Resilience Over Restriction

Mar 20

Written By Marina Forgue

People often assume every pain is “just part of CP”—but this was different. And during Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, I feel that distinction even more.

Yes, this was directly tied to my Cerebral Palsy. And yes, the physical pain was brutal—but physical pain is something I’ve learned to manage. What hit harder was the mental weight behind it. The reminder that no matter how much I advocate, educate, and take care of myself… my body will still, at times, make its own unexpected entrance.

Just a couple days ago, I was walking to grab a coffee—something simple, routine, maybe 50 steps total. Within the first 10, my hip gave out. Medically, it “caught.” In reality, it felt like my body paused me without permission. My nerves, tendons, and ligaments shifted over my hip bone, creating a sharp, popping sensation that sent me straight to medical care.

I held back tears and asked for help.

“Snapping hip syndrome,” they said.
Paired with hip dysplasia—another quiet companion of Cerebral Palsy.

A few tests, injections, and a therapy plan later, I walked out still in pain—but grateful for answers.

But the real pain? That lived in my mind.

Because moments like this don’t just interrupt your body—they interrupt your confidence. They remind you that even when you’re doing everything “right,” Cerebral Palsy can still try to stop you mid-step. That your body may tire faster, respond differently, and demand more from you than it does from others.

And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

During Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, awareness shouldn’t stop at what you can see—the gait, the tremor, the muscle tightness. It should also include the invisible weight: the resilience it takes to keep going after your body reminds you it has limits of its own.

Because the truth is:

Not every pain belongs to the life you’ve learned to manage—
but every challenge is part of the strength you continue to build.

In the moments your body slows you down, don’t let your mind follow.
Do something small but powerful:

Take a breath before the spiral starts
Ground yourself in what you can control
Ask for help without hesitation
Remind yourself: this moment is temporary

Mental strength isn’t built in perfect moments—it’s built right here.

Marina Forgue

Resilience Over Restriction

People often assume every pain is “just part of CP”—but this was different. And during Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, I feel that distinction even more.

I held back tears and asked for help.

“Snapping hip syndrome,” they said.Paired with hip dysplasia—another quiet companion of Cerebral Palsy.

A few tests, injections, and a therapy plan later, I walked out still in pain—but grateful for answers.

But the real pain? That lived in my mind.

And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

During Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, awareness shouldn’t stop at what you can see—the gait, the tremor, the muscle tightness. It should also include the invisible weight: the resilience it takes to keep going after your body reminds you it has limits of its own.

Because the truth is:

Not every pain belongs to the life you’ve learned to manage—but every challenge is part of the strength you continue to build.

In the moments your body slows you down, don’t let your mind follow.Do something small but powerful:

Take a breath before the spiral starts

Ground yourself in what you can control

Ask for help without hesitation

Remind yourself: this moment is temporary

Mental strength isn’t built in perfect moments—it’s built right here.

The Day My Daughter Redefined ‘Disabled’

Illuminate the Label: What Cerebral Palsy Gave Me

Botox for Brains and Muscles, Not Mirrors

Botox is fantastic. And no — I’m not talking about the kind used to smooth wrinkles. Although if someone enjoys that, more power to them.

For me, the target was the soleus muscle deep in my right calf. It sits underneath the larger calf muscle and runs down toward the Achilles tendon.

Because of my CP, that muscle stays constantly tight, causing me to walk on my toe and affecting my gait.

Before the injection, the doctor had to determine exactly which muscle fibers were causing the spasticity, how many injection sites were needed, and how much Botox to use. In my case, they used EMG guidance with electrical stimulation to make sure the needle was in the correct spot.

That’s where the “fun” begins.

I would lie on my back while the team positioned my leg and cleaned the area. Because spasticity means my muscles can contract unpredictably, a couple of nurses helped hold my leg steady so I wouldn’t flinch when the electrical stimulation started.

The EMG needle sends small electrical pulses into the muscle. When the needle hits the right spot, the muscle twitches — sometimes dramatically and incredibly painfully. That twitch confirms the doctor is in the exact muscle responsible for the spasticity.

Once the right location is confirmed, the Botox is injected. I usually remember feeling pressure, a burning sensation, and a few dramatic muscle jumps that felt as if my leg was trying to detach from my body and say “hell no, Marina.”

Botox doesn’t work immediately. It usually takes 3–7 days for the muscle to begin relaxing. When it did, something simple but powerful would happen: my right heel could touch the ground again.

The effects typically last three to four months, after which the injections are repeated. Botox works by blocking the nerve signals telling the muscle to constantly contract, giving the muscle a chance to relax and lengthen.

For me, it helped for many years. But like many people who receive repeated injections, my body eventually stopped responding to it.

Around age sixteen, we realized it was no longer effective, and that chapter of treatment came to an end.

Botox may be famous for smoothing wrinkles, but for many of us with Cerebral Palsy, it was something far more meaningful. It was a chance to move a little easier, to place a heel on the ground, and to experience moments of freedom our muscles don’t always allow.

It wasn’t about mirrors or appearances. It was about mobility, independence, and the quiet victories that come with every step forward.

2 Months in a Cast — A Lifetime of Perspective

I never knew I was “different” until the year I spent three months in a cast.

Kids at school and my friends kept curiously asking the same question: “What happened?”

Normally the answer would be simple — I sprained it or I broke it. But neither of those were true.

So why was I in a cast?

Which, if you’ve ever watched me walk, you already know is exactly how I move.

From a medical perspective, it made perfect sense. From a kid’s perspective… it was confusing.

And for a while, it worked.

For about three months after the cast came off, my walking looked closer to what doctors hoped for. My heel touched the ground more often. My steps appeared smoother. It seemed like the therapy had done exactly what it was supposed to do.

But Cerebral Palsy isn’t just about muscles — it’s neurological. And my Achilles tendon behaved a lot like a rubber band.

Stretch it long enough and it loosens for a while. But eventually, it wants to snap back to the position it knows best.

Little by little, my toe walking returned. Not dramatically. Not overnight. But gradually, until it felt exactly the same as it always had.

That’s when my parents and I realized something important.

My toe walking wasn’t actually limiting me.

I still moved. I still kept up. I still ran around the playground, played sports, went to school, and lived a perfectly full childhood.

And most importantly, I did it comfortably — because toe walking was the only way I had ever known how to walk.

For me, it wasn’t abnormal. It was normal.

That cast didn’t fail. It actually did exactly what it was designed to do. It stretched muscles, changed my gait for a while, and showed us what was medically possible.

But what it also showed us was something equally valuable.

Walking differently wasn’t something that needed to be “fixed” at all costs.

Because in the end, the goal was never to walk perfectly. The goal was to live fully.

And for me, that meant accepting that my body might move differently — but it could still take me anywhere I wanted to go.

“Snapping hip syndrome,” they said.
Paired with hip dysplasia—another quiet companion of Cerebral Palsy.

Not every pain belongs to the life you’ve learned to manage—
but every challenge is part of the strength you continue to build.

In the moments your body slows you down, don’t let your mind follow.
Do something small but powerful:

Normally the answer would be simple — I sprained it or I broke it.
But neither of those were true.

From a medical perspective, it made perfect sense.
From a kid’s perspective… it was confusing.

But Cerebral Palsy isn’t just about muscles — it’s neurological.
And my Achilles tendon behaved a lot like a rubber band.

I still moved.
I still kept up.
I still ran around the playground, played sports, went to school, and lived a perfectly full childhood.

For me, it wasn’t abnormal.
It was normal.

Because in the end, the goal was never to walk perfectly.
The goal was to live fully.