I didn’t grow up getting to do all the things.

I wasn’t signing up for football or Taekwondo or cartwheeling across a gym floor. I didn’t get to feel what it was like to run with total abandon, to vault over a horse, to climb the biggest jungle gym and then launch myself off it just because I could. My childhood had joy, sure—but it also had limits. My body came with fine print.

So maybe that’s why I’m a little obsessive now.

Maybe that’s why my kids are signed up for every program within driving distance.

Maybe that’s why I spend half my life loading gear into the trunk and bribing them with snacks in parking lots, chasing the next drop-off, the next class, the next thing.

Because while they’re living it?

I’m feeling it.

They vault. They tumble. They flip and fly and kick and run and climb. They fall. They laugh. They try again. They don’t hesitate. They don’t overthink. Their bodies just… go.

And I watch it all with this weird, beautiful ache.

Not jealousy.

Not grief.

Just this deep, visceral awareness that I’m witnessing something I never got to feel for myself—but get to feel now, through them.

I live with cerebral palsy. I don’t use mobility aids, and from the outside, you might not even clock it right away. But it’s there. It’s always been there. Every step, every movement, every attempt at “normal” has always taken a little more thought, a little more effort, a little more planning than it does for most people.

As a kid, that meant a lot of sitting out. A lot of quiet frustration. A lot of trying to laugh it off when my body just wouldn’t cooperate. A lot of pretending I didn’t want to join in, because wanting it made the “no” worse.

So now, as a mom? I’m rewriting that story.

Every time I see my kids step into something new—unafraid, unburdened—I get to feel it. I get to heal a little part of the younger me who was always waiting on the sidelines.

And let me be clear: I’m not trying to live through them.

I’m living with them.

Through every moment they chase down, I get to live a little louder too.

Some people say letting kids try everything makes them spoiled or overwhelmed. Honestly? I don’t care. I will forever be the mom who signs the waiver and packs the snacks and drives across town so they can see what it feels like to try.

Because it’s not just about sports or skills or trophies.

It’s about the look on their faces when they surprise themselves.

It’s about watching them stumble and figure it out.

It’s about seeing them build confidence in bodies that have never betrayed them—and knowing that alone is a gift.

When they climb to the top of something, I feel it in my chest.

When they get knocked down in football and pop back up with a grin, I feel stronger too.

When they vault over that horse with confidence and land it like it’s nothing? I could cry on the spot—and sometimes I do.

They don’t carry my disability. But they carry my story.

Not as a burden, but as a legacy.

They are growing up in a home where movement is celebrated, not taken for granted. Where falling doesn’t mean failure. Where effort is always the win.

And yeah, I get emotional. I cheer too loud. I cry behind sunglasses. I take blurry photos and high-five their coaches and tell anyone who’ll listen how proud I am. Because this isn’t just about them thriving. It’s about me witnessing something I never thought I’d get to be part of.

They do it all. And I get to feel it all.

Not through my own two legs, but through their hearts. Through their grit. Through their joy.

I’m not on the field. I’m not on the horse. I’m not in the gym.

But I’m in it—all the way.

And I wouldn’t trade my seat for anything.

So yeah, maybe I overcommit. Maybe I sign them up for too much. Maybe we’re late sometimes, and dinner’s a disaster, and I forget who needed cleats versus a white belt. But I’ll take the chaos. I’ll take the mess. I’ll take the emotional hangover.

Because this is it. This is our life.

Messy. Loud. Beautiful.

Full of moments I never had—and will never miss again.