THETAYSHIAVIBE

The Last Gasp of Summer

1 Comment / Parent Chronicles / By

WHERE: A crowded beach on a late August afternoon – families everywhere, kids running in and out of the water, everyone sun tired and running on the last fumes of summer.


WHAT: My son Jack is 17, autistic, and profoundly neurodivergent. He came to the beach expecting to see the same group of kids he’d played with last weekend. When they weren’t there, his heart broke. He sat down in the sand and cried – not a small cry, but the kind that comes from disappointment you don’t have words for.


I sat with him, hugged him, wiped his tears, and we talked – mother and son, raw and honest.


When we finally stood up, I realized people had been watching. Not in a judgmental way – in a human way.


As we walked toward the car, I saw two women crying. A veteran touched his chest. A grandma nodded at me. A young mother approached me “in code,” telling me Jack reminded her of her brother.


It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t discomfort. It was community – strangers recognizing something tender and hard and real, and responding with softness.


Then came the logistics: Jack was covered in sand and soaking wet, overwhelmed and needing to change into dry clothes. Jack is completely capable of taking care of his own personal needs, except when he’s overwhelmed and needs to move fast in public – that’s when I step into help him. I always park strategically so I can create a privacy barrier with the car doors. But today, the SUV next to us had its hatch open and the whole family was hanging out.


I approached the dad and said, “My son is autistic and really upset. I’m going to open my car doors for privacy for him to change into dry clothes.” Immediately, the entire family softened – kindness again.


The young boys looked at me, and one asked, “Why is he so upset?” Not rude. Not judgmental. Just curious. I told him gently that Jack was disappointed and having a hard moment. He nodded, that made perfect sense to him. Then he asked me if my car was faster than theirs. Just a young boy, not surprised by Jack’s behavior – he recognized that everyone gets upset now & then.


Then their grandma approached me, touched by what she saw, and said, “God love you for being such a good caregiver.”
She meant it with warmth. She meant it with respect. She meant it with recognition.


And yes – I’m his MOM, not his caregiver. But her kindness wasn’t lost on me. It was another moment of community – strangers seeing the truth of our life and responding with empathy.


Once we got into the car and out of public view, the meltdown hit full force. The kind of escalation that takes everything out of both of us. I snapped. He snapped. It was one of those moments where seventeen years of caregiving hits heavy.


And then – the part that changed everything:

Jack said, “Mom… breathe. Can we rewind?”


This is a tool I taught him years ago – a reset button, a way to stop the spiral and start over. But he has never initiated it on his own during a full meltdown.


Later, when I told my friends, one of them stopped me mid sentence: “Wait. HE said rewind? That’s huge.”


And it was. It was self regulation. It was awareness. It was growth. It was Jack finding his way back to me – and back to himself.


We rewound. We reset. We found our way out of the moment together.


WHY: Because this is what the end of summer looks like for families like ours. Kids stretched thin. Parents stretched thinner. Expectations colliding with reality. Heartbreak mixing with heat and exhaustion. Humanity showing up in unexpected places. And the reminder that even on the hardest days, we’re still learning, still growing, still finding new ways to come back to each other.


Fall is coming. Routine is coming. Structure is coming.


And thank God – because we’re ready.

Good Morning, Mom

Leave a Comment / Parent Chronicles / By
Sixteen years apart, same gesture. From the baby hand that once fit inside mine… to the young man’s hand that now covers it with care.

This morning Jack started his usual request as soon as he saw me walk out of my room, “Can I have Ovaltine……?” then he paused mid sentence. He looked at me, really looked, smiled warmly, and said,

“Good morning, Mom. How’d you sleep?”

That tiny shift – from asking to seeing me – stopped time. His tone was soft, his expression genuine, and for a moment, the world felt steady again.

For those who are new here: Jack is neurodivergent. His diagnosis shapes how he moves through the world – how he communicates, how he processes, how he connects. It also means our life has been built around appointments, advocacy, routines, and a thousand invisible tasks that never make it into a photo.

And yes, sometimes grief still catches me off guard. The things he misses out on – the sports, the school dances, the driver’s license, the cool car – the things other teenagers slide into without effort. I feel those losses. I feel them for him. I feel them for me.

But then there are mornings like today, when clarity arrives in the smallest gesture. When I’m reminded that while his path is different, his heart is extraordinary. Jack loves deeply and fiercely. He’d bubble wrap his Grammy and put her on a shelf if she’d let him. He’s protective, tender, competitive, hilarious – a big tough Viking with a soft center.

And at seventeen, he’s already stepping up to take care of his Grammy and me. Not because he has to. Because that’s who he is. As hard as our life can be, these moments remind me that love grows up, but it never outgrows its touch.

My Viking. My life gift. My reason to keep moving forward with gratitude and hope. ❤️

WTF Is “On the Spectrum”

Leave a Comment / Parent Chronicles / By

WTF Is “On the Spectrum”

 

There are moments in motherhood where you think you’re prepared – and then life hands you a diagnosis you’ve never even heard of. When Jack was first diagnosed with autism, I did what every terrified parent does: I dove into research like it was my new full time job. And I freaked myself out.

 

I read every symptom, every warning sign, every worst case scenario… and assumed all of it applied to him. I entered a world I wasn’t qualified to be in, armed with nothing but Google and panic. I built a medical Avengers team – neurologists, therapists, specialists -because if I didn’t understand the diagnosis, how could I advocate for my son?

 

At one point, I felt like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz, pedaling through a storm with toddler Jack in my basket, trying to outrun something I couldn’t even name.

 

And then one phrase kept showing up everywhere: “On the spectrum.”

 

I remember thinking, WTF does THAT mean?

 

Andy Shih, Ph.D., Chief Science Officer at Autism Speaks, explains it like this:

 

“The term ‘spectrum’ reflects the wide range of ways autism can present from one individual to another.”

 

That was the moment everything shifted.

 

I realized the spectrum wasn’t a prophecy – it was a range. A baseline. A starting point. It didn’t mean every symptom applied to Jack. It meant Jack would show me his spectrum, in his own time, in his own way.

 

So I stopped fighting the unknown and started listening to my son.

 

Over the years, I’ve learned that Jack’s abilities can change drastically. He was non verbal until he was seven – now at seventeen, he never stops talking. I’ve learned to be careful when I talk to parents of non verbal kids, because some individuals never speak. Spectrum.

 

Jack lacked hand strength for years. A teacher once told me he would probably never be able to write.
His response?

 

“Hold my juice box.”

 

Jack couldn’t ride a bike like the neighborhood boys – so Grammy got him a pedal go cart. He kept up. He built core strength. He learned grit. Spectrum.

And here’s the lesson I want to leave you with:

 

Never be defined by your perceived limitations – only by your bravery.

 

 Jack taught me that.

 

The spectrum didn’t define him. He defined his spectrum.

 

And honestly?

 

That’s the vibe.

It’s SHOWTIME

Leave a Comment / Tree of Life - Family / By

It's SHOWTIME

I’ve always been sentimental about generational heritage. Traditions, legacy, values – the shared history that ties me to my cousins and the women who came before me. I’m first generation American on my mom’s side, and a dual citizen of the U.S. and Canada. My mom is 100% Scottish, and I was raised with all the Scottish customs, giving me a deep pride in our origin stories.

I cherish the heirlooms I’ve inherited – the antique silver heart locket from my great-great grandmother Elizabeth, my mom’s namesake. The silver cuff bracelet engraved with my grandmother’s initial. Wearing their jewelry, imagining their lives, their choices, their strength – it empowers me.

All day long, I work in my home office at the desk my dad used in his law practice. Our legal careers couldn’t be more different – his criminal, mine corporate – yet here I am, sitting where he once sat. He spent his days representing clients accused of heinous crimes; I spend mine on Teams calls discussing global human rights regulations and compliance programs.
At night, I write at another one of his desks that was in his home office – the one that once belonged to a Chinese lawyer and was crafted in 1919 Peking. It traveled around Cape Horn to reach America, a journey that must have taken months. I often wonder what stories that desk could tell.

With all that rich heritage – the tangible and the mystic – it’s funny what stands out most when I think about the generational strength I carry. It comes from my Grandpa, Ian McGregor.

He was a character. I like to think I inherited his mix of academic and creative brain. He graduated from McGill University, one of Canada’s most elite institutions. He was also a fabulous musician, especially on piano, and he could tap dance. He dressed sharply, with monogrammed cuffs and beautiful cufflinks. He was a huge presence, especially to me.

And the strength he gave me?
A simple exercise in bravery.

When I was very young – so young I don’t even remember learning it – he taught me what to do when I’m walking into a situation that scares me, intimidates me, or makes me doubt myself.

Stop.
Take a huge breath in.
Straighten my shoulders.
Chest up.
And whisper:

“It’s SHOWTIME.”

Then bust through the door like I belong there.

Nobody second guesses a person who walks in with that kind of confidence.

My Grandpa died unexpectedly when I was nineteen, long before I could tell him how impactful that lesson has been. But I’ve used it countless times – job interviews, public speaking, Jack’s adoption hearing, any moment with consequences or high stakes where I need a pair of brass balls in my pocket.

Every time, I pause.
I breathe.
I stand tall.
I whisper:

“It’s SHOWTIME.”

And I walk in.
And it’s never let me down.

While I’m shaped by heirlooms, stories, and the desks I work & write at, sometimes it’s the smallest inheritance that makes the biggest impact.

Feel free to share your stories in the comments. I’d love to hear them.

Water Park Sensory Overload

Parent Chronicles / By

Water Park Sensory Overload

Dedicated to the 1 Grandma, 3 Moms, and 2 Dads I made direct eye contact with today. We saw each other. We understood.

Summers are hard for families who have a child with disabilities. Period. I can only speak for myself, but for me, it’s heartbreaking. Any time of year when I think about “summer break,” I feel anxiety and sadness.

My son Jack is 17 and has multiple neurological diagnoses. Summer starts the same way every year: he gets sick after the last day of school. He “comes down” – all the tension, stress, sensory overload, and adrenaline release hits him like a brick wall. June 11th was the last day of school. June 12th he woke up sick. Five days of an extreme head cold. Then three full days of sleep.

Not the “YAY, SUMMER!” most people know.

And when he gets sick, his sleep schedule goes off the rails. Jack becomes a vampire – up all night, alone. He’s an only child with one parent and a well meaning Grammy who adores him. But I work. I can’t stay up all night with him. And because of his difficulty with social interactions and communication, his social circle is basically nonexistent.

Jack is extremely social and deeply engaged at school. But when school breaks for summer?

He drifts. He pines. He becomes isolated.


For years now, I’ve taken every Friday off during the summer so we can have long weekends to go do things. But this week his behavior spiked, and I realized I needed to take Wednesday off too – get him out of the house, get him engaged, get him connected to something.

He insisted on the dreaded Water Park. In 96 degree weather.

Fine. Water Park it was.

Because he’d been up all night and asleep all morning, we didn’t get there until 2:30 p.m. By that time the day was blazing, the sun was scorching. We trekked across the parking lot, stood in two consecutive slow moving lines, frying like bacon on a skillet. We FINALLY got into the park.

As soon as we walked in, Jack headed directly to the wave pool – the only thing he likes to do there. Immediately the whistles blew. Wave pool break. What the FUCK is that. Wave pool break? Sigh.

A sweet young woman offered me her lounge chair as she was leaving – thank God – so I had somewhere to put my ginormous bag.

We sat. We scorched.
We waited.
It was packed. I was thinking, “Don’t these people have jobs? It’s Wednesday for God’s sake!”

Jack was spinning up. So was I.

He started to get really upset – sensory overload. I felt it too.

I’m not proud of some of my parenting tactics, and I NEVER encourage violence. But sometimes I become slightly unhinged. Jack is used to this parental flaw. I finally told him that if they didn’t open the fucking wave pool, I was going to punch someone in the throat.

He smiled.

He’s never seen me punch anyone. I’ve never punched anyone. But he knows – as well as I do – that I’m not above it.

FINALLY the wave pool opened. He got up and started in. I told him not to ditch me – the place was packed, and even though it wasn’t over his head, I needed to see him at all times.

He immediately got overstimulated – people, water, screams, splashes. It was overwhelming. I was overwhelmed.

A grandma stood next to me, watching Jack. She started talking – I couldn’t hear her well, but she was sweet, insightful, supportive. Jack yelled at me to “go away.” He’s a teenage boy who didn’t want his mom circling – but he was starting to spiral. The grandma stepped in to soothe him.

I was getting nervous about how we’d exit. I scanned the park like a first responder – a skill I mastered when Jack was no longer in a stroller and I had to navigate him in escalation mode, carry all our shit, and get us out of places when he was triggered. Jack is six feet tall now and outweighs me by a lot. He’s not the little boy I could direct, Mom handle, pick up, and get out.

Things escalated quickly. Both Jack and I knew we needed to leave ASAP. We were way up at the front of the pool, probably hundreds of people between us and the exit.

“Let’s go,” I said. Jack nodded.

He took off – but today was different. He didn’t let me out of his sight. He didn’t grab my hand – because gross, Mom – but he was getting us out of there with pure brute force.

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was announcing something. Most likely, “Get the fuck out of my way.” Given that he was raised by me… oops. But the waters were parting. People moved.

Three different moms I’d seen earlier made eye contact – gave me supportive signs. An arm rub. A smile. A nod.

Two dads quickly assessed the situation and followed us to make sure I was okay. Huge kid, very upset. Much smaller mom running behind. I got the optics. I appreciated their awareness and support.

But I didn’t need it.
My boy had us covered.
He was leading the way.
Clearing the path for his mom.

Even though the scene was chaotic, I was proud of him. He wasn’t the little boy who needed me to Mom handle him out of a spiraling situation. He was a young man taking charge and taking care of me. He kept glancing back, making sure I was keeping up. He looked different – protective – in control and determined in a way I hadn’t seen before.

That night, he kept calling me into his room – he wanted to talk. We’d talk, then he’d kick me out. He is a teenager.

As I sat on his bed, he told me he wanted a girlfriend. That he was sad. It broke my heart into a million pieces.

Jack is handsome, kind, empathetic. Smart and funny. Protective. I told him high school sucks, and his life will get so much better as an adult. That we’ll keep trying new things, meeting new people, going new places. That I am – and will always be – his biggest fan.

He got quiet, selected his favorite opera video on YouTube, and we sat together listening in silence.

Yes, my boy chooses opera for comfort.
Because he’s beautiful. He’s creative. He’s an old soul.

And he’s one hell of a catch for any young woman.

Episode 6 – Final

Episode 6 - Final, Lipstick / By

The View From Here

A friend once said to me,

“You don’t perform for attention. You perform for impact.”

The comment stopped me cold.

At first, I laughed it off. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how many of my decisions could be traced back to that simple truth.

Years ago, after the shock of Jack’s diagnosis began to settle and I could think clearly again, I made a decision. I wasn’t going to focus on what Jack couldn’t do. I was going to focus on what he could. What was the one obvious trait that baby Jack already possessed?

Confidence.

I chose to focus on confidence.
I fed it relentlessly.
His self-esteem.
His independence.
His leadership.
Eventually, his language.

Impact?
Yeah. Impact.

Today, seventeen-year-old Jack is a confident backseat driver who occasionally calls me “Karen” when I get dramatic. Recently, during a sensory-overload nightmare at Wild Waves Water Park, he calmly led me out of the chaos.

For a moment, our roles reversed. And as I followed him toward the exit, I couldn’t help but smile.

The little boy I once feared might never find his voice had become someone strong enough to guide me.

The Last Job of the Journey

I’m an optimist, I always have been. My Mom likes to tell this story about when I was young, probably four years old.

“Tayshia? What do you want to be when you grow up?” She asked me.

“I want to be a rich lady.” I responded matter-of-factly.

I’m not sure what my theory was behind that four-year old’s declaration, but I know now. Rich is subjective.

The diamond-in-the-rough of that last nightmare job in commercial real estate, was not only to confirm who I am professionally – but where I wanted to go next. My career identity is that of a legal professional. While I have practiced many different areas of law, the legal environment is home to me. I ‘get’ it. It’s where I was raised, and part of my DNA.

Second, the commercial real estate company that I endured only had one client – a hometown big tech company. From that job, I learned that the tech company offered competitive salaries, stock options, incredible medical benefits and robust supportive employment programs which could eventually benefit an adult Jack. I set my sights, I wasn’t stopping until I got that blue badge.

Nine years into this gig, we are not only safe & content – but happy. I am a senior paralegal focused on global human rights, and I work from home. Am I rich? Yes, very. I’ve written this life-long journey from my pink downstairs home office, that faces the street and that I call The Command Center.

I don’t have a dress code and haven’t worn nylons in decades. I have my trusty Scottie Dog, Angus, asleep in his bed next to me – Jack upstairs in his nautical bedroom with all of his electronics and stinky teen boy smell. My Mom is tending to her flowerpots out on the back deck that I had built last year. Our home is warm & inviting, and ours. Is it huge? No. But I am rich in so many ways.

Doom-scrolling

It was 4 o’clock in the morning and I was doom-scrolling. No matter how safe & content they are, parents of kids with disabilities don’t sleep. While Jack started regaining his speech at age 5, by saying one word, two words together by age 7 – he will still need life-long supports as an adult. His ‘speech’ is also a huge parent fail of mine.

He wasn’t deaf.
He was non-verbal.

When he started talking again, he talked just like me. And, I’m trash-talker. I am not proud to have to admit here, but I have a relatively filthy vocabulary – and now so does he.

Four a.m. is usually the time that us parents research resources for our kids. Because sleep is rarely an option. I stumbled across an announcement looking for parent advocate applicants for the Developmental Disability Council. A Governor appointed seat with the state which is federally mandated and funded under the Americans with Disabilities Act. During the interview, one of the self-advocates asked me why I applied for the seat – and I told him the dooms-scrolling story. He was taken aback, as I am sure that most applicants say something like they ‘want to serve – this is my passion’. Me? I wanted to sleep at night. I figured that if I could get on the inside and help change policy, advocate directly to the legislature for Jack – I could find some peace – and therefore, some sleep. In the end, the three years that I served on the Council enriched my life tremendously and will always benefit Jack indirectly.

Advocacy is my passion, it’s how I became Jack’s Mom. It started so many years ago, in that long line at the Post Office – embarrassing that cute young man – and agreeing to volunteer as an advocate for foster care reform. Again, I am rich in so many ways.

We Both Did the Work

I am assuming that most parents do this too, not just parents like me. That while we are  doing the grind, all the hard work – all the late nights – juggling & balancing – we may not realize that our kids are doing the work too. Observing, taking note, feeling the vibes. Learning the lessons, trying to please. Being brave.

Jack matched my efforts every step along the way. And still does….

Flashback – Facebook post from 2024

It doesn’t happen as often anymore, but when it does, it hits me like a flashback — sudden, sharp, and powerful. One second I’m standing in the foyer waiting for Jack to come downstairs for our nightly drive, and the next I’m pulled straight back to when he was five.

Non verbal.
Frustrated.

Hurting himself because he had no other way to communicate the storm inside him.

Not fully potty trained.
Unable to do any self care.

And me — already preparing myself to be his caregiver forever.

Ready to do it. Ready to be whatever he needed.

But, I was scared.

Then the present snapped back into focus.

I heard his bedroom door click shut.
The lights flip off.
His footsteps on the stairs – that teenage saunter that says, “I’m here, but I’m not rushing.”
And then he appeared.

Freshly showered.
Smelling like the Old Spice Swagger set I bought him for Christmas.
Hair brushed.
Clothes chosen on his own.

A young man who has fought for every skill, every milestone, every inch of independence.

I must’ve had a weird look on my face — because he leaned in close and whispered:

“Ready?”
But it wasn’t really “ready?”
It was, “Are you okay?”

And all I could muster up to say was:

“I’m ready. I’ll always be ready.”

Because I am.

For him.
For the journey.
For the moments that remind me how far we’ve traveled from that frustrated little boy and that scared mom who didn’t know what the future would look like.

He is strong & brave.
And I am strong & brave, because of him.

Some nights, the victories are loud.

Tonight, it was just a quiet foyer, a teenage boy who smells like Swagger, and a mother who realized – again – that miracles don’t always arrive in big moments.

Sometimes they walk down the stairs.

The Life That Built Me

Lipstick / By

The Life That Built Me

When I left California, I wasn’t running toward something anymore.

 

For most of my adult life, I had been in motion.
One more job.
One more city.
One more opportunity.
One more reinvention.

I had crossed states chasing careers, packed my belongings into more moving trucks than I cared to count, and spent years searching for a place that felt like home. Along the way, I collected experiences the way other people collected souvenirs – Hollywood, advocacy, motherhood, triumphs, failures, and enough unexpected detours to fill several lifetimes.
Returning to Seattle felt different.

For the first time, I wasn’t searching.

I had found my son.
I had found my purpose.

And, perhaps most surprising of all, I had found myself.
The reckless certainty of youth had been replaced by something steadier. Experience had a way of sanding down sharp edges. I was no longer making decisions on instinct alone. Years of advocacy taught me patience. Motherhood taught me humility. Life taught me that certainty was often an illusion and that resilience mattered far more than control.

The woman who came home from California was not the same woman who had left.

She was stronger.
More grounded.
Better educated.
More capable.

And for the first time in a very long time, she felt settled.

I had spent eight years advocating for children and families. I had watched parents fight impossible battles on behalf of their children. I understood systems, policies, and services. I knew how to navigate complexity. I knew how to ask hard questions. I knew how to keep moving when circumstances became difficult.

Looking back now, I can see that I was standing on the firmest ground of my life.

At the time, I simply thought I was beginning the next chapter.

I had no idea the most important chapter was about to begin.

The Silence was Deafening

Landing back home in Kirkland, we had rented a big five bedroom, three level house with my brother Ian and his then wife. My nephew Jace was only four days old. I was thrilled to raise Jack and Jace side by side, and I was ready to get to work – unpacking, job hunting, setting up temporary health insurance, building our new life.

One morning, roughly two weeks after we arrived, I was in the middle of the usual chaos – boxes everywhere, emails going out, paperwork spread across the dining room table – when I realized Jack hadn’t said anything. He was babbling. Just babbling.

At first, I thought it was stress. A big move. A new baby in the house. A lot of change for a little boy.

But curiosity turned into confusion. Confusion turned into fear. Fear turned into panic.

He was fine physically. But his words – the words he had worked so hard for – were gone. Just gone. Where did they go? How does that happen? I didn’t understand.
I didn’t have a pediatrician set up yet, so I took him to urgent care. They did a full exam. He was physically perfect. The doctor emphasized getting a PCP established as soon as possible. He didn’t say anything else, but I could tell by the look on his face that he was concerned.

My Mom alarm went off so loudly I could feel it in my bones.

Something was wrong with my beautiful baby – my life gift, my chosen child.
And that was the moment the medical chase for a diagnosis began.

The Lifeline

Even though my personal life was unraveling from the shock of Jack’s regression, I still needed to work. Bills didn’t care about my panic. Rent didn’t pause for grief. And I needed health insurance more than ever.

I eventually landed a permanent job at Seattle University School of Law, working as a paralegal in the law clinic. The clinic is where third year law students finally step into a courtroom and represent clients under the guidance of professors. I supported three professors teaching students how to navigate client representation and court procedure in domestic violence, immigration, and international human rights.

Nothing intense about that workload.

Working in an academic environment was a huge departure for me, but I loved it. By that stage of my career, I was a seasoned paralegal, and mentoring students felt familiar – almost like the advocacy work I had done for foster youth. It was grounding. It was purposeful. It was a place where my experience mattered.

But the real lifeline was the health insurance – and the community. I was still frantically trying to get Jack into specialists, calling clinics across the greater Seattle area, only to be told that waitlists were a year long. A year. I was drowning in fear, but at least at SU, I wasn’t drowning alone.

Alice in Wonderland

Evaluation day finally arrived – almost a year after Jack had said his last word. I was anxious, but determined. Doing nothing had been killing me. I needed answers. I needed a plan. I needed to help my baby.

The clinic was bright and cheerful, decorated with cartoon animals and primary colors. It felt wrong. My mood didn’t match the room. Jack and I were led into a large playroom where three women waited with clipboards and warm smiles.

For hours, they peppered me with questions, scribbled notes, exchanged glances. Jack ran around opening and closing drawers and doors, over and over. I barely noticed. He had always done that.

Eventually, one of them told me they needed to step out and discuss their findings. “Sit tight,” she said. They were gone for almost thirty minutes. Jack was restless. I was unraveling.

When the door finally opened, a woman I didn’t recognize walked in first. The evaluators followed behind her like a procession. She came straight to me and introduced herself as a social worker.

“Fuck.”

All my life experience had taught me one thing: if a social worker shows up, your life is not going well.
She sat beside me. The other three women sat on the floor in a semi circle, facing me like an audience.

As the first evaluator began to speak, the room tilted. I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole — upside down, spinning, objects flying past me, everything distorted. I must have been half blacking out because all I heard, one after another, was:

“He exhibits autistic characteristics.”
“He exhibits autistic characteristics.”
“He exhibits autistic characteristics.”
I must have started to sway because when I came back into my body, the social worker was gripping my arm and the evaluators were on their knees, bracing me. I remember searching each of their faces, desperate for someone to tell me something different.

And the truth is, I didn’t even know what autism was. I just knew it must be bad – because of the look on their faces, and because my baby no longer spoke.

As soon as I started the car, I turned off the radio. The screams inside my head were deafening. They didn’t need competition.

I was in shock.
I couldn’t cry.
I could barely breathe.

When I walked through the front door, my mom rushed out of the kitchen and froze. Whatever was on my face stopped her cold.

“WHAT? WHAT? Oh no – what…?” she pleaded.

“He has autism,” I whispered.

Over the next few months, I went into auto pilot. My days were focused on work and getting Jack every resource I could find. It was a full time job in itself: What does insurance cover? Occupational therapy? Physical therapy? Speech therapy? What am I missing? I was frantic.

The Bunker

My late nights took a dark turn. I kept a secret from my family – or at least I thought I did. After putting Jack to sleep, everyone else would retreat to their rooms, and I would go all the way down to the basement. It felt like a bunker down there: cement walls, cold air, boxes stacked with things we should have thrown out but never did.

There was a futon in the small room, but I didn’t use it. I’d curl up on the floor in the fetal position. Some nights I laid in silence. Some nights I scream cried. And some nights I made that deep, guttural moan – the same sound my body made two years earlier when I returned to an empty home after Emily reclaimed Jack. That sound is my body’s war cry for grief that has no language.

But it was in that bunker – on that cold cement floor – where something inside me finally snapped into place. A clarity I didn’t know I’d been circling my whole life.

The accident I survived as a child – the one that left a scar on my skull because my brain swelled so badly they had to drill a hole to relieve the pressure – that accident was never just about survival. It was about preparation.

I grew up hearing whispers in the next room about “Tayshia’s accident.” In my extended family, life was divided into before Tayshia’s accident and after. My parents were terrified of Spacesha – terrified that smoking weed might trigger something buried deep within my traumatic brain injury.

Why was I unscathed physically, impacted only mentally? Why did I walk away with a rewired brain instead of a broken body?
Because it wasn’t about me.

It was about Jack.

Whether you, the reader, can take that leap with me or not, know that I take it fully – because I believe it. Chosen child? Did he choose me, or did I choose him? Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe something bigger.

All I know is this: I had been preparing my whole life for him. And when the moment came, I was ready.

When I walked up the stairs out of the bunker that night, grief had been put on the sidelines, and grit and determination took over. I didn’t know what waited for me on the other side, but I was no longer afraid – I was mobilized. Whatever beast had wrapped itself around my child, I would learn its name, study its patterns, and find a way to tame it. The battle was beginning, and I was already becoming the warrior mother who Jack needed.

I would get ready.
I would always be ready.

Grad School Done Dirty

I came up out of The Bunker like a vampire whose castle had collapsed on their coffin -disheveled, dazed, blinking at the light like it was a personal attack. Three months of scream crying on a cement floor will do that to you. It strips you down to whatever truth can survive the dark.

When I finally surfaced, the grief didn’t lift – it clarified. I wasn’t just a single mother anymore. I now identified as the sole parent of a child with a disability, and the cost of that reality was staggering.

I hit the research like someone checking the price of their own survival. On average, it costs 17.8% more per year to raise a child with a disability. And I was just one person. One income. One everything.

“Fuck.”

That was the moment – still half dazed from The Bunker, still shaking from everything I’d survived – when the decision snapped into place.

I was going back to school. Not inspired. Not hopeful. Not ready.

Just determined.

Grad school wasn’t ambition. It was survival.

A perk of being an employee at SU was free tuition, so I enrolled in the Public Administration graduate program at night. And that’s when I learned two things very quickly:

1. I wasn’t making enough money at SU to support Jack and myself.
2. Night classes in the city were a fever dream I could not afford — financially, emotionally, or logistically.

So I landed a new job – more on that nightmare later – closer to home, and transferred into the same program at my alma mater, the University of San Francisco. Online. Jesuit education, even though I’m not Catholic. I love the rigor. I love the structure. I love the community aspect.

Although she was 100% willing, I was not going to have my mom raise Jack while I was in school. I wasn’t about to miss any part of him growing up.

So that’s how things got dirty.

Because “online grad school” for me didn’t look like a latte, a laptop, and a curated study playlist. It looked like:

* researching FEMA policy on an iPhone at the park while Jack waded in the water like a tiny Viking king surveying his kingdom

* reading tax codes on an iPad sitting on the bathroom floor while he splashed in the tub and squealed his own aquatic adventures

* highlighting lobbying restrictions during Mickey Mouse marathons, praying the Hot Dog Song would buy me ten more minutes of focus

* writing papers at 2 a.m. because that was the only time the house stopped needing me

* pulling all nighters, then going straight to work, then coming home to be Mom, then logging back in as a grad student

*crying on the stairs, telling my mother I was dropping out, then remembering I’d have student loans for an unfinished degree and dragging myself back upstairs like a defeated gladiator returning to the arena

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t balanced. It wasn’t inspirational.

What kept me going was knowing it was temporary. I could do anything for two years if it meant getting Jack the support he needed – a future after I was gone.

In the end, it was dirty. It was survival. It was the only way forward.

Two weeks before I finished grad school, literarily – TWO WEEKS – I was laid-off again.

The Detour

I’m just going to put this out there: I am not ashamed. Sometimes I still do some pretty crazy shit. But in a more adulting way – like the kind of impulsive chaos that technically counts as “professional development” if you squint hard enough.

While studying the open position ads, I saw something that sparked an interest: Senior Business Manager for a commercial real estate company. I used to have my real estate license. I liked real estate. So I applied.

Got hired.
Regretted it from day one.

That world was PowerPoint decks and sales pitches. Mine was client representation and contracts. They used Excel.

Excel.

Legal people don’t use Excel. Legal people use Word, Westlaw, and caffeine. They prep for trials and IPO deadlines. These people prepped for executive presentations with color coded charts and “synergy.”

They conducted detailed, all day trainings. I get nervous and overshare in front of a group. Awkward.

For almost two years, I had the most frustrating job I had EVER had – while doing grad school dirty at night. It was a nightmare. Because? Of course it was. Sometimes my impetuous borderline high risk experiments work out, and… well… sometimes they don’t.

This job? A definite NOT.

They knew it. I knew it. But I was stuck.

I made the decision to try and make it work long enough to finish school.

They had other plans.

Scottie Dog Giggles

Tree of Life - Family / By
It’s ridiculous enough that Angus insists on sitting on my lap while we are at the park. It’s next level that he laughs while doing it.

Angus is the 3 year old Scottie Dog who I bought for my Mom, who lives with me and is also 100% Scottish. He’s named after my Grandpa’s Grandpa, who was notorious throughout the Highlands of Scotland for being a bugger. His collar is the Clan McGregor plaid, which was my Mom’s maiden name. Pretty thoughtful gift, huh? A nice generational story, right?

It’s amazing how you can bring a little animal into a home with everything planned out, and they say – “um, no.” Baby Angus arrived and immediately assessed the house. He’d go to Grammy for unconditional love & affection, he’d stay away from the teenage boy because he is often grumpy, because – teenager – and me? I’d do EVERTYTHING else:

Feed
Walk
Bath
Vet appts
Trips to the groomer

And the ever present, let dog in – let dog out. I work from home so I take Angus to doggy daycare twice a week for 1/2 days so that I can actually get some work done. So on top of his breed traits of being stubborn & pushy, we now have ‘day care kid’ personality – part of the pack. I live in fear of the neighborhood Ring cameras, daily they see Angus & I out for our afternoon tussle. We don’t go for walks, we go for public power struggles. He LOVES taking me on, he laughs & laughs.

I am known wide & far as Angus’s Mom, sigh. Yes, I now ‘own it’. I am The Mom of the house, all creatures great & small.

Lipstick & Deadlines – A Memoir

2 Comments / Episode 4, Lipstick / By

The Long Way Home

When I left LA and headed north on I 5, I wasn’t running toward enlightenment. I was running toward not having to make a decision for a minute. I had severance money, a Jetta full of books, and the emotional stability of a woman who had just fled a city that tried to kill her via BMW.

So naturally, I went to Portland.

Specifically, to my great Aunt Chris’s house — the only place on earth where you could find:

a woman in her mid 80s who still looked vaguely like Rita Hayworth,
a backyard that belonged in Better Homes & Gardens,
and enough booze in the basement to qualify as a speakeasy.

I have a poster of Rita Hayworth in my media room as a tribute to Aunt Chris. It’s glamorous, dramatic, iconic – everything she was.
She always had bright red fingernail polish, the kind that could signal planes in an emergency, and she wore a diamond so large it could blind a small child.

One summer evening, someone asked her how she stayed in such good shape. She lifted her martini, waved those red nails, and said:

“I keep my booze in the basement. That way I do the stairs all day long.”

This is the kind of woman who, at 85, got mugged in a grocery store parking lot and told me — with pride — that when the guy was arrested, he only had one shoe.

I spent that summer with her. Every day at precisely 4 p.m., we met in her kitchen for Manhattan cocktails — and they were legit. Not the watered down kind. The kind that make you rethink your life choices in a pleasant way.

I spent the summer writing, wandering Portland, and trying to figure out what came next.

The Juvenile Defense Era

In the fall, Aunt Chris headed to the beach, and I landed a job with two criminal defense attorneys downtown. It was gritty, messy, and absolutely my comfort zone — I was raised in my dad’s law office, so juvenile court felt like home, just with more paperwork and fewer snacks.

No nylons. No dress code. Just crime, coffee, and court deadlines.

I loved it.
Until I didn’t.

About six months in, one of our juvenile clients stole my backpack including my wallet, my writing drafts and my antique lipstick case my grandmother gave me.

That lipstick case was the gut punch. You know how I feel about lipstick. It’s basically a religion.

I couldn’t report it — because it was our own client. Not a great look to call the cops on the kid you’re supposed to be helping. Also not a great look for the kid to rob the legal support staff, but here we were.

Then the partners lost their county contract. Practice dissolved. Job gone. Honestly? Fine. I wasn’t planning on staying forever. I was planning on staying until the universe told me to move.

And it did.

Return to Cali (Again)

My mom was building a house in Redding to be near her sister, so China Blu and I packed up — again — and headed south.

Uncertainty was starting to wear on me. I’d been bouncing around like a pinball, and I finally started thinking about where I wanted to be in five years. Preferably somewhere with fewer juvenile thieves and more stability.

I rented a room from one of my aunt’s friends and got a job with a sole practitioner doing probate, estate planning, and real estate law.

Redding was… surprisingly great. Small town. Big personalities. Probate cases that made me question humanity on a weekly basis.

One case involved a man who meticulously reorganized his entire estate, cut out his entire family, wrote them scathing letters explaining why, then walked to a lake, stood at the end of a dock, and ended his life in a way that guaranteed they wouldn’t find him for a long time.

I mean… I know family drama. But this was Shakespearean. I also got my real estate license so I could sell probate properties. My friend Jesse congratulated me by saying:

“I can’t believe you passed!”
Thanks, Jesse. Love the confidence.

I was building a life — friends, work, purpose — and feeling grounded for the first time in a long time.

And then the Post Office happened.

The Post Office Greeting

I walked into the Redding Post Office and the line was biblical. Small town. One post office. Everyone apparently mailing something that day.

I had to stay — the legal document needed a postmark — so I settled in.

A cute young man stood in front of me. He turned around. We smiled.

And I said, because I am me:
“You’re cute. What do you do.”

He blushed all the way to the top of his bald head.

Turns out he worked in my building — outreach coordinator for a statewide nonprofit advocating for foster care reform.

He asked if I wanted to volunteer. I said I’d read his packet because he was cute. He laughed. He knew exactly what was happening.

And that random Post Office moment turned into eight years of me advocating for foster care reform.

Bay Area Bound — Life Gets Serious

After a few years in Redding, the restlessness kicked in again — the kind that starts in your ribs and whispers, “Okay babe, what’s next?” My mom had sold the house she built and moved to the East Bay of San Francisco, and I’d been thinking about finally finishing my undergrad. The Bay had more opportunities, more schools, more energy — and, apparently, more chaos waiting for me.

So once again, I packed up my life.

But this time, I didn’t have China Blu.

He had passed away at 19 — my tiny, loud, dramatic Siamese who had survived LA, Portland, Redding, and every questionable decision I’d ever made. It was my first move without him. I still keep him with me always.

I landed at my mom’s condo in the East Bay and got a job at Shakers, a health product distributor. I also switched chapters with the same nonprofit and started commuting into Oakland every Thursday to continue advocating for foster care reform.

Life was getting serious. I was finally growing up. I had clung to misguided youth as long as humanly possible — like a Real Housewife clings to her Botox.

Shakers: The “Wait, What?” Era

Like the probate cases I handled in Redding, Shakers had its share of what the hell moments.

I worked as a paralegal supporting hospitality contract negotiations for worldwide events. Because of the distributor model, many of our distributors were retirees supplementing their income with vitamins, shakes, and entrepreneurial optimism.

One afternoon, someone called asking me to join a meeting with our insurance carrier.

Insurance had denied coverage for a group of eighty-year-old distributors who wanted to rent quads in Mexico.

She wanted Legal to override the decision.

I laughed.
She didn’t.
So I repeated it back to her.

“You want Legal to waive insurance requirements so a bunch of eighty-year-olds can ride ATVs in a foreign country?”

“Yes.”
“No.”

And that, in a nutshell, was Shakers.

The work was interesting. The people were mostly lovely. But for the first time, my life outside the office was becoming more important than what happened inside it.

Finding My Voice

While I was continuing to building a legal career, something much bigger was happening after work.

By day, I was being mildly amused — and occasionally horrified — by the bizarre incompetence of my in house client base. By night, I was deep into my passion: foster care reform.

Every Thursday night, I risked my life driving in and out of Oakland. At that time, Oakland was exactly as rough as its reputation — gun violence, street violence, violence violence. Those kids had not only witnessed extreme violence; they had lived it.

I found my passion.
I found my people.
I found my purpose.

Looking back, I think those kids were preparing me for motherhood long before I knew it.

I adored those kids.

I felt like they taught me more than I taught them, for instance:

My next level dance skills. I got moves.

We traveled around the state four times a year to conferences — weekend long events with about 100 current and former foster youth.

Oh, the stories.
Drama.
Laughter.
Tears.
Breakups.
Hookups.

We saw it ALL.

And nothing made me feel more alive than working alongside those kids on policies, trainings, and community outreach. I went to graduations, birthday parties, baby showers — any life event they invited me to.

It was that work — those kids — that motivated me to finally finish my undergraduate degree so I could do more, be more, and be a stronger resource.

In January, I was accepted into the University of San Francisco’s Public Administration program. I wanted to focus on nonprofit policy. USF had a satellite campus in the East Bay, close to my house. During the week, my classes were there; on Saturdays, I trekked into San Francisco — up to the main campus atop Lone Mountain.

It is breathtaking.

Now my life was REALLY busy. Full time job. Night classes. Oakland on Thursdays. Youth events on weekends.

I was running on all cylinders — building the life I wanted, the life I needed.

The Day Everything Changed

On Sunday, April 26th, I met a young woman who had grown up in foster care. She was seven months pregnant and scared.

Long story extremely short?

I agreed to adopt her baby when he was born.

And the following Friday?

I was laid off.
Because of course I was.

I wasn’t surprised. I knew the attorney I reported to was throwing me under the bus. She’d leave the office every day around 10:30 a.m. and not come back until 2 p.m. She was doing all the things stay at home moms do — except she HAD A JOB. The department manager started noticing. Started calling her on it. And she blamed me for her screw ups.

I didn’t care.

When I was pulled into the conference room with her and HR to tell me they were eliminating my position, I countered with:

“This works out perfectly. I’m having a baby in two months.”

They were shocked.
I was relieved.

The same attorney who had spent months throwing me under the bus walked me to my car and told me she couldn’t believe how brave I was. Rich, coming from a turn coat.

I just smiled.

My Chosen Child

Emily had planned to keep her baby, but as her due date approached, she became increasingly worried that her unstable circumstances would eventually land him in foster care.

By then, I had spent eight years advocating for foster care reform. My entire goal had been simple:
less kids in care.

So when she asked if I would adopt him, I didn’t agonize over the decision.

He would be one less child in care.

The accident that nearly ended my story before it began had taught me not to waste the chapters that followed. I had spent years chasing opportunities, adventures, and experiences, rarely knowing where they might lead. Looking back, that was the moment when all the roads I’d spent years traveling finally began to point in the same direction.

Over the next two months, Emily and I bonded. It was the most surreal experience of my life. We talked every day; I saw her every few days. We were planning for the baby — my Jack — to come into this world. We spent an entire day in San Francisco being tourists, sightseeing, laughing, sharing our lives. It felt out of body, like watching myself from above. I took her to all her doctor appointments, and together we drafted a parenting plan for after the birth.

California didn’t require an attorney or an agency, so I walked into the court clerk’s office and bought an “adoption packet.” I did all the legal work for my son’s adoption myself.

In the background, my mom’s friends were frantically preparing for Jack’s arrival. Jack was a community baby — everyone was invested. I had three baby showers: two thrown by my mom’s friends and one in Redding with all my dear friends. By the time Jack was born, he had a beautiful nursery and every creature comfort a baby could need.

The Bay Area was having a heatwave during the two week window when Jack was due — because of course it was. Emily had no A/C, so she was admitted to the hospital. They induced her, but Jack refused to be born for over three days. Anxiety was high, tensions were strained, and Emily and I were both in distress. Our relationship hit some bumps, as you can imagine.

After Jack was born, he had blood sugar issues and was in the NICU for three days. Which meant I sat in a chair in the NICU for three days. The staff was amazing. When I held Jack, I sobbed and told him our entire family history — my hopes, my dreams, everything I wanted to teach him and share with him. Out of nowhere, a Kleenex would appear. Every few hours, a snap and fresh water. They were watching me, caring for me. Angels.
When Emily called and wanted Jack brought to her — her right while still in the hospital — I slept in that same chair. I’d wake up covered in blankets, a pillow nearby, fresh water waiting. They cared for me as fiercely as I cared for him.

Jack was born on July 1st and released from the hospital on July 4th — the only legal day your dumb ass neighbors can lawfully let off cannons next to your house. It was a nightmare. I was exhausted, terrified of being a clueless new mom. But my baby was home — for ten days.

The Reclaim

It was a Wednesday morning at 7:30 a.m. when the state social worker — the one I was required to hire — called. With my legal background and familiarity with the foster care system, I knew one thing for certain: your life is not going well if you need an attorney or a social worker. And sure enough, Emily had changed her mind. She wanted ten day old Jack back. The State allowed her thirty days to change her mind.

The social worker told me she would buy us some time — until Friday afternoon. Time for Emily to rethink her request, given her emotional and hormonal state. And time for me to figure out what I could do, if anything.

I was spinning. Panicked. Terrified.

I called my dad. He said he’d look into any legal arguments I might have for keeping Jack, but chances seemed slim. So I did what I always do when I’m scared and determined — I went off the grid.

I dug through every piece of paperwork I had. I pulled up all the emails from Emily, the state case worker, the social worker. I storyboarded — a technique used by screenwriters and homicide detectives — everything. And I found what I needed: the bio dad’s name and address. Coincidentally, the bio dad was also named Jack. I called him Ragnar the Viking — Ragnar for short. Born in Denmark. Dual citizenship.

Nordic Compass

By that afternoon, Jack had a sitter, and my mom and I were standing on the porch of Ragnar’s grandmother’s house, pounding on the door. No one was home, and I wasn’t leaving. Within fifteen minutes, an older woman pulled into the drive, confused as to why we were standing in her yard. Immediately another car pulled up — a young man jumped out and hurried to his grandmother. He started escorting her inside while asking who we were.

I burst into tears.

Through sobs, I managed to explain who I was, what I wanted, and asked if he would help me. I shocked the hell out of him. But he remained calm and gentle. He agreed to help in any way he could, and we arranged to meet for coffee on Saturday morning.

Still grasping for straws, I called CPS. A social worker recommended that the hand off happen at a police station — neutral ground, controlled environment, fewer chances for an outburst. Arrangements were made: 3 p.m. at the Walnut Creek Police Station.

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Panic. Numbness. Shock. Out of body. When the time came, I met Emily and her friend with Jack. My mom was with me, the social worker was there, and Emily’s former Court Appointed Special Advocate from her foster care years showed up too. Everyone exploded — arguing, shouting — except Emily and me.

We just cried.

Through sobs, I told her his eating cycle, when he’d had his last bath, explained all of his care. A woman police officer stood between us, trying not to cry herself. Emily took Jack into the parking garage, out of my sight, changed his clothes, and brought them back to me. Then I watched the three of them walk off.

Devastated.
Traumatized.
Terrified.

When I got home, it felt like my baby had died. Bottles still in the fridge. His dirty morning diaper in the trash. The entire house smelled like his baby fresh scent. I laid down on the daybed in his nursery and made moaning sounds my body had never created before — because I had never felt that much grief. I honestly thought my body was going to stop working. Or maybe I was hoping it would, because I couldn’t imagine a future without him.

Bat Out of Hell

The phone started ringing at 7:30 p.m., and I couldn’t answer it. Emily needed to be on her own; she needed to figure it out. I couldn’t mentor her anymore — I was flatlined with grief. She didn’t leave a voicemail.

But she called again at 11:30 p.m. Same thing — I couldn’t face talking to her. Then the phone beeped: voicemail.

Tough as nails Emily — who survived foster care from age two to eighteen — was sobbing and pleading:

“Come get your baby. I’ve made a mistake. Please. Come and get your baby.”

I screamed.
Jumped up.
Bolted.

I don’t even remember if I put shoes on. I think I was in slippers. My mom came out of her room, drowsy, asking what was going on.

“We are going to pick up Jack!”

She ran down the stairs as is, both of us in pajamas. We jumped into the car, and I took off like a bat out of hell — the Devil himself couldn’t have caught me. By then it was midnight, and I was tearing through the beautiful town of Danville trying to hit I 5 north. Emily was about half an hour away. I floored the gas pedal of my crappy little Dodge Neon. The car rattled — it had never gone that fast. My mom? She had taken a sleeping pill to knock herself out because of her grief. So she was a full blown bobblehead — like she’d taken a horse sized muscle relaxer to the neck. She couldn’t hold her head up.

We finally reached Emily’s apartment building. There was only one entrance — and it was blocked by three cop cars with lights blazing. They had a guy bent over the hood of one car in handcuffs.

I jumped out, running at them, screaming:

“MOVE! I need to get in there, NOW. MOVE!”

The cops looked at me like, What the fuck? One started to move his hand toward his belt — taser? Gun? I didn’t care. Behind me, someone yelled:

“LADY! HEY, LADY!”

I spun around to see a scrawny guy with huge gauge earrings pointing across the lot.

“Go park in Jack in the Box!”
“Oh. Thanks.”

I jumped back in the car, whipped us into the parking lot, shimmied under the fence, and sprinted toward the elevators. Just as I reached the elevator bay, the doors opened — and Emily walked out, still sobbing, holding Jack.

The three of us stood there for what felt like forever — Emily and I sobbing, Jack squeezed between us.

As I carried Jack back to the car, all the policemen — and their detainee — watched me in silence. I must have been quite the sight: a sobbing woman in pajamas carrying a baby back to her car, after almost getting a cap in my ass.

Oh Shit, Ragnar…

We didn’t get home until almost 2 a.m., and I was supposed to meet Ragnar at 10 a.m. for coffee. I was completely emotionally exhausted, but Emily not wanting to let go of Jack tipped me off: I needed to close off all loose ends. I needed to face Ragnar, see his temperament, understand his true feelings, and be prepared.

Ragnar is a big Viking — born in Denmark, father still living there. He’d been in the Coast Guard and looked the part. But he was gentle and kind with me. A gentleman. I wasn’t going to speculate about what went down between him and Emily, or why I had Jack. I wasn’t looking for explanations or defenses. I just needed to make sure Jack was safe at my home.

And I am not above playing the girl card. I dressed up really feminine — cute outfit, perfect hair, and my lifelong armor: bright red lipstick. My personal war paint. I usually wear a wine tint, so if you ever see me wearing red, look around — I’m about to stir up some shit.

When I walked up, Ragnar and his friend — the weasel — were sitting outside at a table. Ragnar was nervous; the weasel was intense. I called him the weasel because he was scrawny, gaunt, and smoking cigarettes off the butt — lighting one before the other was finished.

My head was spinning, so I don’t remember the exact words exchanged, but the gist was this: Ragnar’s mom and sister wanted Jack. I already knew he was family oriented — he lived with his grandma and mom — which is why I needed to meet him in person.

He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Does he look like this?”

It was a picture of him at about two years old. Jack was only thirteen days old at the time, but I’ll be damned — when my Jack turned two, he looked exactly like that picture.

Jack – 2nd Birthday

Ragnar asked if I would be willing to have an open adoption, to let him and his family be part of Jack’s life. Absolutely. And I meant it. The more people who love a child, the better.

The weasel stayed quiet until Ragnar got up to get more coffee. Then he leaned toward me and said, flatly:

“I see what’s happening here. He’s going to have to step over your dead body to take that baby.”

I nodded — just as flatly.

“I’ve known this family my entire life. I’m going to tell them that that baby is exactly where he needs to be. And to leave him alone.”

When we left, it was an awkward be in touch vibe. I immediately called my dad, who told me never to speak to Ragnar directly again — everything needed to be in writing going forward.

The Final Sprint

The agony of that weekend carried straight into Monday. Emily, the social worker, and I met at the same Jack in the Box where I had parked my car a few days earlier — this time for her to sign the paperwork relinquishing Jack into my care so I could become his legal guardian. It was emotional for both of us. I had grown to love Emily; she was still healing from giving birth, and I was deeply concerned about her wellbeing. But I had to put Jack’s wellbeing above all else.

As I drove away, it hit me like a ton of bricks — it was Emily’s 21st birthday. The magnitude of what she had just done, on the day of her birth, was overwhelming.

I turned off the radio. Drove home in silence. Tears streaming down my face.

Thankfully, things went quiet for the next few months. I increased my school loans so I wouldn’t have to worry about working. My focus was school and baby Jack. He was thriving — the prettiest baby I had ever seen.

Then December rolled around, and I received a text from Emily: Ragnar was back from Denmark, and he had a new girlfriend. They wanted to play house and take Jack.

Shit.

Emily told him she had already relinquished, that I was Jack’s legal guardian, and that she would fight with me against him. She told him to leave us alone. I tipped off the state case worker that Ragnar was back in the country and making noise about wanting Jack. Within a few days — maybe a week — I heard from the case worker on a Friday. She had reached Ragnar, and he agreed to come in that following Monday to talk with her. I was on pins and needles all weekend. I had no idea what he was planning. I was bracing for impact.

Late Monday afternoon, the case worker called. I held my breath.

She said Ragnar came into the office with a long list of detailed questions. She said he appeared to have agonized over the decision, but ultimately concluded that Jack was best staying with me. He signed the required paperwork.

My nightmare was almost over.

My Christmas present that year — and every year until I die — was this truth:

My baby was loved.

Nobody walked away easily. Not Emily. Not Ragnar. Not Ragnar’s mom, sister, or grandma. Not me. Not my family. Everyone showed up for my baby. He was wanted. He was loved. And he was fought for — because he mattered. In the end, everyone did right by him. Everyone put him first. I never viewed it as I won. Only that:

I am his mother. Period.

California Wrap‑Up

In 2010, the State of California employees were undergoing furloughs — because of course they were. My life loves to torture me. My case worker was suddenly part time, stretching out every ounce of drama in Jack’s adoption. Nothing like having your baby learn to walk, fall down, bonk his head — and worry about bruises because you only have guardianship. Even when things were “quiet,” I was anxious. Why wouldn’t I be? Whoever said “Nothing worth having comes easy” can fuck off.

From January until September, my life was schoolwork and state home visits. Yep — I was literally being graded and judged. Unemployed. Single. Not exactly the backdrop you’d choose for adopting a child. But my case worker was wonderful. She saw my potential, saw my ferocity, and knew I’d step over her dead body if she tried to take him from me.

Finally, the big deal — Adoption Day: September 26, 2010.

Mom, Jack, and I headed to the courthouse. No attorney. Just me, acting on my own behalf. By that time, I didn’t need backup — I was ready. The judge and bailiff were warm and kind; they told me adoption day was their favorite day on the court calendar. They handed Jack a little stuffed animal, which still lives in my dresser drawer for protection.

I walked out of that courtroom carrying Jack McGregor Farra.

While we were at the hearing, my mom’s friends were setting up a beautiful party on the patio of our condo. It was lovely. The guy I was dating — a San Francisco trust fund kid — brought expensive champagne to celebrate.

But I still couldn’t relax. My body had been tense for so long it didn’t recognize safety. Not until the next morning. I woke up, opened my eyes — and it felt like my body combusted. I sobbed so hard I almost threw up. The relief was overwhelming — physical, emotional. I didn’t know how to feel “normal.”

The next big date was December 19 — graduation day. I had three months to finish all my assignments and my Capstone project, every last undergraduate requirement. It’s still hard to believe I kept up with school during that insane time. Tell me I can’t do something? Hold my beer and watch me.

Graduation night was the wettest in San Francisco history — or if it wasn’t, it should have been. Torrential rain. Thrashing wind. My mom’s good friend Judy drove us into the city to watch me walk and help with Jack. He was in a stroller in monsoon conditions as we approached the Cathedral. My arms were full of my gown and everything else, and Mom and Judy lifted Jack’s stroller up the stairs. Judy lost her cool and started cussing at the surrounding men:

“Are there not any gentlemen left in this fucking world? Can anyone step up and help us?”

That’s how my undergrad graduation started — because of course it would. The ceremony itself was beautiful. Six days before Christmas. Magical. Emotional. I was proud of myself.

Three weeks later, we packed up like the band of gypsies we are and moved back home to Washington State.

Little did I know that the hardest and most important chapter of our story was about to begin.

The Echo

2 Comments / Parent Chronicles / By

The fireworks ended hours earlier, but the real spark came at 1:30 a.m.

 

A teenage girl wrote to tell me who my son is in the world — a light, a ritual, a joy, a better‑person catalyst.

 

I’ve spent years telling Jack’s story from my vantage point.

At 1:30 on Sunday morning, I got to hear it from someone else’s.

 

Her text profoundly impacted me, for several reasons There is something life‑altering about seeing your child reflected back through the eyes of someone who loves him for exactly who he is.

 

Below is her text:

 

Hello Ms. Farra! This is __________, one of Jack’s friends from the firework show. I just wanted to tell you how much of a light Jack is in my life. Jack and I shared leadership class our freshman year where his consistent hello brightened my day, every day. Then, both this year and last, I have had lunch with Jack. Jack used to yell at me across the lunch room any time that he saw me. Because of this, we started our daily routine where he says hi to me when I get in the lunchroom, I walk over to his table after grabbing my lunch and have a conversation with him, then after lunch he waits for my friend group outside of the area we eat and he says hi to each person. Any time he is not there, we all ask where Jack is today. This year I had the opportunity to hangout with him at the day of champions as well, where I got to see his pure joy at everything. I say all of this to show how Jack has impacted my life. Jack is the sweetest soul i have ever met, being a large topic of conversation between me and my mother after sports every day. Mom started asking how my conversation with jack went each day because i would always come home and tell her about how I want to be like jack. Seeing so much good in people, his creativity and genuine care for others is a breath of fresh air. Thank you so much for being an amazing parent to Jack, making him the kind person he is. I believe all mothers deserve more acknowledgement than they are given, especially you. I understand that being the parent of a life skills student may come with it’s adversities, and i want to acknowledge the amazing job you are doing. Raising a child comes with no “how to” book, but if there were, i would hope that you wrote it. You are raising the person who made me want to be a better person, so I Thank you. If I get any more information about other kids in the rise program, I will make sure to send it over to you.

 

***In my text back to her I said, “Please tell YOUR Mom that I appreciate her raising such an empathic, kind, decent – beautiful young woman!”

 

I can sleep better at night now knowing that Jack has peers/friends like this in his life….

 

Love & Light