My daughter Annalise was born with Spina Bifida. When she was about two months old, we started Early Intervention Therapy. I’ll admit, I was skeptical at first. Because it was state-provided, I assumed it couldn’t be very effective. Shame on me for thinking that—I could not have been more wrong. One of our very first sessions was physical therapy. I was nervous, wondering if my tiny baby would handle it, if she would be upset being moved in ways she wasn’t used to. Our physical therapist, Chris, walked in with a smile—but got straight to work. She had a no-nonsense energy about her, clearly there to do a job. And whether Annalise or I liked it or not, she was going to do it.
After a few months, what started as two sessions a week became three, then four. Over time, Chris became so much more than a therapist—she became a friend and a guide. She coached me into becoming a strong mother of a child with “diversabilities,” as we call them. Chris never allowed me to wallow in fear or uncertainty about Annalise’s future. She acknowledged my tears but always reminded me of the strides Annalise was making. She let me cry, then told me to pick myself up, dust off the fear, and move forward to the next challenge.
In November 2018, Chris mentioned she had someone she thought I should meet—a mother of a little baby she had just started working with. She said we might have things in common, but because of privacy laws, she couldn’t tell me much. A few days later, she gave me a phone number and said, “Gianna would love to talk to you and have a mom friend with some things in common.”
I instantly regretted saying yes. I was 33 at the time, with a couple of close friends, and didn’t think I needed more. What if we didn’t like each other? What would I even say? My insecurities got the better of me, and I checked her Facebook. Her profile picture was of her and her husband on their wedding day—beautiful, thin, and perfect. I worried we wouldn’t relate; I, the chronic over-sharer, couldn’t imagine what we’d have in common. After confessing this to Chris, she laughed and reassured me that we would get along.
I held onto Gianna’s number for a few days before finally texting her. We started with baby photos, exchanging “oohs and aahs” over our girls. Slowly, we opened up, talking about our daughters’ diagnoses, our fears, and our hopes. Somehow, we even joked about how cute the girls would be together and tentatively planned to meet. I wasn’t sure I wanted a stranger in my home—but eventually, we set a date.
Alaya, Gianna’s daughter, had never been to a friend’s house before—she was immunocompromised. I met Gianna at the door, and the woman before me was nothing like the polished Facebook photo. She was out of breath from hauling a baby seat and diaper bag up my steep driveway, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. I laughed at myself for over-preparing, putting on a full face of makeup, thinking we had to “impress” each other. We swapped babies, slathered on hand sanitizer, and settled in to talk. Gianna shared her deepest struggles—her husband’s addiction, the stress of navigating life as a single parent at times, and the lack of understanding from old friends. Despite it all, we laughed and bonded over our girls. We left that day already planning our next visit.
Our friendship grew over the months, through hospital stays, surgeries, and milestones. Alaya would face multiple hospital visits and complex surgeries. Gianna was there for us when Annalise had her first shunt malfunction and emergency surgery. She shared her experience, wisdom, prayers, and unwavering support. Our girls loved FaceTiming each other, squealing at every sight and sound. Gianna came to Annalise’s first birthday party despite challenges with her own family situation, and we spent beautiful days together—petting zoos, afternoons in the pool, visits with family. But as often happens with medically fragile babies, joy was always accompanied by hospital realities.
This November marks one year since Gianna and I officially became friends. Though we’re ten years apart, it feels like we’ve been part of each other’s lives forever. In September 2019, Alaya was admitted to the hospital for emergency care—a reminder of how acute and unpredictable life can be for children like ours. Through seven brain surgeries, countless scares, and unimaginable stress, Gianna has been a constant, unshakable presence. She never wavers, never falters—Alaya is always her first priority.
I didn’t think we needed each other. I didn’t know Annalise needed Alaya. But sometimes, God works in ways we can’t anticipate. Our PT, Chris, brought us together—perhaps so we could vent to each other, share our victories, and support one another through the hardest days. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but for parents of children with diverse abilities, that village is essential. Reach out—not just to moms like you, but to all moms. Everyone is struggling; some just hide it better than others.
