Special Needs Supermoms, Houston, TX, Houston, TX (2025)

08/05/2025

He loves the water.
So we took him to the water park this weekend, and just like I imagined, his face lit up in the lazy river. He relaxed, smiled, chewed on his favorite red chewy, and floated beside me like he was home.
And in many ways, he was.

We had just started our second round in the lazy river when it happened.
Isa had a seizure. Right there in the water, in my arms.

I held him close, calmly did what I needed to do, and waited the seizure out. I stayed calm, because that’s what we do. That’s what we’ve learned to do.

Once the seizure was over and Isa was stable, I looked over at my sister and, maybe from exhaustion, maybe from grace, or maybe because humor is sometimes the only oxygen we have left, I laughed.
I said, “You know, out of all his seizures, this might’ve been my favorite. Because when he woke up… he was probably in one of his favorite places in the world. Floating in water. Safe. Calm. Loved.”

Sometimes, you only get two choices:
Sulk over how nothing ever seems to go as planned…
Or find the silver lining and hold on to it for dear life.

I chose the latter that day.
And I’ll choose it again tomorrow.

Because that’s what special needs parenting often is, making peace with the chaos, laughing in the heaviness, and finding light in places most people overlook.

Isa had a seizure in the lazy river.
But he also had the time of his life there.
Both can be true. And that’s okay.

08/02/2025

I’m not special, I am just like any other parent.

07/28/2025

As Isa gets older, something in me has shifted.

There was a time I shared so much: our highs, our struggles, our day-to-day, because awareness mattered and connection mattered. This space helped me feel less alone. And I’ll always be grateful for that.

But lately, I’ve been learning that not everything needs to be shared.

Isa cannot verbally consent. And sometimes, I can tell he gets annoyed when I start recording, & that’s more than enough for me to pause. That’s him communicating. And I’m listening.

He’s growing. And I’m realizing that with growth comes a need for space… for privacy… for protection.

Awareness will always be part of this page, but never at the cost of his dignity.
His meltdowns are not for the internet.
His safety is more important than any likes or reach.
His story is not mine to tell in full.

And when I do share moments, I am more mindful than ever, of how I speak around him, about him, to him. My presence with him will always come before any content I create. I won’t compromise on that.

So if you notice a shift in what I post, just know; it’s not because there’s less love. It’s because there’s more.
More protection.
More intention.
More trust in the sacred parts of our story that are just meant for us.

Thank you for being here as we grow. 💙

07/27/2025

Gaza is starving.
That’s the post.

I haven’t been posting much lately, not because there isn’t anything to say, but because I don’t know how to say anything else right now. Between summer chaos, back-to-school transitions, and just surviving as a special needs family, I’ve felt the weight of it all, but nothing compares to the weight of what’s happening in Gaza.

Children are starving. Babies don’t have formula. Families are rationing leaves just to stay alive. And food is being sent, but it’s being blocked. It’s not a shortage. It’s cruelty.

I’ve built this page on showing the hard parts of our stories: the messy, unspoken moments of parenting and life. I’ve shared what it looked like when Isa wasn’t eating, when he was diagnosed with failure to thrive, and how that shattered me. I lost my appetite too. I remember feeling helpless.

But this? This is beyond helpless. This is state-sanctioned starvation. This is genocide in real time. And we are watching it unfold with the kind of technology the world once said could never allow another Holocaust to happen again. And yet here we are, watching, streaming, posting.

I will continue to share pieces of our life. That won’t stop. But if you’ve noticed a quietness on my page, now you know why. Because some things are too painful to scroll past, and some days, it feels wrong to post anything else.

07/27/2025

Some days I look around and realize…
what’s our normal would completely unravel someone else.

07/20/2025

They used to fit so perfectly in our arms.
Their meltdowns were intense, but manageable. We could scoop them up, toss them over our shoulders, cradle them, move them to safety. There was comfort in the simplicity of being able to *physically* help them regulate.

But then they grow.

And suddenly, you’re in the middle of a parking lot, a store, or the front yard… and you *can’t* just pick them up anymore. Your body can’t handle it. Their weight, their strength. it’s all too much. And that moment hits you like a wave you never saw coming.

It’s a quiet kind of grief. One no one prepares you for.
The grief of outgrowing what used to work.
The grief of your child growing older, but the world around them and their needs, not growing kinder or easier.

It’s a hard, strange place to be in. And it can feel really lonely.

But I want you to know: you’re not the only one feeling this.
So many of us are quietly carrying this same ache.
We get it. We see you. And you’re not alone. Not even a little.

07/09/2025

This quote has been sitting heavy on my heart. Because it’s true.
Not just for me, but for so many of us.

Summer break isn’t really a break for special needs families.
It’s actually one of the hardest times of the year.
No school means no structure, no therapies, no IEP support, no respite.
The routines our kids rely on so deeply? Gone.
And for many of us, that means more meltdowns, more stimming, more sensory overwhelm—and more exhaustion for us parents who are holding the fort down day and night.

While others are packing for vacations and pool days, we’re trying to navigate new behaviors, manage medications, survive unpredictable days, and answer a hundred questions about why our kid “isn’t in summer camp.”

We still smile. We still post the cute pictures. We still try to enjoy the good moments.
But behind every “we’re doing okay” is a parent running on empty, grieving the things that are out of reach, and constantly wondering, “Am I doing enough?”

This summer, I’ve found myself drowning in paperwork, appointments, and service denials. Fighting tooth and nail for help that feels impossible to access.
And I know I’m not alone.

So if you’re in this season too—feeling stretched thin, touched out, and a little invisible—I see you. You’re not failing. You’re surviving. And you are doing more than enough.

07/09/2025

Yesterday was heavy.

We had Isa’s intake appointment with the LIDDA. I’m grateful beyond words that his teacher came with me. I don’t think I could’ve done it without her.

We’ve been on the HCS waiver list in Texas for over 7 years—and we’re not even halfway there.

As Isa grows older, some things get easier. But some things get so much harder.

I finally reached out to see what help we could get for our family. It takes a lot to ask for help. It chips away at your pride. But the reality is… this journey is only going to get more complex, and I want to be prepared.

We went into that room and had to recount every detail of Isa’s medical history. We filled out form after form. And because he can’t be formally tested for IQ, a behavioral assessment was done instead.

While we sat through it all, Isa grew restless. He had a meltdown. A code brown. He hid under the table and wouldn’t come out. And the very behaviors I was describing to the specialist? They unfolded right there in real-time.

It’s one thing to know your child’s struggles in your heart. It’s another to say them out loud. It makes them feel heavier, more real, more permanent.

And then, after all that—we were told there’s basically nothing they can offer us. No Medicaid. No support. Just 10 hours of respite per month. At $10 an hour. Who can I possibly find to care for my medically complex, neurodivergent child for $10 an hour?

I left that office with my heart in pieces.

I’ve spent the whole summer advocating. Not traveling. Not relaxing. Not taking in the sunshine. Just fighting. Researching. Calling. Writing. Showing up. Over and over again.

And still, I keep hearing no.

So if you see me tired, quiet, or emotionally distant—this is why. If you see a special needs parent who looks like they’re holding it all together… chances are, they’re barely holding on.

07/05/2025

I wasn’t going to go. Fireworks are usually too much — for Isa, and for me. But my family convinced us, and we gave it a try.

He was doing so well. Excited. Engaged. We had a good spot. I took a chance and brought him out of the car to see the show.

And then it happened.
A seizure came out of nowhere.
I sat on gravel as people around us oohed and aahed at the sky.

Isa was seizing in my lap. He pulled on my scarf. I was disheveled, overwhelmed, and alone — even in a crowd.

My family eventually walked over. But no one — not one person — around us stopped to ask, “Is he okay?”
Not one glance of concern. Not a whisper of compassion.

I know the world isn’t used to seizures. But I am. I know what to do. But it still hurts when nobody cares.
Because if it had been their child, I would’ve asked.
I would’ve seen.

Maybe they were scared. Maybe they didn’t know what to say. But silence is its own kind of cruelty.

Tonight reminded me why we stopped going to fireworks.
Not because Isa can’t handle it. But because the world often can’t handle him.

This is your reminder:
Don’t look away.
Ask the question.
Show up for the moments that don’t look easy.

Because no one should have to hold their child through a seizure under a sky full of fireworks... and feel invisible.

🩵 For Isa.
For every parent who knows this kind of loneliness.

07/04/2025

The bill passed.

On the eve of a day where we’ll hear fireworks, flags, and freedom chants—families like mine just got the message loud and clear: you’re on your own.

They’ve passed a bill that will gut Medicaid.
A bill that puts the lives of disabled children, medically fragile individuals, and caregiving families on the chopping block.
A bill that quietly tells us: your survival costs too much.

I’ve spent the last few days remembering what Medicaid once gave us—Isa’s wheelchair, surgeries, seizure meds, relief.
We don’t even have it anymore, but we’ve been there. We know what it means to families still holding onto it like a lifeline.

Today is not a day for celebration.
Today is a day for mourning—for the children who will lose care, the parents who will drown trying to cover what the system once supported, and the communities who will feel these cuts in silence.

But it’s also a day for clarity.
Because now we know exactly where we stand.
And we will keep showing up, speaking up, and fighting—for Isa, and for every family this bill just hurt.

07/02/2025

Why are we cutting support for disabled kids… just to fund harm somewhere else?

This isn’t budgeting—it’s betrayal.

📌 Here’s what you need to know: The latest federal budget proposals include deep cuts to Medicaid—a program that nearly half of all U.S. children rely on, including millions with disabilities.

We don’t even qualify for Medicaid but did you know that the waitlist for the HCS Medicaid waiver in Texas is already 15 years long. We’re not even halfway there yet. And they want to make this even longer?

We currently import Isa’s seizure medication from overseas because it would cost us $3,500/month in the U.S. That’s the state of our “care system.”

But for the families who do rely on Medicaid—it’s a lifeline. These cuts would mean fewer therapies, no in-home nursing, delays in wheelchairs or feeding tubes, and burned-out caregivers trying to hold it all together.

And all of this, while our tax dollars are being redirected to fund violence overseas?
How is that okay?

📣 Here’s what you can do:
👉 Call the congressional switchboard today: 202-224-3121
Tell your reps: Vote NO on any budget bill that includes Medicaid cuts.

📖 Learn more here:
https://hsph.harvard.edu/news/medicaid-cuts-whats-at-stake

🗣️ Here are Republican senators who’ve expressed concern:

please stand your ground. We’re counting on you.

Because no child should have to fight for care.
And no parent should have to beg the government not to take it away.

Special Needs Supermoms

08/05/2025

08/02/2025

07/28/2025

07/27/2025

07/27/2025

07/20/2025

07/09/2025

07/09/2025

07/05/2025

07/04/2025

07/02/2025

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