Being a medical mom is political.
Being a medical mom is political. Navigating complex medical systems. Confronting bias. Challenging barriers at every turn. This is part of loving a child with a disability.
Loving a child with a disability opens your eyes to how often our society fails people who are marginalized, overlooked, or judged unfairly. I’ve felt it in doctor’s appointments, in schools, and in public spaces that weren’t built for all bodies or all abilities. Those experiences change you. They sharpen your sense of justice. They make silence impossible.
Under this current administration, I’ve been terrified as I’ve watched funding and programs meant to protect and support my son be stripped away or openly threatened. These aren’t extras. They are lifelines. They are the systems that determine whether disabled children are protected, supported, and given real access to the world around them.
Someone came into my DMs today, and it underscored just how much education and understanding is lacking—especially when disability doesn’t affect you personally. They told me they don’t believe in “government handouts” for my disabled son, that parents should be prepared to support a disabled child without assistance. My son’s NICU bill was five million dollars. I hope they have that saved before having children.
And let’s be clear: disability support is not about handouts. It’s about access—to early intervention, education, accommodations, accessibility, and the ability to live in and participate in our communities with dignity. These rights are protected through laws like the ADA, IDEA, and Section 504, which exist to guarantee inclusion and protection from discrimination.
These systems don’t exist to coddle people. They exist because disabled people have the same right to live, learn, and belong as anyone else—and because disability can happen to anyone, through birth, illness, accident, or age.
Many of the programs that support disabled people are being defunded, dismantled, or openly threatened. Add leadership that mocks disabled people and uses slurs, and the result is a more discriminatory, less compassionate world. For those wondering what’s actually at risk: programs like Medicaid, early intervention, special education (IDEA), and civil rights enforcement are under threat due to federal budget cuts, weakened oversight, and policy changes that shift responsibility away from public systems and onto families. When funding is cut or enforcement is stripped, access disappears. Disability support isn’t just a check. It isn’t a handout — it’s access.
When access and civil rights are on the line, silence isn’t neutral. As a mother, it is my responsibility to speak up when my son’s rights are at risk.
Today, my advocacy for my son extends beyond our family—because the same systems that determine whether he is protected and supported are the systems my Minnesota neighbors are pushing back against right now. Systems that discriminate, dehumanize, and fail too many people every day.
Here in Minnesota, our community is in the national spotlight. People are rising up against violence, injustice, and discrimination. Neighbors are showing up for neighbors. And as Minneapolis becomes a stage for voices demanding change, I’m reminded of something I already know deep in my bones: advocacy isn’t optional—and neither is speaking out.
If this version of America works for you, then you are privileged to be untouched by the consequences of these policies. Many families aren’t. People are quick to talk about money, but slower to care about their neighbors.
Whether I’m fighting for my son’s rights or speaking out when I see injustice, my commitment is the same. Every person deserves equity, safety, and respect. Every person deserves care. Every person deserves love.
Please teach your babies to be kind. To love babies like mine—and babies of different cultures, beliefs, abilities, and backgrounds. Because kindness is where equity begins. Love is how we keep each other safe. And care is how we build the world our children deserve.
