Tag: 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

WHY I CREATED OUR BEATIFUL CHALLENGES

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

🌻 Hi, I’m Marie — and This Is Our Beautiful Challenges

Hi, I’m Marie.
I’m really glad you’re here.

I have cerebral palsy, and I graduated with an Associate Degree in Human Services, along with a certificate in Recreation Therapy with a concentration in gerontology.

But my education goes far beyond classrooms and textbooks.

My greatest teacher has been my lived experience with disability.

Living with cerebral palsy has shaped how I see the world. It has taught me the importance of advocacy, the power of dignity, and the deep need for independence — not just physically, but emotionally and socially as well.

For much of my life, I had to learn how to speak up for myself. I learned what it feels like to need support — and what it feels like when that support is missing. I also learned how life-changing it can be when someone truly listens.

Those experiences planted a seed.

That seed became Our Beautiful Challenges.

🌻 Why I Created Our Beautiful Challenges

Our Beautiful Challenges was created from the belief that disability is not something that needs to be fixed, hidden, or explained away.

It is something that deserves understanding.

This space exists to remind us that:

  • disability does not erase worth
  • needing help does not mean lacking independence
  • challenges can exist alongside joy, purpose, and strength

Too often, people with disabilities are expected to prove themselves, justify their needs, or minimize their struggles.

Here, you don’t have to do that.

Here, your experiences matter.

💛 What You’ll Find Here

This blog is a place for:

  • personal stories and reflections
  • conversations about disability and advocacy
  • encouragement for independence and self-confidence
  • reminders that you are not alone
  • honest discussions about the hard days — and the hopeful ones

Some posts may be educational.
Some may be emotional.
Some may simply be reminders that your journey is valid.

All of them come from the heart.

✨ What I Believe

I believe everyone deserves:

🌻 support without judgment
💛 connection without barriers
🤍 dignity in every stage of life
✨ the opportunity to live a meaningful and fulfilling life

No matter their abilities.

Our lives may come with challenges —
but they are still beautiful.

Seeing the beauty between our challenge

Disability

WHEN THE WORLD CHANGED: HOW COVID EXPANDED ACCESSIBILTY FOR THE DISABITY COMMUNITY

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

COVID changed the world in ways no one expected.

It took lives.
It separated families.
It brought fear, grief, and uncertainty.

But it also did something rarely talked about.

It opened doors for the disability community.

For decades, disabled people asked for flexibility — the ability to work from home, attend virtual appointments, shop online, and access services without constant physical barriers.

We were told it wasn’t realistic.
We were told it wasn’t possible.
We were told the world couldn’t function that way.

Then COVID happened.

And suddenly — everything changed.

💻 Technology Made the World Accessible

Almost overnight, the world adapted.

  • Jobs moved online
  • Doctor visits became virtual
  • Therapy sessions shifted to video
  • Fitness classes went digital
  • Meetings, support groups, and social gatherings became accessible from home

What once required transportation, energy, planning, and physical access could now happen with the click of a button.

For many disabled people, this wasn’t convenience.

It was freedom.

Freedom from unreliable rides.
Freedom from inaccessible buildings.
Freedom from exhausting travel.
Freedom from having to choose between participation and pain.

♿ What the Disability Community Always Knew

These changes were not new ideas.

They were accommodations the disability community had been requesting for years.

COVID did not invent accessibility — it exposed how long it had been withheld.

The technology existed.

The tools were already there.

What changed was willingness.

When the entire world needed access, society finally listened.

🌱 Life After the Pandemic

COVID may have gone away, but technology did not.

Remote work remains an option for many.
Virtual appointments are now common.
Online shopping and delivery services continue to grow.
Adaptive workouts, education, and community spaces still exist online.

For millions of disabled people across the world, this progress has been life-changing.

Technology has allowed us to:

  • maintain employment
  • manage our health more safely
  • connect socially without physical strain
  • access services we never experienced before

Disability did not disappear.

But barriers began to fall.

💛 Accessibility Is Equity

Accessibility is not special treatment.

It is not a luxury.

It is equity.

When systems are built with inclusion in mind, disabled people don’t need to fight just to participate — we are simply allowed to exist within society.

COVID taught the world an important lesson:

When society adapts, disabled people thrive.

🌻 Moving Forward

The progress made during the pandemic should not be temporary.

Accessibility should not disappear because the crisis ended.

The disability community does not need sympathy — we need commitment.

Commitment to flexible work.
Commitment to virtual access.
Commitment to inclusive design.
Commitment to understanding that accessibility benefits everyone.

Because one day, disability touches every life — through injury, illness, or aging.

Accessibility is not about a small group.

It is about our shared humanity.

COVID changed the world.

But for the disability community, it finally allowed the world to meet us where we are.

And now that those doors have opened, they should never fully close again.

— Marie W.O.W.C.P.
Our Beautiful Challenges
🌻 Seeing the beauty between every challenge.

Disability

CHOOSING MATURITY, BUNDARIE, AND SELF-RESPECT

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Independence and disability can exist at the same time.”

Sometimes, where I live, people don’t always understand me or the difference between their behavior and mine. It’s frustrating living in a place where I’m often the only one who truly knows what it’s like to live with a disability from birth.

Living in low-income housing that serves people 55 and over and people with disabilities comes with its own challenges. Sometimes I wish I lived in a building that wasn’t assisted living, but instead was centered around people with physical disabilities — a place where independence is respected, not questioned.

When I first moved here, there were times I felt deeply lonely. No one really understood me, and some people didn’t want me here because they believed I was “too capable” to live on my own. That hurt, because independence and support can exist at the same time.

Being in this building, surrounded by so many different personalities, has taught me something important. Often, people assume that the person who stays calm — the one who doesn’t argue, doesn’t react, doesn’t act like a child — is weak. But in reality, that person is usually the bigger one.

Staying mature when others don’t can be one of my greatest challenges. Sometimes it feels like people are watching, waiting for me to fall apart — as if seeing a disabled person lose control would prove their belief that people with disabilities shouldn’t be independent. That pressure is heavy, and it’s unfair.

I have worked my entire life to manage my emotions — not because emotions are wrong, but because I don’t want them used against me. I don’t want to be labeled as emotionally incapable on top of everything else. I don’t want my feelings turned into proof that I can’t handle my own life.

There are moments when I would love to give in and tell people off. But I don’t, because I hold myself to higher boundaries. By putting boundaries on myself, I am empowering myself. I am choosing not to give in to what others want from me — not because I can’t control myself, but because I can.

I refuse to let people win by pulling me into reactions that don’t reflect who I am. My restraint isn’t silence — it’s strength. My boundaries aren’t weakness — they are self-respect.

I know who I am.
I’m responsible.
I’m strong.
I’m growing.

I don’t need to prove my independence by pretending I don’t need support. And I don’t need to hide my disability to earn respect. I deserve to be seen as a whole person — not judged by appearances, assumptions, or misunderstandings.

I choose respect.
I choose peace.
I choose myself.

Disability

WHEN LOVE CHALLED MY ABLEISM

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

 When Love Challenged My Ableism

For a long time, I told myself I could never date someone else with a disability.

I didn’t say it out loud—not in a way that sounded cruel—but the belief was there. Quiet. Heavy. Sitting just beneath the surface. I told myself it would be too hard, too complicated, too close to the parts of myself I was still struggling to accept.

The truth is, I wasn’t afraid of their disability.
I was afraid of my own.

This was my internalized ableism—beliefs I had absorbed over years of being underestimated, overlooked, and made to feel like “less.” Somewhere along the way, I started believing that loving someone with a disability meant doubling my limitations instead of expanding my life. I thought love needed to look normal to be safe.

And then life did what it does best—it challenged me.

George was one of the first people who showed me that connection didn’t need to fit a traditional mold to be real. We met as children through early intervention programs, surrounded by families who understood disability before we did. As adults, when we found each other again, our bond didn’t turn into romance—but it didn’t disappear either. George taught me that love can exist without romance, and still be deep, steady, and lifelong.

Thomas challenged me in a different way. When I met him through an online cerebral palsy community, I was cautious—maybe even guarded. He had cerebral palsy and was deaf, and communication required patience, creativity, and vulnerability. Our relationship forced me to confront intimacy in ways I never had before. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t simple. But it showed me that connection doesn’t come from convenience—it comes from effort and trust. Even when our romantic relationship changed, the bond remained. Thomas taught me that love doesn’t fail just because it changes shape.

And then there was Lorenzo.

Lorenzo entered my life slowly—so slowly that for years, I didn’t realize what he was teaching me. We met on public transportation, saw each other on and off for years, and kept in touch through texts and calls that never quite turned into dates. I told myself we were just friends. But what I was really doing was protecting myself.

By the time Lorenzo and I finally came together, I had already loved two people with disabilities—despite once swearing I never would. And loving him felt different. Not because he didn’t have a disability, but because I had finally stopped running from mine.

Loving Lorenzo meant building a life that works instead of chasing one that looks right. It meant facing systems that punish disabled people for committing to each other. It meant redefining independence, partnership, and even marriage. And it meant realizing that the very thing I once feared—loving someone who understood disability from the inside—was the thing that finally allowed me to feel fully seen.

Looking back, I see how wrong my earlier belief was.

Loving people with disabilities didn’t limit my life.
It expanded it.

George taught me about steady love.
Thomas taught me about vulnerable love.
Lorenzo taught me about shared love.

And all three taught me how to love myself.

Internalized ableism told me I needed distance from disability to be happy.
Love taught me I needed honesty.

Gratitude

I am grateful for the relationships that challenged my fear.
I am grateful for the people who reflected parts of myself I once tried to hide.
And I am grateful that I learned this truth, even if it took time:

The problem was never disability.
The problem was believing I had to escape it to be worthy of love.

Disability

LOVE IN DIFFERENT SHAPE

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

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.

Disability

Why Society Needs to Stop Grouping Disabilities and Aging Together

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

There are many different kinds of disabilities in the world, and I live with a physical disability just like so many others. One of the biggest frustrations I have with today’s society is how often people lump physical disabilities together with age-related disabilities. For some reason, society places the disability community and senior citizens in the same category, as though our lived experiences automatically line up.

I understand that aging brings changes—new aches, pains, and challenges. But seniors will never experience even half of what someone born with a physical disability goes through over a lifetime. So why are these two very different communities treated as one?

Yes, age-related limitations may qualify as disabilities, but they are not the same as being born with a disability or acquiring one early in life. What bothers me is that society doesn’t see the difference. Instead, they pile everyone with any type of disability into one group, as if we all face the same struggles and need the same kind of support.

I say this with love because I genuinely care about seniors. I study gerontology and have a passion for the elderly. And I respect disabilities that aren’t physical—mental health, cognitive, and more. But when you put people with completely different abilities and needs together in the same low-income building just because society doesn’t know where else to place them, it doesn’t work.

I know this firsthand. I’ve been living on my own for five years with cerebral palsy in a low-income rental building. It gets overwhelming—especially when I’m the only one here with a lifelong physical disability. Through this, I’ve learned something important:
There is a significant difference between being born with a disability, having a disability from aging, and having a mental or cognitive disability.

These differences matter. They shape our everyday lives, our independence, and the support systems we need.

There has to be a middle ground—a place for physically disabled adults who are independent, low-income, and not elderly. A place where we’re not forced into environments that don’t reflect our needs or our lived realities.

We deserve communities that see us clearly—not ones that group us together because it’s easier.

Disability

MAINTENANCE CHECK-UP

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

I feel like a young kid lately. Typically, I go to physical therapy twice a year. Once, when winter turns into spring, and again when summer turns into fall. These are the two times of year when the temperature is so unpredictable that it throws my cerebral palsy off. I just need some adjustment—my twice-a-year maintenance check-up. 

I have been performing maintenance check-ups for about twenty years now. I’ve also had many surgeries, including the following:

1) to cut out some of my quad muscle because my spasticity got so tight that it made some of my quad muscle form into a knot. It could only be removed surgically. 

2) I broke my right leg, and because of my cerebral palsy, I had to have a few surgeries to put it back together.

3) Lastly, I had a knee replacement that went wrong, and not only did I break the new knee, but I also broke the femur bone, so it took two years to recover from this. 

Every time I went to therapy following those surgeries, it was always someone who worked in sports rehab. The therapists were always so great to me and became like family. They did everything they could to get me back where I needed to be. They also made my cerebral palsy comfortable. 

I was also afraid to move on and see a new therapist. But now that I’m going to therapists who specialize in neuromuscular disabilities, I can see the difference. I will always be grateful for sports rehab and how it helped me recover from my surgeries, but I know I’m in the correct place for my needs now. 

I have always gone to see a neurologist for my cerebral palsy, but my friends in the cerebral palsy community would say, “Why aren’t you seeing a Movement disorder specialist?” A Movement disorder specialist undergoes the same education as a neurologist, with an additional one or two years of training that focuses on movement disorders, such as CP, MS, Parkinson’s, and other movement disorders. A movement doctor has additional training in various areas, including Botox, Deep Brain Stimulation, and clinical trial methodology. A lot of people assume Botox is just a beauty treatment, but its original purpose is pain management and helping the disability community.

The Movement disorder specialist I’m seeing now is delightful and listens to my concerns. She made sure I went for PT and OT so that I could get the Botox to work the way it should work. I wanted to go to the therapist I usually would go to, but they didn’t have the equipment I needed. Going to a new PT, I wasn’t sure what to expect because it had been years since I had gone to a new therapist. When I started, it felt a bit weird at first, but it also felt good because I was starting fresh. I quickly fell in love with the exercises the therapist had me do. She is currently helping me work on my own goals, such as taking one or two stairs so I can get into the house when I visit people I love.

My therapist focuses on things that help with my Active Daily Living. While I would work on those with my other therapist, she was more of a sports therapist, which meant she was working with people who had never lived with a lifelong disability. The therapist I’m working with now is trained more in brain injury. I feel as if I’m getting a lot out of it. I’m seeing a slight improvement in myself.

I now see the difference between sports medicine therapy and neurological therapy. At the same time, both have been beneficial for me. Right now, in my life, I need more neurological therapy. I’m so thankful to have a supportive community to help me reach my goals, and I appreciate the people who devote their education and profession to helping people like me live our best and most active lives.

Disability

WHY WAS IT SO IMPORTIANT FOR ME TO LIVE INDEPENDENTLY AS SOMEONE WITH CP?

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

 There are several reasons it is essential to live independently. The main reason was to prove to myself that I could live independently, and another reason was that the people around me would also see that I could live independently. Moving around my environment alone was the one thing that I felt would make me feel like I had reached independence,  not only as someone with CP but as someone who had been labeled all my life. 

At points in my life, many people have only seen me through a label. After many years of being viewed and treated as a label, you begin to see yourself as that label. I also began to see myself as a label, which caused me to try to do anything I could to escape that label. I lived with CP but did everything possible to look at it in the rearview mirror. All I ever wanted was to be more like my peers. 

What many people do not discuss regarding CP is the emotional component accompanying the disability. My family made me as independent as possible, but there were many things that I was unable to be a part of because of having CP. The other kids often did not want me to be a part of something because of the CP, or did not understand what I was ABLE to do even with my CP.  In return, I lost much of my childhood while being excluded.

In my 20s, when most young adults were starting to make their mark and begin their adult lives, I fell short of the same goal. I did my fair share of young 20s stuff, but I needed to expand my 20s experiences at that time. As I neared the end of my twenties, I began to notice the disparity between my emotional and chronological ages. Chronologically, I was ready to do everything everyone my age was doing. Still, emotionally, I felt ten years behind everyone my age, mostly because I lacked the experiences of social interaction that would have defined and shaped my adulthood.

I was unsure whether I would be able to live independently. I had to learn about life, act the age I was chronologically, and accept who I was as a person with cerebral palsy. It was then that I started to see a therapist.  When I first started, it wasn’t hard to open up and talk. However, talking about the hard things and why I was going to a therapist was difficult. The therapist’s first suggestion was that if it was going to be hard to talk about at that moment, I should keep a journal so that when we met, I could bring it. I would be able to read from the journal, and it would make it easier for me to talk and more manageable for her to help.

Once we got through the first couple of weeks, she started with cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT, a talk therapy). CBT returned my thinking about life and living with a disability. If I could teach any younger person with CP or another physical disability, I would tell them that just because our bodies don’t work like our peers doesn’t mean we can’t ‘live like our peers’; it just might take some time and some modifications. While I have learned so much during this time, I still see a therapist because living with a disability will always be challenging. 

After getting the emotional and mental help I needed, I could see that just because I have cerebral palsy doesn’t mean I couldn’t live the life I wanted. Now that I was getting back on a more positive mental track and could see life in a new way, I was ready to move on with life. 

I was excited about moving on independently, but I had a major setback; I fell and broke my lower right leg. Healing would take six months to a year. Still, because of the cerebral palsy and spasms from the cerebral palsy, it kept breaking, so two years after multiple surgeries and two years ago, I was back where I started. 

After about two years of being back on my feet, I got hit with PsA (Psoriatic arthritis). It took almost a year to realize I had PsA. While having PsA, I couldn’t do anything without help because it interfered with my cerebral palsy. After spending over five years struggling with PsA, I just wanted to give up. The PsA went into remission, and I got a knee replacement. Having a knee replacement is a story within itself. ( If I ever were to write a book, it would take up a chapter or two.)

Again, after all this, I questioned if I could ever live independently. I tried not to get down on myself again, but it was hard not to. However, now I had some therapeutic tools to help me through this dark period of my life.  Having a long recovery from the knee replacement and making it through this difficult time with much more emotional education about myself, I was finally ready to move on with life.

Only a short time after this, my parents were getting older, and they also needed to allow me to be more independent.  My parents ALWAYS told me to be independent, and knew they needed to let me move on. They were still there to help and support me, because no matter what point in their life, they would always be there for me and knew how important my independence would be to me and my entire family.  

In late fall 2019, I listed my name on a few housing sites for senior and disability housing. A few months later, the pandemic started in the summer of 2020. Just as the world was closing, my world was opening up. Less than a year after applying for housing, I received a letter stating that an apartment was available and inquired if I would like to visit to see if it met my needs. 

My mom and I went to check it out, and it had a mom-and-pop grocery shop in the driveway. Other than that, I had sidewalks leading up to the center of town where there were places to eat, coffee shops, banks, and more than I would need every day, and all I would have to do was walk less than half a mile. So I took it.

I was able to move in at the end of that summer. Seeing the world closed down, my idea of leaving wasn’t what I had in mind. When my family moved me in, it was as if they had left and locked me in to be myself. Due to the pandemic, no one could visit, so I was only with my family. I couldn’t have face-to-face contact with other friends, so I relied on social media and Zoom sessions.

The first year and a half of my life were tranquil due to the pandemic, and I could only have family members.  

I would have thought I would have felt lost being alone for that amount of time, but no, because all the CBT training had helped; I had a mental toolbox of tricks to use. One of my most significant activities was to return to my writing. When I started writing years ago, it was about things that did not matter or only mattered at that moment. I was able to do a lot of soul-searching and fully accept who I was, recognizing what I had overcome to get where I am today.
Life is a challenge for everyone, from start to finish. I have finally learned at this time in my life that I should not waste time worrying about things I cannot control. Instead, enjoy the moments I have to share with family and friends and make the most of them. Not to look at my life through my disability and limitations, but remember how far I have come and live my best life independently, never forgetting the people who love and support me, no matter what.

Disability

PAVING THE WAY

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

When you have a disability, you miss out on a lot in life, but you also gain a lot too. You’re a part of things that you might not be a part of if you weren’t disabled. I am lucky enough to be part of a community that is dedicated to helping and paving the way for the future generations of people who have disabilities. I feel fortunate to be born at a time in life that I was blessed enough to have witnessed two laws that made it possible for me and others with disability to be treated like others: The 504 Act of 1973 and the ADA Act of 1990. 

The 504 or Rehabilitation Act gives people with disabilities the right to be in public, including in public schools and public buildings, which must be made accessible for us to enter.

Although the 504 Act gave us the right to be in public, the ADA Act ensures that all public buildings are accessible (including wheelchair ramps, working elevators, lowered curbs, and accessible bathrooms). To this day, all public buildings must be ADA compliant. This bill was signed into law in July 1990, which is why July is recognized as Disability Pride Month.

As much as it made it possible for me and others with disabilities to be among society, it took a while for society to realize the disability community is here to stay. Being so young at the time, I didn’t fully understand or appreciate the impact of my presence. I was making it easier for the next generation to be understood. 

My mother was a teacher’s assistant in the school system I attended. When I was in school, I recall the frequent arguments my parents had so that I would have a fair chance of the same experience and education as all the other students. The teachers and even the lunchroom monitors didn’t think I had the right to be there. The teachers thought I was just there, taking away resources from students they felt were more worthy of an education because they were non-disabled. My parents fought for me to be a fundamental part of the school, because even the parking lot wasn’t accessible. But once my mom became a teacher’s assistant and advocated for me, the teachers who initially discouraged me all changed their tune. Even though the law protected my right to be there, there was no law to change the minds of teachers who were set in their ways and stuck in the past.

I recall my parents contacting the state to report a shortage of accessible parking spaces, curb cuts, elevators, and ramps. The town was cited for not being accessible and had to make necessary upgrades. When I was in junior high school, classes were delayed for two weeks so that an elevator could be installed properly.

Hopefully, the current disability community and future generations can enjoy these accommodations without having to fight for the same rights everyone should have. 

Nowadays, looking at what disabled kids have in school humbles me. I know that I was one of the pioneers to accommodate kids like me, even those who weren’t born yet. 

It inspires me to keep fighting. If something isn’t accessible now, I speak up, keeping the same spirit that my parents had for me. In a way, kids with disabilities are all our kids, too, and we have a responsibility to advocate for them. I’m not just a student but also a teacher. I teach people how to accept people with disabilities and how to treat us (hint: we’re just like everyone else!)