Living with Cerebral Palsy: The Struggles, Triumphs, and Being Human

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Ordinary tasks can feel daunting for someone like me.

And no, I’m not an ordinary girl.

I’m not an alien, either, sorry folks! But I do have a non-curable disability called cerebral palsy.

Growing up “different” wasn’t easy. You stand out in ways you never wanted to. It’s hard to fit in when people stare or ask questions that make you feel like you’re not quite like everyone else.

For me, my childhood was far from typical. I spent so much of my time in physical therapy and occupational therapy appointments, always accompanied by my grandparents, who were my main supporters on this journey.

It wasn’t all difficult, but it wasn’t easy either. At a young age, I had to grow up faster than I should’ve. I had to put aside the carefree nature of childhood to face the reality of my disability. In a way, I guess that’s why I’m so mature now—and why I’m EXTREMELY independent.

Through it all, I learned to cook like someone you’d see on Iron Chef America—seriously, I’m obsessed with spices and sauces! Cooking became my escape, and I found a lot of joy in it.

But it wasn’t always smooth sailing. I remember so many doctor visits—MRIs, CT scans, and so many other appointments. It was exhausting, both mentally and physically. What made it worse were the endless questions.

“Why do you use that?”

“So you can’t use your legs, right?”

“Aren’t you going to play?”

No, I couldn’t play like everyone else. No, I couldn’t participate like the other kids. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to; I couldn’t.

I repeated “I can’t” in my head for years. Frustration built up as I faced these questions time and time again.

Let me paint the picture for you. From 3rd to 7th grade, I used a walker at school. Don’t get me wrong—it helped, but it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. The way people treated me, as if I couldn’t walk at all, was isolating. I could walk. I didn’t need the walker anymore, but it felt like I had no choice.

The only place I felt free from it was my after-school program. If you’re reading this, Den’s Club staff, thank you. You gave me back my independence. During those years, my mom had to work late, and I spent those extra hours there. It was my sanctuary.

That’s where I met Braden. Braden Clemmer. He wasn’t the typical “good boy.” He loved testing the teachers and causing mischief, but he was a true friend. He was one of the few who made me feel like I could be myself—disability and all. He let me run in the field, play football with the guys, and just be a normal kid.

Braden, if you ever read this—thank you. Thank you for being my best friend when I needed one. You helped me feel like me.

Along with my cerebral palsy, I also have hydrocephalus. This condition means that the fluid protecting my brain doesn’t drain properly, which can lead to brain damage if not addressed. Because of this, I had regular MRI and CT scans throughout my childhood to monitor the situation.

The combination of these two conditions left damage on the left side of my brain. It didn’t mean I lost my mind (though sometimes it feels like I might!), but it did mean that I had a shunt—something that helps drain the excess fluid from my brain. It’s a tube that runs down to my stomach and is supposed to grow with me. If it doesn’t, I’ll need surgery to replace it.

Over the years, I’ve faced many struggles, learning things one small task at a time. I still can’t do some simple things, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to narrow those tasks down to a few. Some of them make me feel uncomfortable or self-conscious, but I try not to let them define me.

Everyday tasks can feel like a huge challenge. It’s not just physical, but emotional. It’s exhausting.

I hate that I can’t play contact sports. I hate that I can’t run down the field at recess with my friends. I hate the humiliation I felt in school. I hate that I didn’t fit in.

I never felt “normal.”

I was never the popular one. I just wanted a few friends, but many people saw me as different. And that’s something that will always stick with me.

But here’s the thing: everyday tasks are draining—emotionally and physically.

So, when people tell me I’m “normal,” I have to stop and think. Maybe it’s a compliment, but the truth is that I’m learning more and more about my disability as I grow older. It’s not easy. It’s hard.

Most people don’t realize I have a disability until I tell them or they ask the common question, “Why do you do that?” or “Do you have something wrong with you?”

For once, I want people to realize that I’m just like them. If you set aside the disability, I’m just like everyone else. I want a job. I want a family. I want kids. I want to go to college and get my degree(s). I want to live the life I’ve earned.

Life is harder for people like me. It’s more complicated. You have to push yourself to be seen, to be heard. Some days, it’s so hard to even get out of bed and smile.

You might gain weight because of your disability. You might do things you never thought you’d do. And sometimes, you pick up habits or hobbies you never thought you’d enjoy. For me, that hobby is cooking. It’s my escape.

But here’s something I want everyone to understand: Just because you’re non-verbal, blind, wheelchair-bound, or disabled in some way doesn’t mean you’re different. Disabilities shouldn’t set us apart. We should be treated the same.

I’ve known a friend for almost two years who has his own challenges, and he doesn’t let them stop him. His story is different, but it’s a reminder that disabilities shouldn’t define us. Some of the most amazing, caring people I know have disabilities.

I love being different, but disabilities shouldn’t be sugar-coated. Yes, we might be different, but that doesn’t mean we should be “centered-out” or treated like we don’t belong. We are all equal. We were created to be unique, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t human.

At the end of the day, I’m human. Treat me like it.

I might learn things slower or do things differently, but that doesn’t make me any less of a person.

And that’s something I hope everyone can remember.