10/20/2026
People often know me as Ella’s mom, and that will always be one of the most important parts of who I am. Ella is an autistic teenager with cerebral palsy and epilepsy, but she is so much more than her diagnoses. She’s funny, expressive, determined, and brings so much joy into everyone’s life. Being her mom is a deep love and a daily life filled with routines, appointments, advocating, decisions, adapting, celebrating small wins, and getting through hard days. I love her with my whole heart, and I can also be tired. Both things can be true.
Then there is DeJuan. He was my husband, my person, and Ella’s best friend, her everything. He was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and died ten months later. It’s been almost a year since he passed away. I miss him in ordinary moments, in the conversations I still reach for, and in the future we thought we’d share. As that anniversary gets closer, I’m finding that grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Sometimes I carry it quietly while I take care of Ella and get through the day; sometimes it catches me all at once.
Somewhere in the middle of motherhood, caregiving, and grief, I am still Yolanda. I am not only the one who remembers, organizes, and handles what needs doing. I have feelings, needs, hopes, good days, difficult days, laughter, and dreams. I am still learning how to make space for myself without feeling like I am taking anything away from Ella or DeJuan. Loving them and caring about myself can both be true.
To the moms and dads carrying more than people can see, especially those caring for a disabled child, missing someone they love, or wondering when they’ll feel like themselves again: I see you. You can love your family deeply and still feel stretched thin. You can be grateful and overwhelmed, steady one day and undone the next. You are a whole person, too. I am learning that alongside you, one day at a time.
