I tried to brush my hair. My cerebral palsy said “absolutely not.” After a sweaty, swear-filled standoff with the world’s most disrespectful knot, I did what any chronically over-it woman would do—I shaved it. This post is about owning your limits, your look, and your electric clippers. Bonus: less brushing, more badassery.

Some people assume disability means inability. I’m here to correct that—with sarcasm, skill, and maybe a little sass. From boat ramps to barns, parenting to punching through pain, I’m living proof that you don’t need “normal” to be unstoppable. This list? Just a taste of what I do better than most—while limping, laughing, and rewriting every damn rule.

Tried sit skiing on the ocean. Got strapped in with pool noodles, flung across saltwater at questionable speeds, and mildly assaulted by flotation foam. Wiped out with style, laughed through the chaos, and proved once again that I’m absolutely HandicapableAF.

Devin took me beekeeping and the bees were not impressed with my wobbly moves. I didn’t get stung (miraculously), but I did get a sweet reminder that even awkward adventures are worth showing up for.

In this post, I take you through a cold January workday where I towed and launched a Malibu boat solo to run an engine diagnostic—at a new launch, no less. I talk about how I’ve learned this job hands-on over the years, the quiet confidence that comes with it, and a moment from the past when a woman pointed me out to her husband because she “could never do that.” Spoiler: I can. And I do. Because this isn’t just a job—it’s who I am.

I bought Baby Blue, my vintage 1986 Malibu Skier, during COVID while everyone else panic-shopped. Now, I launch her solo like a pro—Captain Crippled style. She’s old-school, gritty, and perfect, even if I once forgot the plugs and turned her into a swimming pool. My kids now run “plug patrol,” but we still show up and own the lake.

At two years old, PRDA introduced me to horses, therapy disguised as play, and a barn full of unforgettable characters who shaped my journey. From obstacle courses to nearly making the Paralympics, PRDA gave me grit, laughter, and a lifelong community. I went from tiny rider to coach, judge, and volunteer—and no matter where I go, PRDA will always be home.

This crash course on Cerebral Palsy covers my dramatic seven-minute entrance into the world and what CP actually means for me. From spastic muscles to stubborn independence, I break down common myths and realities of living with CP. It’s shaped me, but it doesn’t define me—and no, I’m not your walking inspiration poster. I’m just here living life, with sarcasm and a side of grit.

While designing my blog logo, I realized the universal wheelchair symbol doesn’t represent my disability. Living with cerebral palsy—but without a wheelchair—means I often get mistaken for drunk or “unfit,” like during a failed sobriety test or being denied entry to a restaurant. We need better symbols and practical solutions, like optional ID markers, to reflect disabilities that aren’t always visible—but are always real.