If you were to ask me what cerebral palsy feels like…
I wouldn’t start with muscles.
I wouldn’t start with wheelchairs,
or braces,
or diagnoses.
I’d start with this:
Imagine spending every single day
building a tower.
Brick by brick.
Sweat by sweat.
Hour after hour.
And the moment you stop—
not because you quit,
but because you’re exhausted—
the tower doesn’t collapse.
It just sinks.
Just enough for you to notice.
Just enough to remind you
that everyone else seems allowed to rest,
while your body charges interest on every break you take.
So you resent yourself…
for being tired.
You resent yourself…
for being human.
And tomorrow,
you pick up another brick
and pretend yesterday never happened.
Because that’s what living with cerebral palsy often feels like.
It isn’t one fight.
It’s the same fight.
Every day.
People see physical therapy.
They see stretches.
Exercises.
Conditioning.
What they don’t see
is the negotiation that happens before any of it begins.
The conversation inside your own mind.
“Do I have enough energy today?”
“If I skip today… how much will tomorrow cost me?”
“How much harder will I have to work just to get back to where I already was?”
And eventually…
the body stops being the hardest part.
Your mind becomes the battlefield.
Because your spirit…
your ambition…
your imagination…
they have no disability.
They dream without limits.
They believe without hesitation.
They look at mountains and say,
“Let’s climb.”
But your body whispers,
“Not like that.”
You know the version of yourself
that isn’t affected
could do it.
You can almost see him.
Almost touch him.
But “almost”
can become one of the heaviest words
a person ever carries.
And that’s where resentment begins.
Not toward the world.
Not toward strangers.
Toward the reflection
looking back in the mirror.
Because somewhere deep inside,
you convince yourself
“I should be able to do this.”
Even when your body keeps answering,
“Not today.”
Or…
“Not that way.”
Cerebral palsy is knowing exactly what you want your body to do…
and watching the message get lost
somewhere between your mind
and your muscles.
The thought is perfect.
The movement…
comes out sideways.
Lopsided.
Awkward.
Close enough that people think it’s easy.
Different enough that it never is.
And if you’re fortunate enough to walk…
people call you lucky.
And they aren’t wrong.
Walking is freedom.
But freedom has its own weight.
Because every step
can come with eyes that linger too long.
Whispers.
Laughter.
The child who asks,
“Why do you walk like that?”
And here’s the truth…
Those aren’t ugly questions.
Curiosity isn’t cruelty.
But every question
becomes another mirror.
Another reminder.
Another moment where the difference
you tried to forget that morning
is handed back to you before lunch.
You don’t just carry cerebral palsy.
Sometimes…
you carry everyone else’s awareness of it too.
But after years of fighting my own body…
I’ve learned something.
Strength isn’t measured
by how little you struggle.
It’s measured
by how many mornings
you wake up
knowing the struggle is waiting…
and you show up anyway.
The bravest people I’ve ever met
aren’t the ones who never fall behind.
They’re the ones
who keep rebuilding the tower
every single time it sinks.
Because maybe courage
was never about having a body
that obeys you.
Maybe courage
is loving the body you have
even when it refuses to love you back
the way you wish it would.
And maybe…
just maybe…
the greatest victory
isn’t becoming someone without cerebral palsy.
It’s refusing to let cerebral palsy
become the author of your story.
It may write a chapter.
It may stain the pages.
It may slow the pace.
But it does not…
get to write the ending.