The day my son Nathan was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, my life was divided into two parts: before the diagnosis and after.
Nathan was only nine months old. I still remember sitting through those early appointments and developmental evaluations, feeling completely lost. Every day seemed to bring another specialist, another assessment, another conversation filled with words and concepts I had never heard before.
I remember sitting there thinking,
"I don't understand any of this."
I didn't understand child development within the context of Nathan's diagnosis of cerebral palsy. I didn't understand what the evaluations meant, why they mattered, or how they would help us understand his needs—or my role as his mother. I didn't know which questions to ask, what I needed to know, or even what I didn't know.
Yet from the very beginning, I was expected to make life-altering decisions for my son.
I felt woefully unprepared, and I carried a tremendous amount of guilt because I thought I was supposed to know what to do.
That was twenty-two years ago.
Today, people see me speaking at conferences, working alongside parents, advocating for families, and being recognized for my book. They see confidence. They see strength. They see someone who seems to know how to navigate the disability world.
What they don't see are the twenty-two years that came before.
They don't see the tears, the prayers, or the countless nights spent researching because I was determined to understand what my son needed.
They don't see the mistakes that became my greatest teachers.
They don't see the family who stood beside me, helping us create new routines, new systems, and a new way of life.
They don't see the community of parents who answered my questions, shared their experiences, encouraged me when I was discouraged, and reminded me that I wasn't walking this journey alone.
They don't see the many practitioners and clinicians who came alongside me, going above and beyond their roles to teach me, encourage me, and help me grow into the mother and advocate Nathan needed me to become.
Over the years, I've had the privilege of sharing those lessons through my nonprofit, Raising Special Needs, Inc., by advocating for families, speaking, teaching, and writing. But as the years passed, I realized something.
The need is bigger than one organization.
It's bigger than one diagnosis.
It's bigger than one stage of the journey.
Every day, parents are joining a journey they never expected to be on, asking the same questions I asked twenty-two years ago.
"How do I do this?"
That's why The Special Needs Mama Bear was born.
Because confidence isn't something we're handed as parents raising children with disabilities.
It's something we grab hold of and build—with faith, the fierce love we have for our children, a willingness to learn, research, education, community, and the courage to keep taking the next step.
Looking back now, I realize I wasn't expected to know everything that day. I was simply beginning a journey that would shape me in ways I never could have imagined. Over time, I learned the language, understood the systems, found my voice, and grew in confidence—not because the journey became easier, but because I kept learning, kept asking questions, and kept taking the next step.
Somewhere along the way, I became the Special Needs Mama Bear Nathan needed.
And if you're reading this today, I believe you'll become the Special Needs Mama Bear your child needs, too.
If you're just beginning this journey, welcome. You're in the right place. Everything you'll find here has been shaped by the lessons I wish someone had shared with me when Nathan was first diagnosed. My hope is that what took me years to learn will help shorten your learning curve and give you the confidence to move forward.
If you've been walking this road a little longer, welcome. Your experiences matter, and your story may be exactly what another parent needs to hear. I hope you'll share your wisdom, encourage another family, and help us continue building a community where no parent has to figure this journey out alone.
Whether you're preparing for an appointment, an IEP meeting, a difficult conversation, or simply need a reminder that someone understands, I hope you'll come back often. Bookmark this page. Join the conversation. Grab your Mama Bear notebook, put on your Mama Bear gear, and remember this:
You never have to walk this journey alone.
Welcome to The Special Needs Mama Bear.
I'm so glad you're here.
Let's walk this journey together.
