learning that independence isn’t something you wake up with one day—it’s something you practice.

Some days I practice it well. Other days, I fall short. But every small step counts, whether it’s choosing a healthier meal, strengthening my body in therapy, or setting aside $50 even when it feels tight.

Financial health, like physical health, isn’t about shame or perfection. It’s about honesty, effort, and believing that I am capable of caring for myself—one decision at a time.

And today, that’s enough.

Disability

Adaptation Before It Had a Name

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Technology, Adaptation, and Voice — Post 2

Before adaptation had language, before there were conversations about accessibility or inclusion, there were just kids trying to get through the day.

I was one of them.

When I was growing up, there wasn’t a word for what I was doing. There were no IEP meetings the way we know them now. No conversations about universal design or assistive technology. There was just a quiet understanding that I needed something different — and the unspoken awareness that needing something different came with a cost.

That cost was visibility.

The computer I used wasn’t small or discreet. It didn’t blend in. It was large, loud, and impossible to ignore. While other students wrote by hand, I typed. While others blended in, I stood out.

At the time, it didn’t feel like support.
It felt like separation.

No one said, “This is adaptation.”
No one said, “This is strength.”

What they said — directly or indirectly — was this is different.

And when you’re young, different can feel heavy.

I didn’t yet understand that adaptation is not about doing less. It’s about finding a way in. A way to participate. A way to stay connected to your own ideas when your body doesn’t cooperate the way the world expects it to.

What I understand now — years later — is that adaptation existed long before we named it. Long before policies or progress. It existed in quiet moments: a keyboard instead of a pencil, extra time to finish a thought, a workaround no one applauded but that made learning possible.

Those early adaptations weren’t comfortable. They weren’t empowering yet. But they were laying a foundation.

They were teaching me that there is more than one way to show up.
More than one way to write.
More than one way to belong.

Today, adaptation is discussed openly — sometimes even celebrated. But before it was recognized, it was lived. Often silently. Often awkwardly. Often by children who didn’t have the words to defend what they needed.

I was adapting before it had a name.

And even then — especially then — it was strength.

Disability

When the Internet Became a Room Where I Could Breathe

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

(Companion Essay — Technology, Adaptation, and Voice)

Watching You’ve Got Mail all these years later made me laugh — but it also made me pause. The movie captures a time when the internet felt new, awkward, and hopeful. The email was exciting. Connection felt intentional. No one yet knew how much the digital world would change the way we live.

What it doesn’t show — because most people didn’t see it yet — is how deeply the internet would matter to people like me.

Long before the internet became part of everyday life, I was already adapting.

When I was growing up, there was no online space to retreat to. Computers were large, noisy, and uncommon — more like suitcases than laptops. I used one at school not because it was modern or interesting, but because it helped me write. And because of that, I stood out.

Needing technology back then meant being noticed.
It meant questions.
It meant explaining yourself when all you wanted to do was learn.

At the time, I didn’t understand that those early moments — learning to type, learning to trust my thoughts to a machine — were teaching me something essential: adaptation wasn’t taking anything away from me. It was giving me access.

Years later, when the internet entered my life, it felt different. Online, I could write at my own pace. I could pause, revise, and return to my words without pressure. I could express myself without my body being the first thing people saw.

The internet became a room where I could breathe.

It didn’t erase my disability.
It didn’t fix my challenges.
But it gave me space — and space changes everything.

In that space, I found my voice as a writer. Not because the internet gave me permission, but because it removed barriers that had always been there. What once made me feel like the “odd one out” became part of how I showed up fully — honestly, thoughtfully, and without apology.

Adaptation didn’t weaken me.
Technology didn’t replace my voice.

Together, they helped me claim it.

And sometimes, all it takes is an old movie about dial-up email to remind me how far we’ve come — and how far I’ve traveled right alongside it.

Disability

Grateful for Creativity: How It Helped Me Find Myself

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

There were times in my life when I didn’t know who I was or what my future would look like. During those moments, creativity became more than a hobby—it became a lifeline.

When my confidence and self-esteem were low, I turned to creating. Writing, sharing, and building spaces—especially on social media—helped me face what was inside of me. Creativity gave me a way to explore my identity and understand who I was becoming.

Through that process, I learned how to empower myself. And something unexpected happened along the way: my creativity began to resonate with others. Especially with people living with disabilities who were also searching for confidence, understanding, and connection.

What started as a way to survive turned into a deeper purpose.

My goal now is to help empower other women with disabilities. Because life has taught me that no matter who you are, you will need help at some point—and there is strength in reaching out and sharing your story.

Today, I’m grateful for creativity—not just for what it has given me, but for what it allows me to give back.

Quote:

“Creativity takes courage.”
— Henri Matisse

#WomenDisabilityTogether 🌻

Disability

WHY ADAPTING IS STRENGTH, NOT WEAKNESS

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

For a long time, I thought adapting meant I was doing something wrong.

Living with cerebral palsy, I spent years trying to fit my body into systems that weren’t designed for it. I believed that if I could just push harder or ignore what my body was telling me, I would somehow be more capable.

I was wrong.

Over time, I learned that adapting isn’t about lowering expectations — it’s about changing the approach. That realization led me to create a daily mindset I call WOWCP: Work Out With Cerebral Palsy.

WOWCP isn’t just about exercise.
It’s about how I live my life.

It means adapting my movement, my schedule, and my goals to meet my body where it is. It means understanding that there is nothing I can’t do — but there are many things I may need to do differently.

Accessibility plays a huge role in this mindset. Accessibility isn’t just ramps, tools, or technology. It’s permission. It’s flexibility. It’s the understanding that different bodies require different approaches — and that those approaches are valid.

It took me years to be okay with adapting. Now, I see it clearly:

Adapting is strength.
Adapting is intelligence.
Adapting is self-respect.

WOWCP reminds me every day that my body is not something to fight against — it’s something to work with.

Disability

The Power of a Quiet Voice

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Learning to Speak Without Apology

Today, I want to talk about something I don’t take lightly anymore — my voice.

Being a person with a disability, having your voice heard is not something you can ever assume will happen. Many people with disabilities don’t feel listened to, and even when we do speak up, it’s not always taken seriously. Too often, decisions are made about us instead of with us.

For a long time, that made me quiet.

My voice isn’t loud.
But it is powerful.

I’ve learned that having a voice isn’t about volume. It’s about how you hold yourself when you speak. It’s about knowing your truth and standing firmly in it, even when the room doesn’t immediately respond.

There were times in my life when staying quiet felt easier. Speaking up takes energy. Explaining yourself over and over again takes energy. And when you live in a body that already demands so much of you, that energy matters.

But over time, I learned something important:
my voice matters.

Not just for me — but for others who may not yet know how to use theirs.

I believe it’s often the quieter voices that create the deepest impact. The voices that speak with intention, honesty, and steadiness. The voices that don’t shout, but still change the conversation.

Today, I’m grateful that I’ve learned to trust my voice. To use it softly when needed, firmly when necessary, and without apology.

Because being heard isn’t about being the loudest in the room — it’s about being real.