One of the biggest hurdles I have with writing about our life is perspective. It sneaks in and messes with my head. Four years ago, we didn’t expect to be here. We didn’t know our son would have multiple conditions or that we’d be logging countless miles to specialists. We went through shock. Then a long, quiet period of mourning the child we imagined while learning to celebrate the awesome, amazing, beautiful kid we have.

None of that changes how much I love him. However, it does change how I see the world, and some days, that perspective gets loud.

Sometimes I sit with a draft and wonder if I even have the right to write and share it. Am I being selfish for feeling what I feel? For talking about the emotional roller coaster I ride? Because the truth is, some families have it much harder. Some parents never got the chance to do any of this. Meanwhile, I can look over and see Harrison kicking and making noise, watching Mickey, smiling, being his full self. I can smell his hair. I can touch him. I can cuddle him. I can love on him. That is more than some parents ever get. There are people out there who would be envious of the simple act of me reaching back to wipe his nose.

That reality hits me, and I start questioning my place. Should I feel what I feel? Should I share it? Or am I making this about me?

When that voice gets loud, I freeze up. For every five to seven posts I hit publish on, there is at least one I never share. Sometimes I outline it. Sometimes I fully write it. Then something shifts my focus, and I decide not to. If you asked for my biggest hurdle with writing about our life with Harrison, this is it.

It feels a lot like imposter syndrome. I have two older kids. I have Harrison. We do have struggles. Therapy hours. Appointments. The fact that he cannot talk to us. Hard days that pile up. But our situation still is not comparable to what many live with. That comparison game gets in my head and makes it hard to move my hands across the keyboard.

As I record this thought to transcribe later, I am sitting in the car listening to Harrison jabber and laugh in the back seat. I know someone out there would trade anything to hear those sounds. That knowledge can stop me cold. It makes me hesitate about what I should say and what I can say. For every person who reads and thinks, I didn’t realize it was that heavy for you, there will be someone who rolls their eyes and says; Must be nice.

I do not always know how to end thoughts like this. I do know this: Harrison deserves support. He deserves me going to bat for him. He deserves advocacy and awareness, and a dad who shows up. All of that is true. I will go to bat for him, and for Canaan and Abby, every single time. That is not selfish. That is the job.

The part I wrestle with is attention. I never want to center myself in a way that makes our story feel like a competition for suffering. Love is not black and white. The world will tell you to pick a side and draw a line. Real life lives in the gray. It lives in nuance, and both things can be true at the same time. I can be deeply grateful for what we have and still admit that some days are heavy. I can honor families who walk harder roads and still tell the truth about ours.

It is not always easy to be in this seat. I know how blessed we are. I also know the weight of that blessing sits heavy on my shoulders. Writing about it is my way of lifting it, even a little. If you are reading this and your road looks different, I see you. If you are reading this and your road looks similar, I see you too.

I am going to keep writing. Not because I have it the worst or the best, but because this is how I show up for my son and my family. Because perspective is loud, and sometimes the only way to quiet it is to speak.