Tag: life

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

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

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

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

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

CLOSING THE YEAR WITH GRATIUDE

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Why I’m Not Making a New Year’s Resolution

As the year comes to a close, I find myself reflecting—not on what I want to change overnight, but on what this year has already taught me.

Every January, people rush to make New Year’s resolutions. We promise ourselves we’ll fix something, lose something, or become someone new. It’s easy to say “this is the year” when the calendar flips. But too often, those promises fade within weeks, leaving us feeling like we’ve failed before the year has even really begun.

This year, I don’t want to make a New Year’s resolution just to break it a few days later.

Instead, I want to carry forward the lessons I’ve already learned and continue working on what I know matters—without pressure or perfection.

This past year was a good one. Not because it was easy, but because it was honest. One of the most significant changes was learning how to make my home feel more like home. My boyfriend and I may not share a mailbox, but he lives just two doors down from me in the same building. It may not look like the version of life people expect, but it works for us—and that has been more than enough.

Sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way we imagined. Sometimes we have to build something that fits our reality instead of forcing ourselves into a mold that was never meant for us.

I’ve spent my whole life learning how to turn my challenges into opportunities. I’ve always been known for adapting, adjusting, and finding my own way—but this year, that lesson finally settled deep in my heart. Not everything has to look “normal” to be meaningful. It just has to work.

There are still things I want to improve—not because I’m ungrateful, but because growth never stops. I want to continue losing weight in a way that respects my body. I want to be a better partner. And most of all, I want to deepen my gratitude for the life I have—a life I once wasn’t sure would ever be possible for me.

Gratitude doesn’t mean ignoring the hard parts. It means recognizing that even within challenges, there is beauty, progress, and purpose.

This is where Our Beautiful Challenges comes in—not just as a name, but as a way of living. Challenges don’t need to be erased to have value. They don’t need to be “fixed” to be worthy. They can be adapted to. They can be carried. And sometimes, they become the very thing that teaches us how to build a life that truly fits.

As this year comes to an end, I’m choosing gratitude over resolutions, intention over pressure, and honesty over perfection. I’m stepping into the new year not trying to become someone new, but honoring who I already am—and trusting that growth will follow.

That is the heart of Our Beautiful Challenges.
And as I close this year, that is more than enough.

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.