One morning I came across a photo of a man in a big, floppy hat, walking down an empty mountain highway in Colorado. The caption read, “David Kunst, walking through Colorado on his way home to Minnesota to become the first man to walk around the world.”

Wow, I thought, staring at the photo. I didn’t know you were allowed to think of such a thing if you were from Minnesota. Fascinated that the simple movement of putting one foot in front of the other could transport you through countries, across borders, over mountains, and into various cultures, peoples and ideas, I was inspired. “That’s how I want to see the world someday — I’ll walk!” I thought.

But I knew I was thinking way outside the box for a 12-year-old girl from Minnesota, so I tucked the idea into the back of my head.

Fast-forward ahead 22 years, and life’s journey had brought me to living in Vail, CO. A lot of women around me had been diagnosed with breast cancer — friends, colleagues and two aunts, one of whom died from the disease. I got nervous and went to the doctor to get a mammogram, where I was told something that inadvertently changed my life. The doctor said, “You don’t need to worry about getting breast cancer. You can’t get breast cancer if it doesn’t run on your mother’s side of the family.”

After my appointment, I returned to work, where a friend asked how it all went. I told her that I was one of the lucky ones — I can’t get breast cancer. She set me straight. “Of course you can get breast cancer!” she said. “Every single woman in the world is at risk for getting breast cancer! Eighty percent of women diagnosed with breast cancer have no known risk factors at all. The bottom line is that we have no idea what causes breast cancer! This is the sort of bad information that’s going on in the world, and this is what we have to put an end to!” And she fumed about my doctor for the rest of the day.

It was that night walking home that I had my VIV Moment. All the stars aligned, and I knew I would do that walk I’d always wanted to do. I immediately loved the idea of a woman walking for women, educating women all over the world about this disease that unfortunately bonds us all from the smallest nooks to the largest cities.

My head started spinning with all the questions: Can I walk 15 miles a day for 5 years? Is it safe? How do I protect myself? How can I afford it? How do I get sponsors? How do I make a business plan? What countries can I get through? How do I get across the water? And during the last mile walking home that night, I started planning my GlobalWalk for Breast Cancer.

After three years of planning and five years of walking, I, in fact, did finish my walk around the world on July 20, 2004, with 14,124 miles, 22 countries and four continents to raise more than $250,000 for 13 breast cancer organizations around the world.

The majority of fundraising was done with the help of Lions Clubs International, who would pass me from town to town and help plan fundraising events. The more press they generated, the more people on the road got involved. One time, during a traffic jam, I walked right past all the stuck cars until someone knew who I was from the newspapers. When he got out to make a donation, it started an avalanche of donations through the traffic jam.

When possible, I worked with breast cancer organizations in each country. Along with my international sponsor of the Lions Clubs, these groups organized educational forums in many villages in the Third World nations, where local doctors came and spoke to the women of the village in the local language.

There was, of course, the whole series of challenges presented by Mother Nature: a 7.2 earthquake in the Mojave Desert, the “flood of the century” in Brisbane, Australia, the extreme heat (120 degrees Fahrenheit at the highest in India) and the sleet and blizzards of an Iowa December.

There were also the language barriers, of course, the cultural head-butts, particularly when it came to very male-dominated cultures. The biggest challenge was walking through a Muslim country during and immediately after 9/11 as a Jewish American woman talking about breasts.

I’ve been told many times that after hearing me speak or hearing my story, women would book a mammogram. As a motivational speaker, I talk about breast cancer, in particular the importance of early detection and second and third opinions. But the take-away of my speeches is more about perseverance and breaking down those daunting journeys in our lives into very small manageable increments, and taking it step-by-step.

It has taken me a long time to grow into myself. For so long I had so little confidence. Now I can honestly say I look and feel great inside my own skin. Both the skydive and launching DramaticLash have caused me to find strengths that were always present, but that I never gave myself credit for. These two challenges forced me to step out of my comfort zone and to not be intimidated by the enormity of a project, but rather take one manageable step at a time. I’ve learned it’s OK to be myself, even if I don’t fit nicely into someone else’s categories.

On June 12, I found myself wearing an oxygen mask and dangling out of a plane an hour outside of Memphis, TN, in minus 20-degrees Fahrenheit, as my HALOJumper jump master, a Gulf War veteran, prepared to leap behind me. [Typically, High-Altitude Low-Opening (HALO) jumps are used by the military to transport supplies, equipment or personnel when avoiding detection is necessary.] After freefalling for about two minutes, the instructor popped the chute and we slowed our speed. I didn’t think too much about the jump before it happened — I didn’t want to have so much adrenaline pumping that I missed the whole thing.

I’d skydived once before, in my mid-20s. When I organized this jump through an entrepreneur networking organization called Maverick Business Adventures, I figured as long as I was going up, I’d set a record. I became the 82nd civilian to make the jump and the second female in the United States. I made the jump to bring attention to DramaticLash and its message to women to encourage and support their goals. With my children about to leave for college, I redesigned my life after turning 50 in April and decided to focus my attention on starting this business and pursuing my dreams, with the support of my husband.

I also made the dive to bring awareness to Women For Women International. They support and help women in war-torn countries rebuild their lives. I plan to donate 100 percent of the profits of my first month’s sales from DramaticLash, which will be available in August or September, and 10 percent of the profits to Women For Women from then on.

A complicated health history made me very aware of what I expose my body to and made me competent at reading medical and scientific journals and ferreting out health information. After researching current eyelash products, I worked very hard with a team of scientists to create the formula that makes lashes look longer and thicker, but doesn’t have the drugs, which can have dangerous side effects, that are in many other serums.

In contrast to my earlier years, making a difference and supporting others is now the yardstick by which I measure my success. Breaking the world record has boosted me to a new level of confidence. The motto of my company is “Make It Dramatic!” I’d say I’m off to a pretty good start!

I am surprised that the defining moment in my life was the death of my father, who died 10 years after my mother. He was a man who was difficult to love and to forgive. He was prone to rages, and from the age of 5 onwards, I would listen in fear from my bed to the screams and cries of my mother downstairs, as my father hit her and threw furniture at her. My Dutch mother briefly left him several times, returning her parents in Holland for a few weeks at a time. But she returned, after my father told her he would keep me and my younger brother and two sisters in England if they divorced.

I drew upon memories of tense family dinners when writing my first book, The Devil’s Tears, which describes the strain at the table, and how my dad would erupt and grab one of us for putting a knife down too heavily or coughing. Often my mother would try to protect her children and took the beating for us. When I was in my teens he occasionally turned his rage toward me as the eldest, as well as my siblings, but never to the extent he hit my mother.

Towards the end of my mother’s life, when she had so little time, she found the strength to forgive my father, though I still found it hard to excuse his lack of caring to her. Although he mellowed later in life, the memories always haunted me.

One day, my father just keeled over from a massive heart attack. My husband and I and our three children were at a holiday camp in the New Forest near Bournemouth, Dorset, and we were waiting for him to join us. He was a big man with a big voice, who was as strong as a horse and was proud to say he boxed in competitions in his youth. So instead of the usual bluster, bustle and noise of his arrival, we got a phone call instead from my father-in-law. I had to listen to the explanation of his death, not taking in everything; the world around me felt still and muted.

There is so much to do when someone dies. Back in my house in the suburbs of London, I was busy making tea for visiting relatives and comforting my children, who were very young — 7 years, 4 years and 18 months old — and shocked, because they had never experienced death before. I placated them with stories of how much he loved them and how each of them had a special place in his heart. I got quite wistful about God, the afterlife and the stars in the sky. It helped the children, and they watched eagerly at night for that big star that was Granddad shining down on them.

By the time the funeral arrived five days later, I hadn’t stopped. The service was lovely and went well, and the mourners gratefully accepted what was set out for them. After a long day, the final guest left. The house was quiet, the children asleep, and my husband had gone across the road to see a neighbor. For the first time in what felt like weeks, but was, in fact, just days after my father’s death, I was alone with my thoughts.

I suddenly realized that I was no longer anyone’s child. I knew, of course, I was an adult at 29 years old. But I realized everyone is still a child while they have a parent or two alive. This was the moment I had to grow up and take sole responsibility for who I was. No matter how old we are, we can still be childish, but there was no one alive to forgive me for being a child and doing childish things.

I would never again hear how, in some respects, I was like my mother, or know that my daughter’s face or mannerisms resembled myself as a child. In these conversations, I felt joined to my past, but at that moment, I felt out on a limb, the only link to the past for my children.

I also realized that parents are taken for granted, and I didn’t fully know them. I had never asked them intimate questions about their feelings and thoughts. My father was a man I didn’t know very well. I had overheard he had a difficult childhood, that his birth as the youngest in a family of six was considered a burden on the already struggling family. He was brought up by one of his elder sisters because his mother didn’t want him. I had never asked about his family, but had heard they had all died, except for a brother he never spoke to. I didn’t ask what serving in World War II was like for him. I never found out if his childhood or his war experience were partially to blame for his violent temper.

When I was about 13 years old, my sister had put a mannequin head, which she used for playing makeup games, in the window of our house. My father saw it when he came home from work and the first look on his face was fear, then anger even we had not yet experienced. We all hid when we heard him come in. He threw the mannequin head away and ranted and raged at my sister telling her never to get another one. Later that week, someone suggested perhaps he had experienced comrades being blown up and decapitated during the war. I never asked him about that later in life. Now I couldn’t put that right. It made his death more sad and terminal.

Though I wish I could have forgiven him while he was alive, I finally forgave my father after his death. I like to think he was not a bad man at heart. He worked to bring in money and went without to provide for his family. No one ever helped him, and he had no family to turn to.

As a parent, you are always a teacher, no matter how old you or your children are. I want to be an example of how to live, love, grow and die. I tell my children, who are now 39, 36 and 33 years old, how I feel. I share my childhood memories so they know where I came from. They know I strive to make every day the best I can. I tell them how events have shaped me and how I want my children to be proud of me and learn from my mistakes and my triumphs. I tell them how proud I am of them and what they have achieved not just in their careers, but in their family lives. I tell them how much I love them and what it is about them I love the most. I wish I had told my parents that I loved them, but we never talked in that way. Life is a circle, and my grandchildren have now joined that circle.

When I look at the big star that I pointed out in the night sky to my children that night, I realize I am here to make the very best of what time I have and try to make a difference with volunteer work. I was a Samaritans member for nine years, I mentored young people for four years, and I sat on a referral panel for young offenders for six years. I am now a Lions Clubs member and help raise money for worthy causes in the local community and internationally. Every bit helps and makes a difference to someone. I am lucky — I have a wonderful family, my health and, in a small way, the ability to help others that are less fortunate. That moment, years ago, has defined my life.

Throughout my career, I have always liked to promote causes that I believe in. I have been an entrepreneur, business-development executive and fund-raiser, but I feel most strongly about promoting volunteer empowerment — connecting people to help others and define jobs they feel good about. A few years ago, I had a satisfying consulting job with a nice retainer, and I was busy with many other commitments, especially with my church, my kids’ schools and my family.

Because of my expertise both in launching organizations and in volunteer management, I was asked to join the board of Imagine LA in February 2007. The nonprofit organization had a great vision of trying to unite Los Angeles County’s 8,000 families experiencing homelessness with more than 8,000 faith communities — and to eliminate family homelessness, one family and one faith community at a time. I loved the mission of Imagine LA. I graduated from Smith College in Northampton, MA, and from a civically-minded Master of Business Administration program at the Yale School of Management in New Haven, CT, so my passions always have been women’s issues and homelessness. I think that the idea of homelessness in one of the wealthiest nations in the world is unacceptable, and I’ve always been drawn to figuring out a solution to help homeless families, the majority of whom are headed by single moms.

A number of factors kept Imagine LA from getting off the ground.  When the existing leadership was let go, I was asked to step in as interim executive director in September 2007. Though I thought that this would be interesting and challenging work, I worried that I didn’t have time for it.

The following week, however, the company I was working for called and told me they were shutting down my e-commerce project. In the back of my mind I thought, “Maybe, I’m supposed to do this Imagine LA job.” But I hadn’t had a full-time office job in five years, and I treasured being with my family. We were on vacation relaxing at my sister’s house on the lake in South Salem, NY, when I decided to ask my kids, James and Isabelle, who were 8 and 10 ½ at the time, for their opinions. My husband, John, was supportive, but I really felt I needed the kids’ input, since they would be affected the most if I accepted the offer. We sat outside on my sister’s porch and I explained what Imagine LA was all about. I told them about the homeless families in Los Angeles and how I wanted to help them. I remember, as the afternoon sun shone on their faces, they said simultaneously, “Mommy you have to help those kids!” And I realized, they’re right!

From that moment, I plunged in. I am a person of action, whether it is starting new companies, playing competitive sports or organizing faith community volunteers after the L.A. Riots. I am also passionate member of my family, and my time spent with my husband and children is my most cherished. My VIV Moment was when these two worlds collided — or should I say, united?

At Imagine LA we have since created a business plan, raised funds, built an amazing volunteer force and successfully piloted our supportive sustainable family program. We work with transitional housing facilities and nearby faith communities to find people willing to sponsor and mentor a family for a two-year period. The faith community fields a Family Support Team that includes mentors for each member of the family. Resource teams are brought in to help find and furnish an apartment for the family and achieve the family’s goals — not fix them.

Imagine LA guides the “matched” families and faith communities step by step. Little by little, the light in the kids’ eyes begins to shine, and every member of the family begins to thrive. Our first family in the program recently graduated. The mother is steadily employed and loves her job, the eldest son has a scholarship to Sacramento State and the daughter is studying to become a nurse. The youngest son, a junior in high school, recently took his Preliminary SAT and wants to become a doctor. We’re seeing the cycle of poverty broken as families achieve self-sufficiency and exit homelessness.

So far, a dozen families are no longer homeless and these families are functioning. Many more churches, synagogues and mosques are expressing interest in becoming a part of this lasting solution to family homelessness. Talk about meaningful work! I feel like the luckiest person on the planet to be part of this effort.

I did not make it to the Olympics or get anywhere near them. In order to make it to the Winter Games, a skater must rank in the top two or three in his or her event — the highest I ever got was 23rd. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t making it to the top. Maybe it was a lack of drive, a deficiency of talent, the wrong body type (I was tall and had a lot of limb to organize), bad luck — or a combination of all.

I enjoyed the costumes, the music and the travel. I especially loved performing and soaked up applause like a sponge. At one competition, I received a rink-wide standing ovation and thought I might just stay out there curtsying forever. But I disliked the incessant, mind-numbing practice, the constant injuries, the cattiness born of competition. There was no time to hang out friends, let alone boyfriends. But skating had become my dream and my goal. At a certain point, it was simply who I was.

Due to an accident on the ice, I left skating. It was a split-second misstep resulting in a minor concussion, a laceration across my forehead and a fractured collarbone. A month later, I started college at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, scarred and disappointed. Mostly, I had a broken heart.

I didn’t tell any of my new friends and dorm mates that I’d skated competitively. Instead, I kept my hair draped strategically over my scar and attempted to reinvent myself as a literary person. I had managed to fit in a good dose of reading and writing during my years of training.

But it was impossible to keep my skating a secret. I didn’t have summer-camp stories to exchange, didn’t know any card games and my knowledge of popular TV shows was spotty. When the campus rink contacted me to teach lessons, at the suggestion of a former coach, I agreed in order to pick up some extra money. After that, I began to reveal bits and pieces of my skating background. Though people were impressed and curious, I downplayed it.

After college, I got a graduate degree in creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY, and read a lot more books. After a brief stint in advertising, I made my way back to coaching skating. The first night I walked into the local rink, I was approached by a judge who remembered watching me skate. This small moment was flattering and encouraging. But I remained dedicated to my writing.

Over the next 10 years, my coaching business continued to grow and was surprisingly successful — and I found that I really enjoyed it. I liked taking talented kids to competitions and helping beginners merely glide. I began to see that I was helping kids reach goals and learn about themselves. I moved to New York City and found that my coaching schedule lent itself well to the writing life.

One piece of the puzzle was still missing: the right relationship. When I turned 35, I met Rob, a contemporary artist who sculpts, paints and makes digital prints. Our relationship clicked immediately. After only a short time, we started talking about “our” future. I was elated.

On Dec. 20, 2008, he suggested we go skating at Rockefeller Center after dinner. This was our first time skating together — it was fun to see him on skates and carve out circles with him, hand in hand. People cleared a path as I swerved back and forth on one foot and did some spins. Gliding around, I realized how at peace I had become with my skating. At that moment, I noted how effortless it was for me, and how right. My thinking had shifted and I finally realized that I always have been — and am — a skater.

After a few laps, Rob stopped, got down on one knee, and proposed. I said yes, beaming. Then we both gazed around and noticed that everyone on the rink stopped skating to watch, and they were clapping! I was once again center-ice, unexpectedly soaking in the applause of a crowd.

The ring was snowball-shaped with a collection of tiny diamonds. I was not only dazzled; I was experiencing an overwhelming sense of cohesion between my past and my present and between myself and this other person. Though I hadn’t accomplished what I’d wanted to as a skater — the gold medals of my dreams eluded me — I knew skating would always be a huge part of who I am.

During a conversation with a girlfriend, I got the idea of creating an organization that would help connect mountain communities to build schools in remote areas of the world. Literally overnight, Mountain to Mountain began. It was intended to support the work of Mortenson’s nonprofit, Central Asia Institute. (At around this same time, my daughter, Devon, was born, and my marriage of nine years ended.) But after two years of partnering with registered non-profits, I realized Mountain to Mountain needed to create its own projects and initiatives, and looked to take the giant leap towards Afghanistan.

I traveled to that country in November 2008 for a three-week scouting mission, bringing along photographer Tony Di Zinno to document what we saw, so we could share Afghanistan with people back home, connecting them on a deeper level to our mission. We documented visits to several schools, interviews with female parliamentary members and meeting with other nonprofits working in related fields.

Despite the foreign language, customs, women’s oppression, poverty and random violence and security issues, I felt comfortable almost the moment I stepped off the plane during that first visit. Even though I am reasonably confident and independent, there is always that feeling of holding back a part of who I really am — a sense that I should tone down my emotions, desires and expectations around others.

But that November in Kabul, that all changed. I felt calm stepping into uncharted waters of first-ever interviews taken with cabinet ministers to gain insight into the current state of education, women’s rights and Afghanistan’s politics.  While attending a buzkashi (the national sport, similar to polo) match with the president of the Afghan Olympic Buzkashi Federation — thanks to my well-connected translator — doubt didn’t enter into the decision to jump on a buzkashi horse when the challenge was thrown down by the president, despite being the only female around. Often without thinking, just the natural rhythm of being true to myself took over.

My VIV Moment occurred on the plane ride home when I realized I was ready to really commit to the role of founder and leader of Mountain to Mountain. I accepted that I do, in fact, want to “save the world.” After discovering that education has the potential to lead the way out of poverty, abuse and even conflict, I am determined to empower women and children in Afghanistan.

So far, the organization has created a computer lab at a girls’ secondary school in Kabul and another at Kabul University. Projects also are underway to improve and expand a literacy and education program in a women’s prison and to establish a headquarters for the Afghanistan National Association of the Deaf.

There are no rose-colored glasses when I look at Afghanistan. There is dirt and dust, squalor and poverty, gender inequality, corruption and crime. Yet I see the magical quality in this small corner of the world — a crossroads where diverse cultures and races intertwine. I want to inspire others to see beyond the war and terrorism, and see the amazing people working to change their own country’s path, the children that need schools and the artists that strive to keep Afghanistan’s culture alive.

Finally, I spotted an incredibly beautiful baby with thick black hair being carried to us from across the room. When they placed her in my husband’s arms, I wept uncontrollably.

She was 10 months old and had spent her whole life in an orphanage. She was calm, constantly playing with her fingers; we guessed that her fingers had been her only playthings in her crib. We fed her (she was very hungry), and then we carried her around the room, talking to her, showing her sights out the window.

Just like that, we were a family. I was a mother. She was our daughter. I loved her instantly, completely. All my worries and all the waiting disappeared, as if they had never happened. She was happy, easy, alert, curious and very funny, and although she had developmental delays, she caught up quickly. In those first few days I was suddenly feeling a kind of love and a depth of joy that I had never known.

About a year before the day we met Molly, a friend of mine who had adopted a baby girl from China told me there’s an ancient Chinese belief that when a baby’s born she’s connected to everyone she’ll ever know by an invisible red thread. The thread can stretch or tangle, but it will never break. This powerful idea touched me deeply, and I found myself writing a song and eventually an album called The Red Thread (Red House Records, 2004). The album was really about the threads between myself and the daughter I hadn’t yet met; the thread between myself and my wonderful husband; the threads between myself and my parents, who were reaching the end of their lives, and the threads between me and my fellow New Yorkers in the wake of 9/11.

Recently, I was given the opportunity to expand on this theme artistically, in collaboration with a wonderful beauty company called La Prairie. I wrote and recorded a song called “Life Threads,” inspired by their new fragrance line of the same name, which evokes a similar idea, that the ties that bind us together matter most in life.

Since becoming Molly’s mother — really since that day I wept as they brought her to us in that office in China — that those threads, those ties, are what are most important and meaningful in my life. My daughter has taught me that lesson, once and for all.

Photo credit: C. Taylor Crothers

Because I was afraid to say anything, I wrote poems about what I was going through. I didn’t open up to anyone else about the abuse until I was in my 30s. I felt I was doing alright until my little brother was killed in a motorcycle accident in 2003. That triggered a series of suicide attempts — I would run my vehicle off the road, but that caused only some damage to my truck. One day in 2006, shortly before my 44th birthday, I decided to drown myself. The last thing I remember is lowering myself into the river. I woke up in the hospital. A volunteer fireman had been fishing on the banks and saw me float by and rescued me. The doctors told me I was lucky to survive, without water getting into my lungs or suffering any brain damage.

Whatever is at the other end of this life wasn’t ready for me. I realized during that time that I needed to change. I couldn’t give up. Doctors say I was lucky to get this second chance, but I still didn’t know what to do.

Fortunately, after the last suicide attempt, I was placed in a psychological hospital and received therapy at a healthcare facility, where I could get the help that I needed. During a therapy session, my therapist and I were discussing coping skills and how they help. I thought of my poems I’d written as a product of my abuse and showed her one of them. After she read it, she suggested that I get them published and then re-read them to see how I reacted, to see how I felt and to see if they triggered flashbacks. Looking them over, I thought, “Wow, I actually wrote these.” I had disassociated myself from those poems; it was as if somebody else — the little girl inside of me — had written them.

Several weeks went by and I was in another therapy session discussing coping skills with a new group, and there again I showed them some of my work. They, too, suggested that I get the poems published. I got to thinking, “All these people can’t be wrong — and besides, what is it going to hurt?”

I took my best work, put it together and submitted it to AuthorHouse Publishing and six months later, A Survivor’s Tale (AuthorHouse, 2009) was delivered to my door. It was fantastic — even though the book is self-published, I somehow couldn’t believe I was holding it in my hands. The poems are grouped into chapters detailing my journey, from “The Early Years” to “Dark Moments” to “Guidance and Support.” With these poems that helped me cope with abuse, I want to give a voice to victims and survivors who don’t have voices. I want to let them know that they’re not alone and that there’s help for them.

Throughout the morning the fog lifted, and though there were threatening clouds in the sky, we went ahead with the ceremony outside, underneath a large oak tree, overlooking the Berkshire Hills and countryside. It was a short, yet lovely ceremony, and my 3-year-old niece added levity by dumping her basket of flowers while we said our vows.

This photo shows my husband and me, immediately after the ceremony, being showered with rose petals. All the tension and nervousness of the morning had evaporated away, and, like magic, the sun emerged from behind the gray clouds. The many doubts and worries I’d entertained the night before seemed to vanish into the air. The day got progressively sunnier and more beautiful from that instant on. In that moment, I knew that we were prepared for any challenge that lay ahead. The sun was going to shine upon us as a couple, we were going to make it. In that moment it all began — we were married, it wasn’t going to rain on our party and we were filled with hope and joy and love.

She proceeded to tell me how unfair her life was, how limited she felt being the oldest sister of three disabled siblings. She wanted to do things “normal” families do and go places “normal” families go — outings like going to the movies or walking through the mall, or attending school functions or community celebrations, all of which were out of the question for our family as a whole. She cried and I held her in my arms.

I gently told her how fortunate she was to be able to do all the things children do, like hang out with friends, swing on the monkey bars and go bike riding. I explained that when she turned 16, she would be getting her driver’s license, that she would date and eventually fall in love. And that one day she would move away from the challenges of our family and have a family of her own. How lucky she was to be able to do these things.

I then reminded her of the many ways in which her siblings were limited. “They will never have friends, not the way you do,” I told her. “They will never be able to walk to the park by themselves, or ride a bike. They will never be able to play sports, or read a book, or sing a song — they can’t even talk. And they will never go on dates, or to prom, or ever fall in love.” As I spoke the words, I felt myself realizing these things for the first time, realizing the precious life experiences my disabled children would never have. And I realized the experiences I, as their mother, would never have with them, like watching them play baseball, or receive a school award, graduate high school, or hear them say the words, “I love you, Mom.” These experiences would never be mine. Never. And for the first time, I truly felt the loss. As we lay there in that cramped, quiet bedroom, my little girl held me in her arms, and we both wept.

My heart changed forever that night, leaving me with a rare and profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for all the things we take for granted, like being able to talk, to read, to learn and to love. I vowed I would never forget these things or how I felt that night. I determined to never dismiss or belittle the blessings in my life, however seemingly small. I promised myself that I would celebrate all the things my children could do, for their simple and hard-earned milestones. Maybe they couldn’t talk, but they could smile and laugh and be loved. And that was worth more than any words they could ever say.

Being the mother of three disabled children is like living simultaneously on both ends of a very large spectrum. It’s the most devastatingly horrible, remarkably beautiful experience, full of profound lows and transcendent highs, wrapped in a series of unpredictable moments, struggles, and triumphs.

The daily experience is one of 24-hour caregiving, changing diapers, feeding, bathing, behavior management, sleepless nights, therapies, doctors, medications, caseworkers, respite providers, special education, heavy financial impact and trying to maintain your sanity. There are days when all you can do is survive because you’re so depleted from taking care of everyone else that you don’t know if you can go another day. You feel ostracized and isolated from “normal” mothers with “normal” children, and you wonder if there’s life outside your front door.

But there are also exquisite moments when you celebrate these special children, when you realize what truly matters and how fortunate you are to see a side of life that most people will never see. You find strength you didn’t know you had, and a kind of love you didn’t know existed. There are moments when you don’t have any answers at all, and then there are those illuminating moments when the innocence in your teenage son’s childlike eyes seems to reveal the mysteries of the universe.

There are tears and laughter, loss and love; where every morning you brace for impact, struggle to survive, and somehow discover you’ve developed wisdom and rare insight along the way. Your eyes are opened to the world around you very vividly and you see that we all have “special needs,” there is no such thing as “normal,” and everyone has something to teach.

Photo credit: Jeff Nicholson