"In the middle of the night, something struck my head.

Laughter echoed through the room.

For a moment, I thought I had been dreaming. Then I felt something warm running down my forehead. I reached up, looked at my hand, and saw blood.

It wasn't a nightmare.

It was one of my earliest lessons that being different could make you a target.

Years later, I've learned something even more important: the deepest wounds aren't always the ones that leave scars you can see."

People with disabilities don't need assumptions. We need opportunities.

One of the most powerful things you can do for someone isn't speaking for them—it's listening to them.

When my hand tremors began affecting my ability to use a computer mouse, I explained the challenge. The response? A suggestion for a keyboard with a trackpad. They heard my words, but they missed the problem. The issue wasn't the mouse itself—it was the fine motor movements required to use it.

That experience taught me an important lesson: inclusion isn't about deciding what people need. It's about asking, listening, and trusting their lived experience.

When we replace assumptions with questions, focus on outcomes instead of methods, and create environments where people feel safe using their voice, barriers begin to disappear—and potential begins to thrive.

People often ask what my book is about.

The easy answer is Cerebral Palsy.

The real answer? It's about resilience, humor, family, motherhood, being underestimated, and learning that our challenges don't get to write our story.

From a Russian orphanage to TEDx stages, from leg braces to raising two daughters, this book is a collection of real-life moments that taught me one simple lesson:

You are always more than the thing that makes you different.

Pain is something every single one of us understands.

Some carry physical pain. Others carry grief, anxiety, heartbreak, or burdens no one else can see. As someone living with Cerebral Palsy, I know what it feels like when pain shows up every day and tries to convince you it's your entire story.

But here's what I've learned: pain may be part of who we are, but it is never all that we are.

In my newest blog, I share the often-overlooked reality of pain and Cerebral Palsy, while exploring a truth that applies to all of us: who you are is so much bigger than what hurts.

Because none of us are the sum of our pain. We are the sum of our resilience, our purpose, our relationships, our laughter, and our decision to keep showing up anyway.

Inclusion at work often breaks down not from blatant bias, but from quiet assumptions about what people can do, want, or mean by their silence—especially people with disabilities.

By actively listening, focusing on how to help people succeed, and rethinking everyday practices, we can move assumptions to understanding one conversation at a time and create workplaces where everyone can contribute.

After a serious golf injury in high school, I finally stopped letting pride convince me I had to carry my golf bag “like everyone else” to prove I belonged.

What others saw as an advantage when I began using a golf cart was actually accessibility helping level the playing field.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
People often respond to disability with pity before they respond with understanding.

But those of us with disabilities do not wake up every day mourning our lives. We wake up and live them. Fully. Loudly. Imperfectly. Successfully.

My newest blog is about shifting the conversation from pity to possibility — and why disability is not the tragedy people assume it is. 👇

Parenting with cerebral palsy means doing some things slower—but feeling everything deeper. My kids see the moments I struggle… but more importantly, they’re learning how to show up with patience, compassion, and love. I may be raising them, but every day, they’re teaching me just as much.

Life has a way of changing everything all at once. In the span of a few weeks, I’ve navigated grief, unexpected challenges, and a body that asked me to adapt—again. This season has taught me that strength isn’t about avoiding hard moments, but learning how to move through them with grace.

“Mom, if I had Cerebral Palsy like you, would that just feel normal to me?”

I told her, “Yes… because it would only be one small part of what makes you strong.”

She looked at me and said, without hesitation—
“Then you must be super strong.”

When your body feels out of your control, your mind becomes your greatest tool.
Pause. Breathe. Speak to yourself with the same strength you offer others.
Reach out. Reset. Refocus.
Your body may have limits—but your resilience does not. Choose to strengthen it.

Most people see Cerebral Palsy as a limitation.

I see it as a relentless teacher.

It didn’t ask permission to shape my life — but it refined me in ways comfort never could. It gave me resilience before I knew the word. It forced creativity. It deepened empathy. It sharpened humor. It strengthened leadership.

What if disability isn’t something to hide… but something to illuminate?

Universal was magical — but accessibility is never finished. It’s engineered.

More seating. Mobility lanes. Quiet reset zones.

Accessibility for some benefits everyone.

Muscle misfires. Tremors. Fatigue. Pain.
Those are neurological.

Determination? Leadership? Ambition?
That’s mine.

In my latest blog, I answer the question I’m asked constantly:
“Can you control it?”

The answer may surprise you — and challenge how you define control in your own life.

We’re wired to help — but when it comes to disability, good intentions can easily turn into awkward assumptions. There’s a better way.

Instead of guessing, fixing, or overcompensating, try four simple words: “What do you need?”

We live in a world that prizes control—steady hands, predictable paths, clear outcomes. But life rarely moves that cleanly. Uncertainty, disruption, and change arrive without warning, asking us to adapt long before we feel ready.

Some mornings, my tremors make simple tasks feel impossible—but in those moments, my daughter steps in without hesitation, and I’m reminded with deep pride that I’m raising a child who leads with empathy, confidence, and kindness.

This post builds on my previous piece about living with tremors. While Part One focused on what tremors look like from the outside, this chapter explores what’s actually happening inside the body—and why shaking doesn’t mean distraction, lack of control, or limitation.

My body may move, shake, or shift, but my mind is fully present. This piece takes you inside what cerebral palsy really looks like—and why stillness isn’t a measure of attention.