No Kings, No Crown and No Seeds

 Except for the seeds of hatred some need to sew into every moment.

Yesterday left me buzzing and aching all at once. We were a small crowd in Liberty, Missouri, small, but mighty — waving, chanting, sweating, and soaking up every honk and peace sign from passing cars. I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time: proof that there are still more of us than them. By “us,” I mean people who want things to be legal, kind, and fair. The rest is noise.

But here’s what’s eating at me. After the rally, I scrolled through social media and saw a post from someone who used to be a friend — one of those deep-in-the-MAGA-hole types. She shared a photo from the huge gathering in Boston, the one with thousands of people filling the streets. Except she and her friends decided it wasn’t real. They said the photo was fake — that those weren’t people, they were sprouting seeds in a field. Seeds. I sat there staring at my phone, trying to understand how anyone could look at an ocean of human beings and see botany.

That kind of denial hits different. It’s not just misinformation anymore; it’s like we’re living on different planets. For them, anything that doesn’t fit their version of the world must be fake. It’s safer to believe a silly lie than face the possibility that maybe — just maybe — their side isn’t as big or beloved as they think. I keep thinking, they’ve forgotten how to see joy without suspicion.

Later, a friend showed someone else a photo from our own protest — two people in inflatable costumes running toward each other and hugging. We howled with laughter when we saw it. Those ridiculous costumes were the perfect “FU” to all the talk about “violent Antifa thugs.” Turns out the radical left isn’t hiding in the shadows; we’re just sweating inside polyester inflatables, hugging it out for democracy. But again — no laughter from the other side. Just confusion. Fear. They couldn’t see the joke because everything has to mean something dark now. Humor feels dangerous to people who’ve forgotten how to laugh at themselves.

I’ve tried to make sense of it. How can the same people who rail against “the elites” worship a man born on a gold toilet? How can they call him a “blue-collar billionaire” when the only collar he’s ever worn is starched and imported? He’s never carried groceries, fixed a leaky pipe, or waited for a paycheck to clear — and yet he’s their hero. They don’t follow him because he’s like them. They follow him because he fights for the version of themselves they wish they could be: loud, untouchable, unapologetic, and immune to consequence. He performs their anger while living off the very system they hate. And still, they cheer.

And before anyone lumps this all together — I have plenty of conservative and Republican people in my life. We don’t agree on everything, but we get each other. We can talk because we actually listen, or we know when it’s better to steer around the topic altogether. None of them are the kind of people who live on conspiracy theories or need to scream to feel seen. They care about their families, their faith, their country — just like I do. So when I talk about “them,” I’m not talking about every Republican or every person on the right. I’m talking about the ones who’ve let hate replace thought, and paranoia replace patriotism.

So yes, yesterday brought me peace and pride. We were out there with our homemade signs, our chants, and our laughter, and for every flipped bird there were fifty waves and a hundred honks of support. But it also left me grieving. Because every time someone shares a meme about “fake crowds” or sneers at people in Unicorn suits, I realize how far gone some of our neighbors are. We’re not arguing about politics anymore — we’re arguing about whether our eyes still work, our ears still hear and whether rhyme and reason really do still exist.

I don’t know how to bridge that gap yet. But I do know this: we’re not going anywhere. We’ll keep showing up — with humor, with hope, with inflatable hugs — because kindness and truth still matter, even when they’re mistaken for something else.

NO Kings Liberty USA

 

We were small, but we were mighty. 💪

In the heart of Liberty, Missouri, love stood taller than hate.We saw it. We heard it.

And we answered — with peace signs, open hearts, and voices full of hope. ✌️❤️

I met a 3 year old and a 93 year old.

What a day to remember.

Out in the real world, beyond the noise and the fear,

we are stronger.

Today proved it — there are more of us than there are of them.

So much love, kindness, and real patriotism in one place.

People from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder,

holding signs that spoke truth, not hate.

It reminded me that courage doesn’t have to roar —

sometimes it just stands quietly, holding a poster in the wind,

smiling back at anger with compassion.

---

Although I live in Kansas City, Missouri, my daughter’s doctors and social programs are in Liberty, so I’m there almost every day of the week. It’s a nice little suburb — one where I’ve rarely ever experienced rudeness. But it’s also a deeply red city, and because I suffer from severe anxiety, the thought of being in a protest crowd — especially one by the street, surrounded by strangers with signs — had my heart racing.

I went with a friend I met years ago while speaking on a panel for a class graduating from a physical therapy program. She invited a few people she knew from her church and from the special needs community. After we parked, we walked up to find a twerking dinosaur and an American eagle dancing side by side. That sight alone made me breathe easier.

There were people from all walks of life, standing side by side — just wanting to live side by side. Without hate. Without anger. Without judgment. In peace.

The most poignant moment of the day came when I noticed an elderly man standing alone behind me. I turned and asked how he was doing. He wore a Vietnam veteran cap. He looked me in the eye and said,

“I fought in Vietnam. I was hurt. I lost people I loved. And it sure wasn’t for this.”

I didn’t know what to say, except to thank him for his service and shake his hand. I’m not great with strangers or crowds, so I went to my friend — knowing she came from a military family — and told her what had just happened. Without hesitation, she turned on her heel, went straight to him, and within seconds they were hugging and crying.

Thank God she was there to hear that man and offer her heart and understanding.

I don’t want to be part of any world that shows cruelty to another human being because someone on TV told them who they should or shouldn’t live peacefully beside.

---

And in the end…

Yesterday reminded me that courage doesn’t always look loud or fearless.

Sometimes it’s shaky hands holding a sign anyway.

Sometimes it’s showing up when your anxiety tells you to stay home.

Sometimes it’s an old veteran finding kindness in a stranger’s smile.

That’s what patriotism really looks like — not flags or slogans or shouting matches,

but hearts that choose humanity over hate.

And for one small moment, on one small corner in Liberty, Missouri,

we did exactly that.

EYE gaze Communication. Rockin it

 

Abby’s First ACCT Therapy in Years

Today, Abby had her first ACCT therapy session in years. She’s had a Tobii eye gaze device since around third grade, and this will be her fourth device. They’ve come a long way — from big, heavy, clunky machines that only worked for a few hours before needing two huge batteries swapped out two or three times a day, to now being run on a larger iPad.

The team at school has been telling me about this new device for about a year, but with everything Abby’s been through lately — and with her aging out of the school system — I just wasn’t up for another fight for anything.

We recently went three months without her food or supplies being paid for because insurance and the system absolutely stink. The rage I feel sometimes, while trying to be the perfect mom and advocate, is impossible to express. Now that she’s turned 21, they’ve decided to put all her food, enteral supplies, briefs, and more on hold while they get yet another prior authorization. For a kid with a total and permanent disability. But I digress.

Anyway, the last time we went in for a device, I was so frustrated. We went from her being able to go in, say she was thirsty or wanted to eat, and get the approval — to having to try every device available for months and prove over and over that she could use something she’d already been using for a decade and a half before anyone would sign off. I just didn’t have the patience or the energy for another round of that.

Today, though, I swallowed my helicopter-mom advocate pride and said, “Go ahead and do it like you would any other kid. Set it up and see how she does.”

I’ve never let Abby use one of their pre-made vocabularies before. I’ve always programmed every single button on every page — every picture, every link. I think it’s important, with symbol-based communication, to always use the same picture for the same word or phrase. That’s her language. Abby’s language has always been Boardmaker — besides the ESP and eye gaze, of course.

Today they used a full board with what’s called TD Snap. It’s very pre-programmed, and I always assumed it would be too much for her — not personal enough. Once again, I underestimated that girl.

I sat next to her wanting to scream when she asked for Taylor Swift and then Ed Sheeran. The tears came when I asked if she liked it and she said, “I like that. This is great. I love you, Mom.”

By the end of the first visit, the SLP was already asking which stand we wanted and said she was ready to start her report to get the device ordered.

The first visit!

She’ll still go to therapy each week while we get it customized and add vocabulary specific to her, but my girl did it! The first time!

Fly, baby girl. Fly.

I’m so proud of her I could run down the street screaming. I can’t believe I ever thought she might regress after school ended. Not this chick.

💜 Happy Rett Syndrome Awareness Month. 💜

October: Rett Syndrome Awareness Month — Choosing Joy When the World Tells You Otherwise

 

Every October, my heart sits a little heavier. It’s Rett Syndrome Awareness Month and the month she was diagnosed, and as the parent of a daughter with Rett, I want to tell you all the things most people don’t know — or maybe can’t imagine.

When you have a baby, you dream. You imagine the first steps, the bike rides, the school dances, the friendships. You build a future in your head before they can even say your name. And then, one day, someone in a white coat looks at you and says words that shatter all those dreams. Rett Syndrome.
“Take her home and make her comfortable.”

You hear that and think it must be a mistake. Surely they don’t mean never. Never talk. Never walk. Never eat by mouth. Never ride a bike. Never sleep through the night. Never live independently. Never have a prom. Never get married.

Never. Never. Never.

You go home with a baby who looks perfectly healthy — but whose future has just changed in ways you can’t even begin to understand. You mourn the life you thought she’d have, and somehow, you mourn while she’s still right there, smiling at you. Still your baby. Still here.

But then… something happens.
You start seeing the world differently.

You find joy where most people would miss it — in the sparkle of a giggle, in the sound of a happy squeal, in the tiny victory of a relaxed hand. You realize that “never” doesn’t mean what they think it means. She does dance — in her father’s arms, with that grin that could power the sun. She does ride a bike — an adaptive one, with the wind in her hair and pride written all over her face. She does have friends — the kind who drop to their knees to play Dora when the prom lights are too bright, who see her, not the chair.

You learn to celebrate differently. To grieve differently. To live differently.

This life — the one that was supposed to break us — humbles us instead.
It strips away everything fake and shiny and shallow. It teaches us to see joy in the cracks, gratitude in the hardest places, love in its purest form.

Because every single morning, I’m greeted by the most beautiful smile — one that says I’m happy you’re here.
From someone who can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t eat, can’t sleep, and yet knows love more deeply than anyone I’ve ever met.

So, when October rolls around, I don’t just want people to know what Rett Syndrome takes. I want them to know what it gives.
Perspective. Humility. Strength.
And the kind of joy you only find when you stop chasing normal and start choosing love.

They told us it would be the hardest thing we’d ever do.
They were right.
But they forgot to tell us it would also be the most beautiful.