Finding My Voice (And Maybe a Few Missing Planks)

Growing up with Cerebral Palsy, I often felt like my voice was the background music to my diagnosis—soft, overlooked, and definitely not getting radio play. I was constantly apologizing for shaking, walking funny, talking oddly, and generally looking like someone set the tremor timer for ten minutes… and forgot to turn it off for twenty years.

To those who never asked questions and just stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed, I say: thanks for the comedy material.

My brain wasn’t broken—it was just taking the scenic route.

I explain my tremors and muscle contractions like this: imagine a rope bridge between my brain and my limbs, but a few planks are missing. Signals improvise their way across. It’s twitchy, unpredictable, and honestly? Kind of impressive that it works at all.

Sure, people noticed my disability before they heard my voice. That’s fair—it’s loud in its own way. And for a long time, I let that silence define me.

But something shifted when I let humor sneak in.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just being heard—I was being remembered.

I found power not just in words, but in my words—messy, unfiltered, funny, and real. Cerebral Palsy might trip up my muscles or my speech, but it never touches my fire.

Finding my voice didn’t mean fixing myself.

It meant finally turning up the volume.

And now, I speak for those still learning how to shout from the back row—because disability isn’t a weakness.

It’s just a remix of strength.