In my 20s, when kids came up in conversation, I’d say I didn’t want any.
At the time my friends were all partnered and employed, with time and money to spend. Our creative, tipsy weekends were filled with the whims of the child-free: a France-themed book club with a five-course dinner we cooked ourselves; lazy afternoons playing cornhole at the local brewery.
“Why would I want to give up this freedom?” I’d ask. Yet the real source of my aversion was darker: I thought I wasn’t fit to be a mother. My pursuit of a perfect life was indefatigable in those days, but it was largely to escape the self-judgment that burrowed at my core. I worried this fundamental discontentment would be terrible for a child.
Then everything changed. A bout of heat exhaustion on a hike in Santorini triggered a latent neurological condition and a genetic connective tissue disorder. Overnight, I went from being a robust runner and business owner to someone who spent most of her time in bed. At 28, I had become permanently disabled.
It took two years for doctors to diagnose me, then another year for me to accept it. I could no longer run or even walk. Simply standing brought on severe dizziness. My days were marked by intractable pain, nausea and fatigue. I stopped working. My 12-year romantic relationship ended. Friendships shifted. I started therapy.
No one asked me about kids anymore because becoming a mother no longer looked likely.
But then something incredible happened: I started to like myself. I’d spent my 20s striving for perfection but feeling like I was always falling short. I began my 30s sick, broke and alone—but also liberated from the expectation that perfection was even possible. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt a new acceptance of myself and my life. My thoughts then turned to children.
Maybe I did want them after all? Maybe I wouldn’t be such a lousy mother? I had lost the ability to reliably walk across a room, but somehow felt more equipped than ever to be a parent.
It has been 13 years since the Santorini hike. I met someone new. We got married and had two kids, who are now eight and one. I was told a pregnancy would be too risky for me, so we became parents through adoption with our first child and surrogacy with our second.
I still spend most of my time in bed, which is where the kids and I eat, read, play blocks, draw pictures and sing songs together. Otherwise I’m in my power wheelchair, often with the baby on my lap and my eldest’s hand tucked under my elbow.
Each day brings a panoply of symptoms: nausea, dizziness, palpitations, pain and migraines. Yet I not only love being a parent, I also sense I’m pretty good at it.
As someone who now writes about parenthood for a living, I’ve learned that I’m not an outlier. Disabled people, it turns out, are uniquely well-suited to parenthood.
The privileges and anxieties of the 21st century have made parenting a fraught enterprise. Many strive for perfection, like I once did, and work hard to insulate their children from pain. We are encouraged to obsess over their future and work to remove uncertainty, and we grow fixated on metrics of success that are often out of reach. Parents inevitably fall short, then feel shame for their presumed shortcomings.
Having disobedient bodies and minds trains disabled people to be creative, accepting and flexible. We fixate less on creating a sublime future because we understand just how little is actually within our control.
My own disability meant I could no longer run away from my fundamental unhappiness. I had to finally sit still and figure out who I was and what I valued apart from more conventional accomplishments.
When I discovered just how little of life I could bend to my will, I was able to appreciate better just how wondrous it could be. I now see it was this wonder, this humility, that opened me up to the beautiful uncertainties of motherhood.
Jessica Slice’s latest book is “Unfit Parent,” published by Beacon Press.
