I have been surrounded by therapists, paraprofessionals, teachers, and doctors for most of my life. Many of them have been wonderful, and some have known me for years. They have listened to me, laughed with me, celebrated with me, and have gotten to know me.
I think about my physical therapist. Our relationship is professional, but I enjoy going to physical therapy. We talk about sports, our families, cerebral palsy, and whatever else happens to come up that day. He asks questions. He listens. Sometimes, he will bring up something I told him.
Last May, I went to see him after not seeing him for two years. After filling out my forms, he looked up from his computer and smiled, while asking “Are you still eating mac and cheese”?
It seems like such a small thing, remembering something somebody told you. But when you have spent much of your your life in medical settings, answering questions about pain, mobility, goals, and all the other things that come with having a disability, it is refreshing when you realize that someone remembers the other stuff, too.
I think spending so much of my life around professionals has made me pay attention to those little moments. There is the work they are there to do. But there is also everything that happens in between. It happens when someone makes you laugh, or when you talk about how what you did over the weekend. Those moments may not seem particularly important from the outside, but they matter to me.
I worked with my former paraprofessional for a decade. We went to the library, took field trips, and did more arts and crafts projects than I could ever count. She was there for so many ordinary days. Over all those years, though, she learned what I liked, what made me laugh, and what mattered to me.
She was there for the quiet heartbreaks too. When my childhood dog Lowell died in 2021, she was one of the first people I called. She came over the next day, and we sat together talking about him. She remembered Lowell because she had been around long enough to know him and to understand how much I loved him. I don’t remember everything we talked about that evening. What mattered was that she came over.
I was heartbroken. Fortunately, someone who had been there through so much of my childhood understood how much it hurt. She showed up. When I think about what it means for someone to care about me and know me, I think about that day.
My family has given me another kind of love entirely. Both of my moms have always been there for me. They took me to hospitals, physical therapy, doctor’s appointments, and dentist appointments.
But those appointments aren’t what I think about first when I think about being their daughter. I think about packed lunches and help with homework. I think about dinners around the table, rides to school, and books being read to me. I didn’t have to wonder whether I was loved. I just knew.
I have loved being an older sister, too. I spent hours sitting in gyms and on softball fields watching my younger sister do the things she loved, and I wouldn’t trade those hours for anything. I loved getting to watch her grow up and find her passion.
My aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins are wrapped up in so many of my memories that sometimes it is hard to separate the people from the traditions. I think about Independence Day parades, holidays, birthdays, family gatherings, and all the little routines that didn’t seem especially significant because they were simply what we did. Nearly every Saturday morning, my uncle and I still talk on the phone. We’ve done it for so long that I couldn’t tell you exactly how the tradition started.
I try not to take any of this for granted. I know not everyone grows up surrounded by people who make them feel safe, wanted, and loved, and I know how fortunate I am. Sometimes I wonder if growing up with that kind of love is also part of the reason I notice so quickly when someone takes the time to really know me. Maybe I recognize it because I have spent my whole life knowing what it feels like when people care about you.
That might be why the small things stay with me when I think about the professionals who have been part of my life. I don’t think first about therapy goals, classrooms, or progress reports. I think about conversations and laughter.
I think about library trips and art projects, talking about sports during physical therapy, and someone remembering something I mentioned earlier. Most of those moments probably didn’t seem important while they were happening. Looking back, they are some of the moments I remember most.
I have been incredibly fortunate to have professionals in my life who took the time to know me beyond cerebral palsy. They came into my life with jobs to do, and those jobs mattered. I needed teachers to teach me, paraprofessionals to support me, doctors to care for my health, and therapists to help me do the things I wanted to do. I am grateful for all of that.
But I am also grateful for everything that happened around those jobs. Somewhere in the appointments, classrooms, exercises, field trips, good days, difficult days, serious conversations, and lighthearted ones, some of these people got to know me. Not only what I needed help with, but who I was. There is a difference, and I think I’ve always been able to feel it.
I don’t think that kind of connection can be measured by a progress report. Maybe it doesn’t need to be. I just know that when I look back at the people who have cared for me over the years, I remember the ordinary moments. I remember being listened to. I remember laughing. I remember people asking about the things and people I loved.
Those things might sound small to someone else. To me, they aren’t. They remind me that throughout my life, I have been lucky enough to encounter people who saw cerebral palsy, understood that it was part of me, and still took the time to learn the rest. They made me feel known. Over the years, I have come to understand that being known can be its own kind of care.