An Open Letter to My Boys

It’s been almost 19 years since my body was changed forever — since I became a full-time wheelchair user, living each day as a quadriplegic in a world that wasn’t built for me. And for the past 13 of those years, I’ve also been “Mom.” Not just any mom, but a disabled mother in a society that quietly — and often loudly — questions whether people like me are even capable of parenting.

The truth is, I’ve spent every single day fighting. Fighting to stay alive. Fighting to stay healthy. Fighting to be seen and heard. Fighting to carve out a life of dignity and meaning — not just for myself, but for my children. My boys.

I don’t often talk about what it truly meant — physically, medically — to bring life into this world from a body that doctors once told me couldn’t or shouldn’t. But the truth is, being a quadriplegic and carrying three pregnancies to term wasn’t just difficult. It was dangerous. It was life-threatening. And it was an act of defiance in the face of every system, every professional, and every statistic that said no. Each pregnancy carried with it risks that able-bodied mothers rarely have to think about. My body couldn’t regulate temperature the same way. I was at constant risk of autonomic dysreflexia — a medical emergency that can occur without warning when you have a spinal cord injury. A sudden spike in blood pressure, caused by something as simple as bladder pressure or uterine contractions, could have ended my life or yours in an instant. Every checkup came with uncertainty. Every delivery was a storm of complex decisions and high-stakes monitoring. There was no “normal” experience for me. But I did it — not once, but three times — because love is a force stronger than fear. Because I believed, even through the pain and fear and complications, that my body still held the power to bring you here.

And after birth, the challenges didn’t stop. Postpartum recovery was terrifying. Breastfeeding was difficult. Lifting and caring for newborns with limited mobility pushed my body past its limits daily. I experienced infections, pressure sores, fatigue so deep it touched my bones — but still, I kept going.

Not because I had superpowers. But because I had you. Because my love for you was — and still is — greater than any diagnosis, any danger, any doubter.

There are still days I wonder if I will survive this journey. But what pulls me through every close call, every dark moment, is the picture of your faces — the belief that my presence in your lives matters more than any pain I have to endure to stay here.

There are no words big enough to explain what it’s taken to keep going. To parent through hospital stays, medical emergencies, inaccessible systems, broken support structures, and moments of quiet, aching grief for all the things that should be easier — but never are. And yet, I’ve kept showing up. Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But wholly, fiercely, and with more love than I ever knew my body and heart could hold.

I want my sons to know: I fought for you. And I’m still fighting.

Even with a mountain of my own struggles on my shoulders, I have always stood beside you. I have held your fears in my heart while pushing through my own. I have laughed with you while hiding pain. I have cheered for you while no one was cheering for me. And if I could do it all again, I would — a thousand times over.

Because you are my why.

And I know life hasn’t been easy for you either.

You have faced your own steep mountains, and as your mother, I’ve watched you climb them with courage and resilience that takes my breath away. You haven't been able to have a typical childhood — not in the way the world defines it — and yet you have taught me more about strength and perseverance than anyone else ever could.

Lachlan, living with Type 1 Diabetes and hypothyroidism is not a small thing. It is a relentless, every-single-day reality — and it asks so much from you. I’ve watched you prick your fingers, count your carbs, fight through fatigue, and carry the weight of life-threatening responsibility on your young shoulders. You've been misdiagnosed and treated poorly by medical professionals who would rather believe that you are a bad kid, then actually understand that you are just a sick kid. You’ve missed out on sleepovers, had to sit out of activities, and endured the emotional burden of being different — and through it all, you’ve remained gentle, thoughtful, and wise beyond your years.

And Keltonn, my bright, bold, endlessly creative boy — ADHD doesn’t define you, but it’s a part of how you move through the world. The energy, the restlessness, the need to understand why before just following the rules — I see it. I see you. I know how hard it can be when the world doesn’t slow down enough to let you show your brilliance. When classrooms feel like cages instead of launchpads. When people misunderstand your behavior instead of recognizing your effort. But please know: I see you trying. I’ve always seen it. And I’m endlessly proud of you for the way you keep showing up, even on the hard days.

And Ryker… my sweet boy, you live with ADHD too — and I know the world doesn’t always make room for your fire and your brilliance. I know you may not yet understand the weight of the sacrifices I’ve made or the reasons I haven’t always been able to be there the way you needed me to be. But please know this: I carry you in my heart every single day. I wish I could be beside you more. I ache for it. I have never stopped loving you, and I have never stopped fighting for you — even if that fight has had to happen quietly, from the sidelines. I hold onto hope that one day, we will find our way back to one another. And when that day comes, my arms will be open.

We are a family shaped by diagnoses, by challenges, by the daily work of surviving systems that weren’t built for any of us. But more than anything, we are a family shaped by love. You’ve watched me struggle — with my health, with pain, with exhaustion, with broken systems that have tried to convince me I don’t belong. And even when my body couldn’t always keep up, even when the world turned its back, I never turned mine on you. I was there. I am here.

I have fought with everything I have to be your mother.

𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱𝘀 𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗹𝘀 — 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗳𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝘂𝗻 𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸. 𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗽, 𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱. 𝗘𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀.