To the Mom at Therapy for the First Time

I saw you walk in this morning. Carrying your sweet newborn baby swaddled in his infant carrier. I saw the brave look on your face as you approached the front desk. You were early for your appointment. Your paperwork all filled out. Insurance cards in check. You were ready for this. The older woman with you who I can only assume was your own mother was there with you for support. I saw you scan the room, tentatively gauging your place in this therapy center. I watched as you glanced our way and gave Ella a timid grin.

And honestly? I didn't think much of it. Sitting in waiting rooms with kids of various disabilities has become the norm to me. I don't bat an eye at seeing kids in wheelchairs, walkers, varying degrees of mental and physical disabilities. I'm used to it.

But you weren't.

After I loaded my kids up in the car and we started to drive away I glanced over at the doors to the therapy center and saw you rushing out. I saw you wiping tears from your face, struggling to breathe, desperately willing your emotions to keep in check. All the while failing while the tears ultimately won out and came streaming down your face, the walls of bravery crushing in around you.

I sat frozen. It felt like all the oxygen was sucked from my vehicle. And I was instantly transported back in time to 8 years ago when I was in the same place.

I don't know your story. I don't know your child's disability. Maybe you don't yet either. I don't know anything about you. Except in that moment I was you. And I knew everything about you.

I know how you're feeling. I know how dark it is right now. How the light seems so far out of reach. I know you're wondering why. What happened? What did you do to deserve this? I know this seems so unfair. It IS unfair. I know how much strength it took just to get to that building today.

You dreamed of spending hours snuggling him in his perfectly decorated nursery, not hours in hospital waiting rooms. You wanted to show him off to all your friends not get him prepped for another surgery. You planned to nurse him, but now you're feeding him through a pump. You dreamed of picking out t-ball uniforms, not medically handicapped strollers. You dreamed so many dreams about his future. And now they're gone.

I know how much you anticipated yet dreaded this day. How you agonized and planned and the effort it took. I know you would do absolutely anything to help your child, yet at the same time wishing with all your heart that it didn't have to be here. Anything but this.

I had to keep driving, yet I couldn't get you out of my mind. At the next intersection I turned my car around, promising that if you were still outside I would go talk to you, give you a hug, reassure you that it will be ok. That it's not that bad. That yes, it's scary, and it's not what you dreamed of when that sweet baby was kicking you from the inside, but there is light. So much light.

But you weren't there. You had already gone back inside to face the fears that threatened to destroy you. Because you are brave. And your child, this sweet baby that you're here for, will make you stronger than you ever knew you could be. This time will pass. And one day you'll wake up and hear the birds singing and feel the sunshine and realize you made it. You made it past that dark place. It's not all clear and it doesn't all make sense, but you will be a changed person, a stronger woman, and you will finally know it's going to be ok.