People always talk about the “right” way for things to happen—how you’re supposed to have a certain kind of pregnancy, a certain kind of delivery, a certain kind of family. I guess if you looked at us from the outside, you’d think we checked none of those boxes.
My wife, Becca, has been in a wheelchair since before I met her. I can’t count how many times people assumed we couldn’t, or shouldn’t, have kids. The stares at the doctor’s office, the way nurses sometimes spoke louder—as if being disabled meant she couldn’t understand them. But Becca never let any of that get to her. She had this steady way of smiling, of proving people wrong just by living her life out loud.
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The pregnancy wasn’t easy. There were days when the pain got bad, and nights when I’d wake up to her quietly crying because she was scared—not for herself, but for our baby. Still, she never once let it stop her from dreaming about all the things she wanted to do as a mom.
When the day finally came, I was terrified. Not because of her disability, but because I wanted everything to be perfect for her and for our daughter. The hospital staff hovered, extra careful, but Becca just joked with the nurses and asked them to take bets on the baby’s hair color. Then—just like that—our little girl was here. I remember Becca holding her, absolutely glowing, tears in her eyes and the biggest smile on her face.
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Nobody expected us to have a family. Not really. Not in the way we did. But as we sat there in that hospital room, holding our daughter, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Becca was a mom, just like any other. Her disability didn’t make her any less capable or any less deserving of this moment. She was strong. She had always been strong. And now, she was a mom—our daughter’s mom.
The first few weeks after bringing our little one home were chaotic, as I’m sure they are for any new parents. The lack of sleep, the endless feeding, and changing diapers—nothing was easy. But we made it work. We adapted, and we supported each other in ways we never expected. Becca, though, she was a natural. She had this way of soothing our daughter, even in the middle of the night, her voice calm and steady. I didn’t know how she did it, but I admired her strength even more with every passing day.
But not everything was perfect. It wasn’t long before the world outside our little bubble started creeping in. The unsolicited advice from well-meaning friends, the awkward stares from strangers, and—most painful of all—the disapproving looks from some family members. They would never come right out and say it, but I could feel the judgment. Some thought Becca’s disability made her unfit to care for a child. Some thought it was unfair to bring a child into a life that would require so much help.
I’ll admit, I had my own moments of doubt. It was hard, at times. There were days when Becca was in pain, and it seemed like everything was stacking against us. Some nights, I’d sit beside her while she cried, exhausted from the weight of everything. But then, our daughter would giggle, or Becca would manage to crack a joke that would make me laugh, and it would remind me why we were doing this. It was for her. For our family. And no matter how hard it got, we were in it together.
The turning point came when our daughter, Lily, was about six months old. I’d just gotten back from work one evening, and Becca had this look in her eyes, the one she had when she was up to something.
“I did something today,” she said with a mischievous grin.
I raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”
“I signed us up for this parent-and-child yoga class,” she replied, her voice full of excitement.
At first, I wasn’t sure what to think. Yoga? How was that going to work with her in a wheelchair? But I saw the look in her eyes—the same look she had when she decided she was going to walk into that doctor’s office on the day of our first prenatal appointment, when no one thought we could even get to the point of pregnancy.
“You signed us up?” I asked, trying to hide my doubt.
“Yes! And I think it’s going to be great. We can learn how to be more flexible, relax, and find some peace. Plus, I think it’ll be fun for Lily.”
I wanted to be supportive. So, despite my initial hesitation, I agreed. We showed up the following Saturday to our first class. And let me tell you, I was floored. The instructor was incredibly understanding, and the class was adapted for parents with different needs. Becca was given extra support, and it was clear that this class was for families of all types. As the class went on, I watched Becca, who had been so worried about being “different” from other moms, find her rhythm. She smiled and laughed, making eye contact with me across the room, and it felt like, for the first time in a long while, we were part of something, not just spectators of life.
Lily loved it too. She giggled when Becca held her during certain poses, and I swear, her eyes lit up like she knew this was special. I felt a surge of pride. For the first time, it felt like we were showing the world that we could do this—we could be a family, with all of its ups and downs, challenges, and joys. We were doing it our way, and that was enough.
But there were still moments when life hit us harder than expected. One evening, while Becca was struggling with a flare-up of her condition, I had to call in for help. It was one of those times where nothing seemed to go right. I couldn’t manage everything, and the thought of falling short for Becca, for Lily, made me feel like I was failing. But then something unexpected happened.
Becca, through the pain, smiled at me. “You’re doing great,” she said, her voice shaky but genuine. “You’re an amazing dad.”
I shook my head. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re doing more than that. You’re doing what we need you to do, and you’re doing it with love. That’s all that matters.”
In that moment, I realized something. I wasn’t failing. I was doing the best I could, and so was Becca. We were partners in this, not in some perfect, cookie-cutter way, but in our own, unique way. And that was enough.
A few months later, things started to fall into place. We were getting into our groove as parents, with our own routine and rhythms. But the world, as it often does, threw us another curveball. Becca was offered a chance to speak at a conference about parenting with disabilities. She’d been invited to share her experience and to speak on a panel about how society views disabled parents.
I was proud of her, but I also knew how much pressure it would put on her. The conference was big—lots of people, lots of eyes. It was a step into the spotlight that Becca had never wanted. She was nervous.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said one night, pacing the living room. “What if they judge me? What if they think I’m not a good mom?”
“Becca,” I said gently, “you’ve already shown the world you’re a great mom. You’ve done it every single day. This is just another way to show people that we don’t need their permission to live our lives the way we choose. We’re doing it our way. And that’s powerful.”
She smiled, her nerves calming a little. “You’re right. I’ll do it.”
The day of the conference, we both held our breath. But as Becca stood in front of the crowd, speaking with grace and confidence, I felt this deep sense of pride. She wasn’t just talking about her experience as a mother—she was showing the world that disability didn’t define her. It was part of her, but it didn’t limit her.
The response was overwhelming. People came up to her afterward, telling her how inspiring she was, how her words had made them rethink their assumptions. Some even said they’d been inspired to reach out to parents they knew who had disabilities, just to offer support.
It was a moment of validation, not just for Becca, but for us as a family. We weren’t defined by other people’s expectations—we were creating our own path, and it was one filled with love and understanding.
It wasn’t easy, and there were still moments when we had doubts, when life got overwhelming. But I realized that no matter how different we looked on the outside, our family was perfect in its own way. And when you build something from love, you can overcome any obstacle that comes your way.
The lesson here? Don’t let society’s expectations shape your life. You know what’s best for you, and when you trust in that, anything is possible.
So, share this with someone who might need a reminder that love knows no boundaries. Let’s show the world that our families are beautiful, no matter how they look or how they’re made.
