Last month, I shared a story called *I Remember Before the Ramp.*
It wasn't really about a ramp.
It was about what the ramp represented.
It represented progress.
It represented possibility.
It represented the belief that people with disabilities belong in our communities.
Since writing that post, I have found myself returning to it again and again.
Not because I wanted to relive the memory.
But because I never imagined I would find myself wondering if we are at risk of going backward.
This blog is different from many I have written.
Today, I am not writing about creativity.
I am not writing about adaptive art.
I am not writing about occupational therapy strategies.
Today, I am writing as a sister.
As an occupational therapist.
As an advocate.
And as someone who is deeply concerned about the direction we may be heading.
For more than forty years, I have had the privilege of walking alongside people with developmental disabilities and their families.
I have watched people learn to communicate.
I have watched people discover that they could create something beautiful.
I have watched individuals move into homes where they had choices, relationships, responsibilities, and lives that reflected who they were—not simply where they lived.
I have watched communities become more welcoming.
I have watched accessibility improve.
I have watched attitudes begin to change.
Progress did not happen overnight.
It happened because families refused to give up.
Because advocates kept speaking.
Because professionals kept believing.
Because people with disabilities continued showing the world what they were capable of when given the opportunity.
That is why my heart is heavy today.
When I hear discussions about reducing home- and community-based supports, I don't hear a conversation about budgets.
I hear a conversation about where people will live.
For thousands of people with disabilities and older adults, these supports are what make community living possible. They provide assistance with everyday activities such as getting dressed, bathing, preparing meals, taking medications, communicating, getting to work, volunteering, and participating in the life of the community.
Without those supports, the choice is no longer simply between one service and another.
For many people, the choice becomes whether they can remain in their own home at all.
Research has consistently shown that community living is associated with greater self-determination, stronger relationships, increased participation, and a higher quality of life for many people with disabilities. It is also often less expensive than institutional care. Yet when community supports are reduced, the risk of institutionalization increases.
That should concern every one of us.
Because these supports are not luxuries.
They are what make everyday life possible.
They help someone get out of bed in the morning.
They help someone go to work.
They help someone communicate.
They help someone prepare a meal.
They help someone visit a favorite coffee shop.
They help someone create art.
They help someone spend time with friends.
They help someone be part of the community instead of being separated from it.
People with disabilities are not asking for luxury.
They are asking for the opportunity to live an ordinary life.
I think of my twin sister, Paula.
I think about all that has changed during our lifetime.
I think about ramps replacing steps.
Accessible entrances.
Power wheelchairs.
Communication supports.
Community living.
Greater opportunities.
None of these happened because they were convenient.
They happened because society slowly began to recognize something that should have been obvious all along.
People with disabilities belong.
Not hidden away.
Not forgotten.
Not treated as though their lives matter less.
They belong right here in our communities.
I have come to believe something after more than forty years as an occupational therapist.
A budget is more than numbers on a page.
A budget is a moral document.
It tells us what we value.
It tells us where we are willing to invest.
And, perhaps most importantly, it tells us who we believe is worth investing in.
When funding allows people with disabilities to remain in their homes, participate in their communities, build relationships, work, create, and live lives of purpose, that investment says something about who we are.
When those supports are reduced, that says something too.
That is why this conversation matters.
It is not simply about dollars.
It is about dignity.
It is about opportunity.
It is about belonging.
As I finish writing these words, I find myself thinking about my mom.
She never stopped believing that Paula deserved the same opportunities as anyone else.
She spoke up.
She asked questions.
She challenged barriers.
She celebrated every step forward, no matter how small it seemed at the time.
She was one of countless parents, family members, self-advocates, professionals, and community members who refused to accept that people with disabilities should live on the outside looking in.
Because of people like them, doors opened.
Ramps were built.
Communities became more accessible.
Expectations changed.
Lives changed.
That progress was never guaranteed.
It was earned.
And it can never be taken for granted.
If there is one legacy I hope to leave, it is this:
I want to carry forward the promise my mom believed in so deeply—that every person, regardless of ability, deserves the opportunity to live, participate, belong, and be valued in their community.
That promise is worth protecting.
That promise is worth fighting for.
And as long as I have a voice, I will continue to use it.
Because we cannot go back.