Why I Wrote Beyond the Divide

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 to conversations about disability, belonging, and human worth become increasingly polarized, I found myself returning to a question that has followed me for much of my life:

How do we help people see one another more fully?

For years, I thought I was writing about disability, advocacy, education, and family systems. Those themes are certainly part of the story. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was writing about something much bigger.

I was writing about humanity.

I've spent much of my life feeling misunderstood.

As the mother of two sons who are deafblind, I often found myself noticing problems before others saw them. I saw barriers that many people never had to think about. I saw systems that looked inclusive on the surface but often left families feeling alone, unheard, and exhausted. Sometimes it felt like I was living in a different world than everyone around me.

People would point to progress, and they weren't wrong. We had disability rights legislation. Conversations about inclusion. Greater awareness of race, identity, and belonging. We talked more openly about diversity and equity than ever before.

Yet underneath it all, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

We said we valued inclusion. But did people truly feel seen?

We said we cared about one another. But were we really listening?

We said we loved our neighbors. But how often did we show it?

Then came the pandemic.

Like many people, I was frightened. The world felt uncertain in ways I had never experienced before. But I was also hopeful.

During COVID, I was involved in education research, listening to families describe their experiences in real time. For the first time in a very long time, it felt as though we were all asking different questions.

Instead of asking whether students were keeping up academically, educators were asking whether families had food, internet access, emotional support, and their basic needs met.

Instead of focusing solely on performance, we focused on well-being.

For a brief moment, we remembered that before we are students, employees, voters, advocates, professionals, or experts, we are human beings.

My son and I felt seen in a way we rarely had before.

The conversations disability families had been having for years suddenly became conversations everyone could understand. Isolation. Accessibility. Mental health. Uncertainty. Fear. The need for community.

For a brief moment, we were more alike than different. I remember thinking:

Maybe this is the lesson.

Maybe this difficult season will help us build a more compassionate world.

Maybe we will emerge with a deeper understanding of one another.

But as life returned to normal, many of those lessons seemed to fade.

We returned to old patterns.

Old divisions.

Old assumptions.

Old ways of sorting ourselves into groups and forgetting how much we have in common.

And yet, I still believe something important is happening.

I have always believed that life presents us with opportunities to learn, grow, and become more fully ourselves. Sometimes those opportunities arrive as joy. Sometimes they arrive as challenge.

I don't pretend to know exactly how God works. But I do know that some of the most difficult experiences in my life have also been my greatest teachers.

What if the question before us is not whether we are divided?

What if the question is whether we are willing to learn from it?

What if we are being invited to see one another differently?

To listen more deeply.

To become curious about stories that are not our own.

To recognize that behind every opinion, every disagreement, every diagnosis, every label, and every life experience is a person trying to find meaning, belonging, and hope.

I've spent much of my life advocating for what I believe is right. I have sat in IEP meetings, testified, organized families, met with policymakers, and spoken out when systems failed the people they were meant to serve.

So when I talk about understanding, I am not suggesting we stop fighting for what matters.

Quite the opposite.

What I've learned is that understanding is not the opposite of advocacy. Understanding is what makes advocacy possible.

The most meaningful changes I've witnessed rarely happened because someone won an argument. They happened because someone helped another person see something they couldn't see before. A teacher understood what a student was experiencing. A policymaker heard a family's story. A professional stopped seeing a diagnosis and started seeing a child.

People rarely change because we tell them they are wrong. More often, they change when they understand what is at stake.

That doesn't mean abandoning our values. It means finding ways to invite others into the conversation. It means believing that stories can accomplish something facts alone often cannot.

They help us see ourselves in one another.

I have never stopped fighting for what I believe is right and I never will.

What changed is how I think people are invited into the fight.

That is why I wrote Beyond the Divide.

Not because I have the answers.

But because I believe stories help us remember what we share.

They help us move beyond assumptions.

They help us see one another more clearly.

And perhaps most importantly, they remind us that none of us are meant to do this alone.

If there is one thing I hope readers take away from this book, it is this:

We are far more alike than we are different.

The divide between us is rarely as wide as it appears.

And the path forward begins when we are brave enough to share our stories—and willing enough to listen to someone else's.

One conversation.

One story.

One person at a time.

Thank you for reading and believing in my work. Beyond the Divide will be available soon!