A Year That Took Me Places

At the beginning of the year, nothing felt dramatic. There was no big announcement moment, no clear line that said, this is when everything changes. It started quietly, with work that needed doing and conversations that mattered. I said yes where it felt right, showed up where I was needed, and trusted that the rest would reveal itself in time.

What most people didn’t see was that this year was also hard. Not dramatic hard. Just the kind of hard where you stare at your calendar, sigh, and say, okay Lord, we’re doing this today too. There were personal disappointments, unanswered questions, and moments when quitting sounded restful. But the work kept coming. And somehow, it kept me upright.

Most of my days looked ordinary on the surface. Meetings. Emails. Writing. Advocacy work that does not come with a hype squad. But underneath it, something steady was building. I wasn’t explaining myself as much. I wasn’t shrinking to make others comfortable. I was learning how to take up space in my own work without apologizing for it.

My role as a Youth Ambassador with I DECIDE Georgia carried more weight this year. Not because the title changed, but because I did. Supported Decision-Making stopped being something I had to defend and became something I could live out loud. I found myself trusted with conversations about autonomy, choice, and full lives. Turns out, confidence really does change the room.

There were moments when accessibility stopped being theoretical and became immediate. At the University of Georgia Disability History Symposium, things didn’t unfold perfectly. And instead of spiraling, I adapted. I watched a room adjust in real time, and it reminded me that leadership isn’t about having a flawless plan. It’s about not panicking when Plan A goes rogue.

At the Georgia Children’s Health Conference, I sat in rooms where decisions ripple far beyond the table. Policy language is careful and measured, but the impact is personal. Being there confirmed what I already knew. Lived experience doesn’t interrupt these conversations. It grounds them.

My work expanded beyond Georgia in ways that felt natural instead of forced. I collaborated with the Supported Decision-Making Network of Ohio, sharing stories and perspective as their work continued to grow. I also spent time with the Together We Thrive peer support social group, where advocacy wasn’t polished or performative. It was honest, familiar, and occasionally funny in that only people who get it way.

As the year moved forward, one chapter slowly came to a close. I wrapped up my participation in a national Supported Decision-Making project, something that once felt intimidating in scope. Finishing it didn’t feel like fireworks. It felt like closing a laptop, exhaling, and realizing, oh… I actually did that.

Almost immediately, a new door opened. I began a research project focused on healthcare data, which is advocacy’s quieter cousin. Less speeches, more spreadsheets. Still important. Still meaningful. And proof that growth doesn’t always look flashy.

There were also moments that reminded me why representation matters early. Standing in front of students at White County Middle School, talking about disability, inclusion, and self-advocacy, I realized something. Being “normal” in those spaces matters more than being inspiring. Normal sticks.

Throughout the year, I continued my work connected to the Georgia Council on Developmental Disabilities, lending my perspective to policy-informed conversations. And in the quieter moments, I kept writing. Sassy Frass with Class grew alongside me, becoming less about finding my voice and more about trusting it. Faith, advocacy, independence, and everyday life stopped competing for attention and finally learned how to coexist.

Looking back, I can see what I couldn’t always feel in the moment. God knew exactly what He was doing when He filled my calendar with nonstop advocacy during a hard season. It wasn’t a distraction. It was a lifeline. The kind that keeps you moving when standing still would have hurt more.

By the time the year finally slowed down, I could feel it in my bones. I wasn’t scrambling anymore. I wasn’t explaining myself to death. I was finishing projects, starting new ones, and trusting that I knew what I was doing because I did. This year didn’t break me, even though it tried me. God filled my calendar on purpose, kept my mind steady when my heart was tired, and reminded me that momentum can be mercy. I didn’t need this year to impress anyone. I needed it to carry me. And it did.

Still standing. Still sassy. Still living my purpose. ✨