I need to say something that might surprise some people: my child with a disability is not an angel.
People often mean well when they say it, and they try to comfort me—or themselves—by casting him in a celestial light. But I am his mother. I have seen him in all his moments—the laughter, the frustration, the stubbornness, the tenderness. I know the truth.
He is not some otherworldly being, and neither are other children like him. When we insist on seeing them this way, when we project this “angelic” identity onto them, we unintentionally erase their humanity. We make them more distant, more “other,” than the world already does.
Yes, my child has gifts. He is intuitive in ways I cannot fully explain. He senses the feelings of those around him. He can light up a room with his joy, and his laughter is contagious. But just like anyone else, he has strengths and weaknesses. Moments of brilliance and moments of struggle. Moments of joy and moments of tears.
My child was not sent into this world to teach anyone a lesson. Yet, through him, I have learned—and continue to learn—so much about life, love, and patience.
One of the clearest lessons he offers is simple: his life is different, and that difference does not make it less. His life is just as worthy, just as meaningful, just as full of possibility.
He dreams, just as you do. He wants to make an impact, just as you do. He wants a seat at the table, just as you do. He longs to be seen, included, embraced, and loved—for exactly who he is.
My child is not an angel. He is fully human. Fierce, fragile, joyful, stubborn, and brave. And that humanity—that real, complex, messy, wonderful humanity—is enough. It is everything.
