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What 120 steps taught me about growing up, getting lost, and remembering who I am. There are 120 steps at Mago. Each step represents a year of your life. The practice, based on the work of Ilchi Lee, is to climb slowly. As you move through the years you've already lived, you remember yourself at that age. Then, when you reach your current age, you keep going. Into the years you haven't lived yet. I knew this experience would probably be emotional. I had no idea how emotional.

What happened when I stopped deciding which parts of myself belonged in the room For a long time, I thought credibility required editing myself. Depending on the room I was walking into, I would decide which parts of me were allowed to come along. The researcher could come. The advocate could come. The mother could come, sometimes—especially if her story was relevant and appropriately packaged. But the deeply sensitive part of me? The intuitive part? The spiritual part? The

Every year, on the third Saturday in September, I write something for Usher Syndrome Awareness Day. I've been doing this for a long time. And I've told a lot of versions of our story. I've written about diagnosis. Grief. Hope. Research. Advocacy. Finding purpose in something I never would have chosen. I've written about my sons and all the ways they have amazed me. Two years ago, I wrote about reframing my outlook. I wrote that I was trying to move from asking, “Why is this h

This weekend I listened to a podcast by a good friend and spiritual mentor, and she talked about something called the cocoon season. And wow. I can't stop thinking about it. Because I think I've been in one. And I think I've been trying really, really hard to get out of it. We talk so much about becoming. About reinvention. About finding your purpose and starting the next chapter and finally stepping into who you are meant to be. We love the butterfly. But no one really talks

Why I wrote Beyond the Divide (coming soon). I don't remember the drive home. I remember sitting in the eye doctor's office for what I thought would be a routine eye exam. I remember the doctor explaining that my son had Usher syndrome—the leading genetic cause of deafblindness. I remember hearing the words. I remember nodding. And then... nothing. To this day, I honestly don't remember how I got home. I don't remember whether I cried in the car. I don't remember what I said

I didn't set out to write this book. In many ways, it feels like the book wrote itself. The words came faster than I could type them. The stories found their way onto the page with a clarity and urgency that surprised me. It felt less like creating something new and more like uncovering something that had been waiting to be said. And maybe that's because of the moment we're living in. As I watched the dismantling of the U.S. Department of Education unfold, and as I listened t

Twenty-seven years ago, I imagined motherhood would look a certain way. I imagined school pictures and soccer games. Parent-teacher conferences and graduations. I imagined cheering from the sidelines and helping with homework. I imagined a path that felt familiar because it was the one I had seen so many families travel before me. What I didn't know then was that motherhood would ask me to become someone I never expected to be. An advocate. A researcher. A teacher. A translat

Putting my new e-bike together! On Sunday, we turned in the keys to our rental home. It was just a house, I suppose. But it was also so much more. It was the place where our blended family came together. A place filled with teenage energy, chaos, laughter, growth, and surprisingly, a lot of peace. It was the place where I always knew Hunter was home by the sound of his boots crossing the hardwood floors and whatever delicious smell was coming from the kitchen. It was the plac

Most all of us (We miss you Cole!) There was a time when I thought I knew what motherhood would look like. I had a picture in my mind—one shaped by stories, expectations, and the quiet assumptions we carry about how life is supposed to unfold. It was simpler. More predictable. Maybe even a little neater around the edges. But motherhood became more than I imagined. And I’m so grateful it did. This Mother’s Day, I keep coming back to one thought: God chose me to be their mom. N

Valentine’s Day always invites me into contemplation — an intentional pause to feel, remember, and notice love in all its forms. This year feels different, deepened by witnessing something powerful: Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance — not just as entertainment, but as a declaration of love’s resilience. In every beat, every lyric sung with abandon and joy, I felt the unmistakable truth that love is stronger than hate. Love doesn’t hide when times are tense. Love doesn’t with

I hate being in limbo. Not in a mild, impatient way. I truly dislike the in-between—the unfinished, unsettled space where things aren’t yet clear and there’s no clean path forward. Change doesn’t scare me. Uncertainty doesn’t scare me. I’ve lived with both for most of my life. What I struggle with is not knowing when the other side will arrive. My coping mechanism has always been to power through. To push hard. To move fast. To get to resolution as quickly as possible. Even w

I don’t make resolutions. Instead, I choose a word—one that feels less like a goal and more like a companion for the year ahead. A word I can return to when things feel heavy, when decisions feel complicated, or when I need to remember how I want to move through my life. For 2026, that word is balance. Not balance as perfection. Not balance as doing everything evenly or getting it right. But balance as a relationship—one I’m still learning, still practicing, and approaching w

I recently read an angelic message for 2026 that stayed with me—not because it predicted what would happen, but because it named something many of us are already living and feeling this year. At the heart of the message was a simple distinction: being needed and being valued are not the same thing. It suggested that this coming year is less about urgency and indispensability, and more about presence, authenticity, and steadiness—especially as the world around us continues to

There’s a particular tension many of us who parent kids with disabilities understand deeply: the constant race to secure services and support while also wanting our kids to simply live their lives. We work so hard to make sure they have what they need—special education services, accessibility, skilled providers, thoughtful accommodations—and at the same time, we want them to have space to be who they are, without everything becoming another appointment or goal. This year, wit