Raising my voice on behalf of our disabled son came naturally – I was his mother. His dad and I saw his disability rights as basic human rights. So we spoke his name along with our names on behalf of him. For me, writing was as natural as breathing, but learning to speak my name (on paper) in an even louder voice felt bigger than it deserved. For this introvert, initially, sharing it took a lot of effort. In reality I was being an extrovert on paper. And then one day, one miraculous moment in time, I looked up from the page I had just written and the audience behind me had disappeared. Just like that I’d discovered another layer of my worth.
Slowly and suddenly my memoir began taking shape. It formed itself from raw, real emotions. Recalling twenty-three years of our son’s life stirred up the dust in…
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