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I’ve been a mom for four years now.

I’ve been a two-time mom for almost three.

And many people don’t know that my twins have a developmental disability.

Before they even came into this world, my girls faced more adversity than most people ever will. During my pregnancy, I had to undergo laser surgery for stage three twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. We were monitored constantly. There was membrane separation. Complications stacked on complications. And eventually, they were born very early.

When they were born, they were barely four pounds.

When they came home, they were closer to three.

Still—my daughters are the most intelligent, loving, caring, beautiful humans I have ever met.

What people don’t talk about enough is that alongside that love lives grief. Grief for the life you thought they’d have by now. Grief for the version of motherhood you imagined. It is incredibly hard watching their younger sister do things they should be doing. Alaska is wildly advanced for her age, and that contrast brings guilt I wasn’t prepared for. Guilt that creeps in quietly and tells you this must somehow be your fault.

Especially when family and friends—often the ones closest to you—make comments as if their disability was caused by something stemming from my own wrongdoing. As if it were ever in anyone’s control. One of my own sisters has said some of the most disgusting things about how their disability came to be.

For a long time, I questioned whether I was worthy enough to be their mom. Whether I was equipped for this. Whether I could carry what came with being a special-needs parent.

But my girls taught me something that changed everything:

The cards you’re dealt do not determine the greatness you’re promised.

Now at four years old, they’re starting to talk. They respond to their names. They are growing in ways that matter. And I am so deeply blessed to be their mom.

Let me be clear: being a young mom is not for the weak. Having a child before your frontal lobe is fully developed is not something I’d recommend to anyone—no matter how much I love my daughters.

But my daughters saved me.

They’ve saved me from myself.

They’ve saved me from the worst parts of the world.

They save me every single day.

They are my driving force. My inspiration. And so much of my journey through motherhood—through pregnancy, through fear, through survival—I walked alone. Going through something that big by yourself makes you question your worth. It makes you question love. It makes you wonder why you weren’t chosen, protected, stayed for.

And then one day, you realize you never were alone.

I had my girls with me the whole time.

When everyone else left, they stayed.

I never want my children to feel like they were responsible for fixing me—that’s not fair to put on anyone. But they made me want to fix myself. They made me want to become a woman I’m proud of. A woman they can be proud of.

They motivate me daily to think differently. To be better. To try again.

I am not a perfect parent. But I know this with certainty: I am a great one.

I’ve done this myself. I’ve carried all of it on my own back. And I have raised very, very, very happy girls—regardless of circumstance.

That is something I am endlessly proud of.

I’m a damn good mother.

And they are damn smart children.

I’ve had friends speak about my daughters as if their disabilities were a disease. I’ve heard the things they’ve said behind my back—the slurs used so casually. I’ve watched people treat their existence like an inconvenience. Like children with disabilities are simply too much to coexist around. 

Motherhood has cracked me open. It’s shown me the absolute beauty of humanity—and its horror. It’s made me want to scoop my girls up and shield them from everything and everyone forever.

But I refuse to let other people’s ignorance, judgment, or cruelty shrink my daughters into anything less than what they are.

There are people who will love and support you and your family as if it were their own. Those are the people deserving of a place in your village. Those are the people who are good in the world—the ones who emulate the true definition of kindness.

When I had Alaska, Cara and Kaia pulled me so far out of postpartum. They genuinely gave my life back to me. They showed up, and they showed out—and they still do. They remind me every chance they get that I’m a good mother. They show up as incredible teachers, again and again.

My sister Cierra—who was a single mom to three at the same age as me—never fails to inspire me with her growth. Never fails to show me unwavering support. That is the true definition of sisterhood. Of womanhood.

There are people who will look at your children—disability or not—and see nothing but a burden. But the people meant for you, the people you are meant for, will love and adore you and your children in every single shape and form. Regardless of who their father is. Regardless of whether they can talk. Regardless of anything else.

They are whole.

They are worthy.

They are love and light in their purest form.

And the world will learn how to see them—whether it’s ready or not.