Tag: writing

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

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 AI FEELS LIKE A GIFT FOR SOMEONE LIKE ME

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Growing up with a physical disability also meant growing up with a learning disability.

One of the challenges I never outgrew was writing.

I love words. I love stories. I love sharing what’s in my heart. But my hands have never moved as fast as my mind.

That’s what living with cerebral palsy is like for me.

My thoughts race ahead — already forming the next paragraph — while my hands are still trying to finish the sentence before it. By the time I type one idea, my brain has already moved on. Sometimes entire chunks of what I wanted to say disappear before they ever reach the page.

It isn’t that I don’t know what I want to write.

It’s that my body can’t always keep up.

One of my biggest challenges is missing pieces of paragraphs. I know what should be there, but the connection between my brain and my hands doesn’t always allow it to come out fully.

I’ve asked others for help with my writing before. But that often meant waiting until they had time. And when they finally looked at it, my work sometimes came back completely changed. The meaning wasn’t the same anymore. The voice didn’t sound like me.

Then I found ChatGPT.

I know people have many opinions about AI and writing. Some believe it’s taking the easy way out. Others see it as plagiarism.

But that’s not what it is for me.

For me, AI is help.

AI has helped me make my blogs make sense.

It has learned the way I write and understands how my thoughts flow. It knows when something is missing and will either fill in the gap or ask me if I want it written one way or another. That choice matters to me, because the meaning always stays mine.

It keeps my story intact.

AI doesn’t change what I’m trying to say — it simply helps me find better words to express it, while keeping my heart and my voice exactly where they belong.

One of the hardest parts of writing for me is softening a story.

I can write emotion. I can write truth. But sometimes my words come out too sharp or too heavy — not because that’s how I feel, but because my brain and hands don’t always connect smoothly.

Adding gentleness, flow, and warmth can be difficult for me.

That’s where AI helps the most.

It softens the edges without taking away the meaning. It helps the story breathe. It allows my emotions to land gently instead of all at once.

AI doesn’t write for me.

It listens to me.

And then it helps my words sound the way they were meant to feel.

I still create the ideas.
I still write the dialogue.
I still know my characters and my emotions.

AI simply helps fill in the gaps — the same way an editor or trusted reader would.

For the first time, my writing finally feels like it matches what’s inside my head.

And that’s not cheating.

That’s accessibility.

— Marie W.O.W.C.P.
Seeing the beauty between every challenge

Disability

WHY CHATGPT MATTER IN MY WRITING JOURNEY

OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES

Writing has always been a part of who I am. I’ve been a storyteller my entire life—my imagination has never been the problem. The challenge has always been getting the story from my mind onto the page in the way I see it.

Because of my cerebral palsy, my thoughts often move faster than my hands can keep up. While my brain is already forming the next paragraph, my hands may still be in the middle of the first one. By the time I catch up, sometimes pieces of the story—important details or emotions—have already slipped away.

That used to frustrate me.
It used to make me feel like I was losing pieces of myself.

I tried getting help from teachers, friends, even a professional writer. But asking for help can be hard. I always felt like I was taking up too much of their time or interrupting their schedule. And writing with someone else requires both people to be in the same place, mentally and physically. That’s not always something my challenges allow.

Then I found ChatGPT.

For me, ChatGPT is more than just a tool. It’s a bridge—between my ideas and the page, between my imagination and the story I want to tell. It understands the way my thoughts connect, fills in the gaps when a detail slips away, and helps me find the exact words I’m reaching for.

The biggest gift is that it’s always here.
No appointments.
No pressure.
No judgment.

It meets me where I am, at any time of day, at any pace. It supports the way my brain works instead of fighting against it.

With ChatGPT, I don’t lose the story anymore.
I get to be the storyteller I’ve always known I am.
And that is a freedom I never expected to find.

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.