When I became a foster mom, I had already been living with a disability for six years. To obtain my foster license, my doctor had to affirm that I was capable of parenting. Asking him was one of the hardest things I ever did.
The way my disability presents varies. Sometimes, if I’m not in my wheelchair and am supported by cushions, I can seem “fine.” But beneath that appearance, my body battles dysautonomia and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome—conditions that make everyday actions like sitting, standing, lifting, eating, driving, and walking a relentless challenge.
Dr. Stern knew this reality intimately. He had seen me break down in tears in his office, witnessed my pain and vulnerability. He knew how much I relied on ready-made meals and help from friends just to get through the day. How could I expect him to believe I could care for another human being?
At his office, there was only a metal chair with cushions and an exam table. Usually, I waited lying on the table, using my purse as a pillow—sitting upright was often too difficult. But this time, I forced myself to sit in the chair, hoping he might forget all my past struggles and see me differently. The room spun, my vision blurred, but I pushed through.
When he asked why I was there, I poured out everything: how much my partner David and I had thought about becoming foster parents, the preparations, the savings, his planned parental leave. He listened, asked a few questions, and then signed the form. “A child will be lucky to have you,” he said.
What I hadn’t fully understood then was this: becoming disabled had prepared me to be a parent.
Before my disability struck fourteen years ago, I chased success and happiness with manic intensity. I was relentless—getting my real estate license while waiting to hear from graduate programs, quickly rising to the top in sales, opening my own firm, becoming nationally recognized. Every moment was meticulously scheduled—vacations included—with no room for rest or imperfection.
I pushed my body hard—running every morning, practicing yoga multiple times a week, obsessively eating nutritious meals. But my body was paying a price I didn’t yet understand.
Then came the turning point. On a summer hike in Santorini, Greece, heat exhaustion triggered a severe electrolyte imbalance that awakened a latent genetic disorder. The day before, I was running and dancing; the next, I could barely get out of bed.
For two years, I searched for answers, doubting myself when doctors dismissed my symptoms. When I was finally diagnosed, I spent another two years grieving the loss of the life I knew. Accepting that I would be sick forever was brutal. Slowly, the label “disabled” took hold—not just as a medical fact but as a new identity.
Disability brought profound loss and suffering, yes, but also something unexpected: culture and community. I immersed myself in the writings of disabled authors—Eli Clare, Elizabeth Barnes, Toni Bernhard, Maya Dusenbery, and many others. Their stories reshaped how I saw myself and my situation.
Disability taught me to loosen my death grip on perfectionism. I realized my life didn’t have to be “almost good enough” or “worthy” only if I met some impossible standard. Instead, I learned that every day—no matter how slow, painful, or unpredictable—could still be meaningful. Connection, witnessing moments of joy, and living honestly became my new measures of a good life.
Before disability, I believed effort alone could mold a perfect existence. Now, I understood that life’s real value lies in courage—the courage to face truth, to accept limitations, and to keep moving forward.
Parenting is strikingly similar. It’s messy and unpredictable, filled with challenges beyond our control. Becoming a parent, like becoming disabled, strips away illusions of control if we’re willing to let go.
When I imagine my non-disabled self with a newborn, I feel sadness—for the frustration, the missed moments, the resistance to stillness and uncertainty. That version of me would have struggled to embrace the quiet and pain.
But the disabled me? I was already trained for slow days in bed, for waiting, for uncertainty. When my first foster child arrived, then seven years later my second, I was ready—not in spite of my disability, but because of it. My limited, aching body allowed me to truly be present, to show up fully in ways I hadn’t imagined possible.
Dr. Stern was right: a child would be lucky to have me. And so am I—to have learned that parenting isn’t about perfection or control, but about showing up, loving fiercely, and embracing life’s imperfect, beautiful reality.
