At one point on this journey, I found myself deep in an advocacy effort alongside a younger mom—newer to the world of disability rights, but fierce, brilliant, and already exhausted by the weight of this fight.
We were trying to create real change. The kind that disrupts power structures. The kind that makes space for kids who are too often left out or pushed aside. The kind that requires more than just words—it demands action, persistence, and a whole lot of courage.
At first, we weren’t alone. People stood beside us. They echoed our outrage, amplified our voices, and told us we were doing something brave. They said our kids mattered. They said this community deserved better. They said they were with us.
Until they weren’t.
As we got closer to the finish line, the red tape crept in. The leadership got nervous. The idea of true inclusion started to feel… inconvenient. And then it got ugly. Really ugly.
And when that ugliness was laid bare—when prejudice and exclusion and cowardice reared their heads—we turned around, expecting to find our allies still behind us. But they were gone. Just like that. The loud voices grew quiet. The solidarity dissolved into silence. And we were left standing alone.
Just the two of us. Failure cloaking us like a fog.
Later, when I talked to her about it, I said, This is how it goes. And it sucks. It’s lonely and isolating and unfair. I reminded her how many people had stood with us at the start, how they rallied and posted and cheered. And then I asked her, Where are they now?
Her answer was soft but sharp:
“Can you blame them?”
And that response has echoed in my mind for months now.
Because yes.
Yes, I can blame them.
And I do.
I blame them for looking the other way in the face of discrimination. I blame them for choosing comfort over courage. I blame them for caring more about their reputation than what’s right. I blame them for leaving when it got hard.
I blame them for being able to walk away when our kids can’t.
And honestly? I blame this country too. For teaching people that allyship is a vibe, not a verb. That showing up only counts when it’s easy. That equity is negotiable. That silence is somehow neutral.
Performative advocacy benefits the people performing. Real advocacy benefits the disabled. It’s messy and hard. It asks people to make personal sacrifices. It demands courage.
People don’t have to respond to two moms.
But they do have to respond to 200.
That’s why we need you.
That’s why I’m still here, shouting into the wind if I have to—because one day, the wind will carry my voice farther than I can see.
And I hope when that day comes, you’ll be standing beside us again—not just for the beginning, but for the battle.
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