Today was one of those days that feels like a turning point. A moment that you know will stick with you — not because it was big and loud, but because it quietly reshaped our world. Harrison started preschool.

That sentence alone feels strange to type. Preschool. It’s a word that’s floated around in conversation for a while now, but somehow still feels surreal. We’ve talked about it, prepared for it, tried to imagine it. And yet, it still snuck up on us — suddenly transforming from a far-off concept into a lived reality.

As a parent, watching your child take that first step into a wider world is emotional under the best of circumstances. When your child is nonspeaking, medically complex, and has already fought through more in their young life than many ever will — those emotions multiply. Fear. Excitement. Hope. Anxiety. It’s a whirlwind. Sometimes numbing. Sometimes overwhelming.

There’s this deep part of me that worries — not just about the normal things like new routines or separation, but about the silent battles Harrison might face. How will he express when something isn’t right? How will he navigate discomfort or misunderstandings when his tools for communication are flashcards, eye gaze, and gestures? What happens if he’s scared or hurt or excluded and can’t find the words to tell someone?

It’s a heavy kind of fear. The kind that sits in your chest and whispers all the worst-case scenarios. It’s not rooted in doubt of his capability — because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that Harrison is capable of amazing things. But it’s rooted in reality. The reality that he lives in a world that wasn’t built with him in mind.

We know the benefits of this step. We know preschool will bring structure, socialization, and new opportunities. We believe in the power of inclusion and the value of peers learning from and with each other. But this milestone also drags some emotions into the light — ones we’ve carefully tucked away. The grief. The worry. The quiet wondering of how we’ll guide him when he eventually realizes he experiences the world differently.

Still, we move forward. Because that’s what we do. We show up. We prepare as best we can. We trust the process, even when it scares us.

Today, Harrison walked into his classroom — eyes wide, head high, ready. He didn’t need words to tell us he was brave. We could see it in his whole body. That quiet courage? That’s who he is.

So here we are — standing on the edge of a new chapter. There will be more unknowns, more challenges, more firsts. But there will also be growth, connection, and moments that surprise us in the best ways. We can’t predict what’s next. But we can keep walking with him, one step at a time.

Here’s to preschool. Here’s to Harrison. Here’s to the beautiful, complex, hopeful journey ahead.