Some of the most powerful lessons I’ve ever learned came from a boy who doesn’t speak with words.
My son Gabriel has been guiding me in ways I never expected.
I started this blog because I know our journey is unique—but it’s one many families face, often with little to no support. We live in a society that moves far too fast for those who need a slower, more intentional pace to absorb, process, and apply the tools and strategies meant to help. Especially for children who don’t yet have words—or whose words aren’t easily understood outside of their closest circle.
In 2024, our world shifted. A sudden, terrifying medical crisis shattered what I thought I knew. It was heart-wrenching, soul-breaking, and—strangely—magical. That moment started a cascade of change that brought me here.
Since then, it’s been a nonstop crash course—on advocacy, patience, medical systems, and deep listening. Every decision, every interaction, requires hyper-vigilance. You have to pay attention to everything: what’s said, what’s not, how it’s said, and what it could mean. And all the while, you’re navigating public systems that were once built to support our children—but are now run by people who often don’t recognize or respect what our kids need.
Reflecting on all we’ve been through has left me angry, afraid, and completely drained. It’s pushed me to the end of my industrial-strength, orange utility-grade patience cord. It’s also made one thing painfully clear: if you’re raising or caring for a neurodivergent child, you understand this fight in a way no one else can. In May 2025, I had my first anxiety attack. And honestly? I’m not surprised.
I’ve faced aggressive pushback when advocating for my son—no matter how I showed up. Whether I approached with kindness and curiosity or matched their energy and called out unacceptable behavior, the outcome was the same. Over time, I realized: it’s not about me. The resistance doesn’t reflect who I am—it reflects systems built by people who never imagined children like ours, or who still don’t see them.
These systems were built decades ago, maybe even with good intentions. But they haven’t evolved. Our kids are expected to squeeze themselves into models that were never built with them in mind.
Learning to build this website—while juggling all of that—has actually become therapeutic. A way to find peace. To reflect. To share. And to honor the magical, messy, powerful journey I’ve been on since Gabriel chose me to be his mother.
Without diving into too much of my own past, I’ll just say this: I didn’t come from a childhood that nurtured growth or safety. But somehow, I’m still here—persistent, passionate, and pushing forward. Gabriel has brought so much light into my life. His presence inspires me every day to be better, stronger, more open.
Through this blog, I want to share where we’ve been and where we’re going. My hope is that something here will speak to you—maybe it’s insight, maybe comfort, maybe just knowing someone else out there gets it. If you’re raising your own “Gabriel,” I want you to feel seen and supported here.
I’ll always be honest. I know what it feels like to be lied to—and I know how badly parents and caregivers like us crave clarity. I’ll also say this boldly: most professionals in key positions haven’t been trained to truly understand what it’s like to walk even two steps in your shoes. We deserve better.
So, if you’re reading this—keep going. Gently search, and fiercely seize, opportunities to connect with others like us in whatever way feels safe and right for your family. Demonstrated acceptance is the deepest form of respect we can receive in this loud, quiet, beautiful world we’re navigating.
I haven’t figured out all the technical stuff yet—like how to add a comment section—but that’s my first goal. I want to hear from you. I want this to be a space we build together.
Sending you so much love and a wish for a peaceful day.
And remember: It’s okay if it all goes sideways.
Tomorrow is another day. Keep going.