Mother’s Day. For many, it’s a day filled with handmade cards, breakfast in bed, flowers, and grateful hugs. But for me—mother to a now 36-year-old daughter with intellectual and physical developmental disabilities—Mother’s Day has always felt… different.
Not empty. Not meaningless. Just different.
My daughter, Sierra, never fully understood the significance of the holiday. She never woke me with breakfast or handed me a card she made in school. There were no scribbled “I love you’s” or thoughtful gifts wrapped with tape and hope. For many years, this reality cut deep, especially as friends shared stories of their children’s sweet gestures and heartfelt words. I smiled for them, but inwardly, I silently I was mourning the kind of Mother’s Day celebration I thought I was missing.
It wasn’t until I grew into both motherhood and advocacy that I understood I hadn’t missed anything. I had simply been called to experience motherhood differently. However, realizing that other moms may be feeling the same quiet ache, I created an event called “The Exceptional Parents Celebration” to celebrate mothers like myself, whose children had intellectual developmental disabilities. This small intimate celebration has been happening for about 10 years now, with new moms attending each time!
My journey began with a doctor’s wordless pause when my daughter was just nine months old. That pause carried the weight of a thousand diagnoses, and I knew, even before the tests confirmed it, that life as I had imagined it would change forever. I wasn’t only learning how to mother a child—I was being initiated into an entirely new world: the disability community.
What followed was a blur of appointments, therapies, early intervention programs, and countless decisions that shaped not only my daughter’s life, but my own. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I went from being a mom simply trying to do her best, to a fierce, lifelong advocate for my child—and eventually, for an entire population often rendered invisible.
Motherhood taught me resilience. Advocacy gave me purpose.
I began to notice the deep injustices and the glaring gaps in support and services. I witnessed how people with disabilities—and their families—were sidelined in conversations, systems, and media portrayals. And I decided that I wasn’t going to wait for someone else to speak up or make space. I would be the voice. I would create the space.
This mission shaped not only my personal life, but also my professional one. I built a marketing business rooted in the untapped power of the disability community—the largest minority group in the United States, representing more than 70 million people and over $500 billion in annual disposable income. That’s not just a statistic. That’s influence. That’s buying power. That’s a call for inclusion, not pity.
My daughter was my first inspiration. But over time, my fight expanded to include every mother raising a child whose abilities are not defined by the world’s narrow standards. I see you. I am you.
Mother’s Day still isn’t “traditional” in my home. My daughter doesn’t write me notes or buy flowers. But she expresses love in her own beautiful way—through a smile that lights up her entire face when I walk into the room. Through her trust in me when she’s scared or unsure.
Through her laughter and rapt attention during music sessions when I’m practicing for the SHOWAbility Inclusive Chorus, a unique and growing nonprofit for which I serve as board chair, created by another friend and advocate, to address inclusivity, relatability and accessibility for performing artists with disabilities specifically, but the disability community in general; or our daily routines of caring for and seeing to her every need. I’ve learned to listen with my heart rather than my ears, to see and feel love in presence rather than presentation.
And yes, there are still moments that hurt. I won’t pretend that pain vanishes with acceptance. But it definitely evolves, softens and teaches—creating a space for gratitude and even joy, to bloom alongside initial sorrow.
This Mother’s Day, I reflect on the unseen mothers—the ones who pack medical bags instead of picnic baskets, who attend IEP meetings instead of soccer games, who have memorized emergency protocols instead of lullabies. The mothers who advocate, coordinate, cry in their cars, and cheer at every tiny milestone others might overlook.
You are not invisible. You are not alone.
And to those who love us—our families, friends, communities—remember that Mother’s Day doesn’t look the same for every mom. Sometimes, a kind word, a listening ear, or an acknowledgment of our unique journey is more meaningful than a bouquet.
We need policies that support caregivers. We need media that reflects our families. We need corporate leaders to recognize the disability community as an integral part of the marketplace—not just as a charitable checkbox, but as a demographic deserving representation and respect.
My daughter changed my life. She made me a better woman, a stronger professional, a more compassionate advocate, and yes—a mother in every sense of the word. I used to long for cards and gifts. Now I recognize that the greatest gift she gives me is her unconditional love and the purpose her life sparked in me.
So this Mother’s Day, I honor every mother raising a child with disabilities. May you feel seen. May your love be recognized. May your advocacy be supported. And may your journey—however different—be celebrated.
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