When Someone Else's Story Reminds You of Your Own

I can't say that I'll write every day. I would love to get into the habit of writing. I'd love to say that I'm always motivated or that I have some magical muse that tells me when it's time to write. I don't know what makes someone write consistently.

What I do know is this: when the moment comes, I want to honor it.

Tonight, that moment came through a movie.

From what I understand, it's about a father who suddenly finds himself raising his son alone after the loss of his wife. Their son has Down syndrome, and throughout the movie you begin to realize that the mother had become the heartbeat of their home. She taught through everyday moments. She was patient. She nurtured. She knew how to meet her son exactly where he was.

One scene that stood out to me was watching her teach him fine motor skills.

For many families, those milestones may come naturally or within a certain timeframe. But when you're raising a child with a different ability, you quickly learn that nothing is rushed. Every new skill takes time. Every accomplishment is celebrated. Every lesson requires patience.

Children develop differently.

And parents of children with disabilities often spend countless hours doing what many people never see—therapy appointments, doctor's visits, evaluations, advocating, encouraging, practicing, and trying again.

It's not because our children aren't capable.

It's because we refuse to overload them with expectations they aren't ready to carry.

As I watched this father trying to figure out how to become what his son still needed after losing his wife, I realized something.

I wasn't just watching a movie.

I was remembering my own life.

When my daughter was born, life became a revolving door of hospitals, specialists, therapists, and doctor's appointments. From birth through about five years old, our lives revolved around making sure she was growing physically, emotionally, socially, mentally, and developmentally.

Then, when she was seven years old, her father—my husband—passed away.

I wasn't working outside the home then, and looking back, I see that as one of God's greatest gifts to me.

Years before, I had prayed for the opportunity to stay home with my daughter during her early years. God answered that prayer.

At the time, I didn't fully understand why.

Now I do.

She needed me.

And if I'm honest...

I needed that time too.

When my husband passed away, I wasn't just grieving the loss of my spouse.

I was grieving while trying to become everything my daughter still needed.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Spiritually.

Physically.

Socially.

I didn't always get it right.

Truthfully, I was figuring it out one day at a time.

Watching this father reminded me just how heavy those years really were.

Today, my daughter is a young adult. She wants her independence, as she should. But she'll always be navigating the world as a little person in a world that wasn't designed with her in mind.

She asked me something recently that made me stop and think.

"If I were average height, would you worry about me as much?"

I didn't have an easy answer.

Because yes, every parent worries.

Every woman faces challenges.

Every person of color experiences realities that cannot be ignored.

But when you add a disability into the equation, your mind naturally begins to think about safety, accessibility, advocacy, and protection in ways other people may never have to consider.

So yes...

Sometimes I worry.

Not because I doubt her.

But because I know the world she has to navigate.

This movie reminded me that grief doesn't always end when the funeral is over.

Sometimes grief settles into your new normal.

Sometimes it quietly reveals just how unprepared you were for the life you never expected to live.

And yet...

Here we are.

Still showing up.

Still learning.

Still trusting God.

Still becoming.

Maybe that's the lesson I needed tonight.

Not every story that moves us is about someone else.

Sometimes God uses another person's story to gently remind us of our own—and in doing so, He reminds us just how far we've come.

I'm still healing, y'all.