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.

Somewhere along the way, my diagnosis began arriving before I did. Not because anyone asked—but because I offered it first. I thought leading with cerebral palsy made things easier. What I didn’t realize was that I was shrinking myself before anyone else had the chance to see me.

After surveying 60 people and learning that every single one knew someone with a disability, I realized something powerful: disability isn’t rare—it’s familiar. From the tremors I worried would define me in a high school classroom to the clarity that came with time and confidence, this reflection explores how disability is not an interruption to life, but a deeply human part of it—and how choosing how we’re perceived can be just as important as how we’re seen.

Growing up with cerebral palsy taught me how to apologize for my body—until humor helped me turn the volume up on my voice.

I’m not less—I’m more. This is about reclaiming labels, humor, and identity on my own terms.

I don’t want pity or lowered expectations. I want to be measured by my work.

Life with tremors comes with bloopers. Laughter makes them survivable.