October Storytelling With Disability Lead

RISA:

So again, my name is Risa Rifkind and I'm the senior director of program and strategic initiatives at Disability Lead. We are so glad you all are able to join us today. My pronouns are she, her, and a quick description of me for those who may be blind or low vision.

And I'm a blonde woman with my brown hair pulled back, wearing a red shirt and my blurred-out outfit. We sent out a guide today on how to access key accessibility features in zoom, including captioning or ASL. If you have any questions or issues, please reach out. My colleagues are monitoring the chat and will help troubleshoot any issue. This afternoon we are so pleased to welcome you for one of our most beloved programs. Our story telling event featuring our members. We are fortunate to have four incredible and talented disabled leaders who are part of our program, who are members of our network. Irma Gomez, Ken Jennings, Anna Manga, and JP play. I want to thank them for being vulnerable and sharing their personal experiences of navigating different disabilities in an ableist world. And their own personal journeys of self-acceptance, and ultimately embracing their disability identity to join the disability community. And that's because stories of disabled people, though they may not be widely told or known, are universal.

They are human, and it connects all of us, those of us who identify as disabled and those who do not. You join today not necessarily fit what ails us, but to listen to all of humanity. To support Anna, postcard, Emma and JP because they are our friends, our colleagues or our loved one. Or maybe they are strangers. But you are interested in hearing their ideas and the journey that they have endured. Simply put, today's gathering is about holding people you don't know in your home, making room for their voices and their need. Truly, if the only way we will achieve the equitable and inclusive community each of us yearn for and required for us to create compassion and be caring of this world. So, without further ado, I want to welcome our first storyteller today, Anna. Anna, please take it away.

ANA MANGA:

Hello. My name is Anna Manga. I'm a 2023 disability fellow and policy and people manager at Google. Can you hear me? For the first 26 years of my life, this is how I heard sound. If I couldn't lip read or physically move myself closer to the person talking, the odds that I fully heard what they were saying were low. For over two decades. I let myself take on labels like absent minded or ditzy or just plain rude, just so I didn't have to disclose my disability to anyone. When my teachers would move me to the front row desk after PTA meetings, I would roll my eyes to my friends and complain about my mom being a helicopter mom. but she was just doing what was right for me. When my friends or classmates would try to talk to me from a distance during play time or during dance practice, I would pretend like I wasn't paying attention just so I could pull off a nonchalant attitude and continue hiding my secret of being born with a hearing impairment. Even though I was diagnosed with a moderate to severe hearing impairment at the age of five, my pediatrician was worried about the social stigma that I may be subjected to if I was prescribed hearing aids.

She has made it thus far in life. She'll surely figure it out. Were his words of solace to my parents. He told me to eat green leafy vegetables to fix my hearing impairment. I can tell you now that didn't work, although spinach is my most favorite vegetable now, so at least I have that to thank him for. The fear of the social stigma instilled in me by the pediatrician and by parents meant that I never truly opened up and no one knew about my hearing impairment except my immediate family. And their way of showing support was making lighthearted fun about it and navigating their own communication styles to my needs so it wouldn't feel like a big deal. To the rest of the world my non-visible disability might as well have been non-existent. But like my pediatrician predicted, I did figure it out. I made it throughout school and college without hearing aids, despite my moderate to severe hearing impairment. Texting, instant messaging, and the social media era made it easier for me as I got older.

Closed captioning and e-learning really helped me get by in those final and tough years of schooling. And despite a low GPA and a low self-esteem, I graduated college and was able to land a decent job after applying to hundreds of companies all over the country. As I navigated the corporate world and all of its job titles and promotions and career ladders, I was steadfast in my determination to not let anyone know about my disability. I continued to keep it a secret, and my pediatrician's words echoed in my ears. I've made it this far. I'll figure it out. And that facade worked well for the first couple of years. But then one day, after a few years of being in the workforce, I was having a conversation with my manager at Pepsi and I jokingly said something like, oh, haha, I didn't hear that. Sometimes I'm like deaf. He amusingly responded, oh, I know, I've noticed. I froze. Crap, I've been found out, I thought. My manager and I never spoke of that again, but I never once felt like this truth about me had biased him from assigning me challenging or exciting projects.

His confidence in my ability was a subconscious motivation for me to work harder. And in fact, I was performing so well that I got an unexpected promotion within nine months and then continued to get promotions, raises and career opportunities. I felt accepted for the first time. And the most amazing thing was that it didn't actually cost my manager a single extra dime to treat me with fairness and equity. Soon after that, my ambition brought me to my first tech company, where I joined as an HR business partner at Twitter. Here, my experience was a complete 360 degree turn from Pepsi. My first week there, I was in a one-on-one meeting with my manager, and we were sitting in a large conference room. She was talking softly, and her voice was just migrating in the vastness of the room. I couldn't hear her well, and I was trying to lip read unsuccessfully. And I guess after the third time she asked me a question; she figured it out. I quickly said, sorry, could you say that again? I don't hear very well.

She irritated me and bluntly responded, oh, I didn't know that. You need to tell people that. I felt small and ashamed, and soon after that I noticed that I started getting less people facing work and more behind the desk analytical type of work. The issue was that I wasn't very data savvy and never needed to be for any of my previous HR roles. And so I wasn't exactly shining in the projects that I was being assigned. I felt like I was disappointing my team and my leadership, and I was afraid. I was afraid that my secret would finally catch up to me and be the reason for my downfall after all this time. A month after I left Pepsi for Twitter, I was crying and just wanted to go back. But I had made a choice when I switched jobs and now, I needed to make another choice. A choice that I had been avoiding my whole life. A choice to admit that I needed help. And so, for the first time, at the age of 26, I got my first pair of hearing aids. And after an entire life of not knowing what it's like to hear everything, I was amazed at the beauty and power of sound from everywhere.

The heels click clacking, the papers rustling in an office, the birds chirping outside, the water running through the pipes in the walls. I ignored my audiologist recommendations and suggestions to ease my way in, and just began wearing my hearing aids immediately, all the time. And was adjusting to the newness of the sound very pretty quickly and with a newfound awe for life. Still, I didn't confide in my colleagues and friends as I was navigating this journey of getting hearing aids. I just didn't feel ready yet. Two years after that, my ambition brought me to Google. My first week there I met Steve, our people analyst. Steve had a visible vision disability and was partially blind, but his presence and engagement and contributions to our team and the level of respect, ease and normalcy that everyone treated him with was my first experience of observing a person with disability being included equitably, without any pomp or pretense. Witnessing that acceptance was like a breath of fresh air.

I felt inspired by the inclusive culture and the psychological safety at Google and slowly began opening up and casually started mentioning my hearing aids in conversations with colleagues and friends. The acceptance, understanding and the genuine curiosity that I received was heartening. It was like the years of keeping this intimate secret meant that I had never really given a chance to anyone else to show me that acceptance. Today, I feel like my hearing aids have enabled me and empowered me. In fact, I feel like I have superpowers now. Like, I can stream all of my phone calls directly in my ears. I can use my hearing aids as headphones at the gym when I forget my actual headphones, and my most favorite is when I can just amp up the volume on my phone directly from my hearing aids and listen to all of the gossip in the room next door. Just kidding. I'm Ana Manga, I'm a 2023 disability Lead fellow and a policy and program manager at Google. Thank you all.

RISA:

And this is Risa. Anna that was incredible. Were you really kidding about listening to gossip in the other room? I'm gonna have to remember that one. But thank you for sharing your story and being here. There were some messages in the chat of how much your story was resonating with others. So, thank you so much. With that, I'm going to invite our next storyteller. So, thank you so much. OK. Irma is here to share a story that captured very close to her relationship with him. So, I'm gonna go ahead and turn it over to Emma. Coach Ken, I'm going to turn off your video, and please Irma go ahead. Thank you.

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IRMA GOMEZ:

Thank you Hello, everyone. My name is Irma Gomez. I use she/her pronouns. I'm in my late 20s. I'm Mexican American. I'm fair skinned, with long brown hair, brown eyes. I'm wearing a great t shirt and although not visible through zoom, I am a wheelchair user. I remember the sterile smell of the exam room. The crinkle of the paper beneath my five-year-old legs as they dangled off the edge of the table. My legs swung back and forth in nervous energy as the doctor spoke to my mom. In that tone adults use when they think children can't understand. Mrs. Gomez, there's nothing else we can do. She will become completely paralyzed by the age 12 and may not live past that. His words feel heavy in the room as he handed my mom a wheelchair brochure. Already planning my surrender to a future, he decided was inevitable. But my mom, my fierce, unstoppable mom wasn't having any of it. I watched her face turn bloodshot red as she stood up, all five feet of her, somehow towering over the doctor in that moment.

How dare you tell me there's nothing you can't do and expect us to sit idly by. She challenged, her voice sharp with conviction. If she can move right now, there must be other options, other treatments, other doctors who haven't given up before even trying. My mom became my first ally that day. The first one to go to bat for me. In a world that was ready to write me off, she picked up her bat and stepped up to the plate as I watched her advocate for me, something bloomed in my chest, a warmth, a certainty that I wasn't alone in this fight. She made me feel invincible. With every doctor's appointment, school meeting or sidewalk without a ramp, my mom was there teaching me through her actions that my voice mattered. That I deserved to take up space, to be heard, to live. She showed me that advocacy wasn't just about fighting, it was about loving someone enough to believe in their future when others couldn't see it. That day, my mother said, Ti amo demasiado para rendir me. I love you too much to give up.

Now decades later, our roles have reversed in ways neither of us could have imagined. I wheeled onto doctors offices besides her, but this time I'm the one speaking up, pushing back, demanding better care. As her cognitive decline progresses, I've become her voice, her memory, her advocate. I remember the first time I had to be her advocate. Really be her advocate. Two years ago, she had been forgetting things, missing appointments, leaving the stove on. When I finally convinced her to see a doctor. I found myself in a familiar exam room, though this time I was the one straddling two worlds, just as she had done for me throughout my childhood. The doctor spoke rapidly in English, not even attempting to slow down or look at her. And when did she start exhibiting symptoms? He asked, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. When my mom began to respond in Spanish. He cut her off with an impatient wave. I need the daughter to answer. I don't speak Spanish. I saw my mom shrink into herself. Her usual vibrancy dimming.

This woman who had learned just enough medical English to fight for me as a child, but now stumbles over her own words in her native tongue. In that moment, I felt the same hot anger I had seen in her face decades ago. Me mama puede explicar la misma, I said. And I said to her gently, then turned to the doctor with steel in my voice. My mother can explain it herself. I'll translate but you need to look at her and speak to her. She's your patient. Throughout that appointment, I became her voice. But I made sure it was her voice, not mine. When she described in Spanish how she'd started mixing up family names, how she suddenly forgot where she lived while out, getting groceries, forgetting what day and time it is, I translated every word. Holding the doctor's gaze until he had to acknowledge her presence, her humanity. When he tried to rush through his diagnosis and hurry us out with a prescription, I planted my wheelchair firmly in his path, just as my mother had once planted her feet for me.

Necesitas mas informacion mami. I asked her, then turned to him. We need to discuss all the treatment options, I insisted in English. And I want to know what Spanish speaking support services are available for her to maintain her independence as long as possible. In that moment, I understood more deeply what my mom has done for me all those years. Not just advocating but building bridges across every gap the world put between us and the care we deserve. Some days ago, my mom was having an episode and I was up with her at 3 a.m. She was convinced that her dead sister was in the house, that she needed to cook dinner for her, although she had passed away three years ago. Preparar su comida favorita, she insisted. Trying to get out, get out of bed, fighting me when I tried to redirect her. My arms ached from the strain of helping her back to bed over and over again, but I couldn't let her see my fatigue. At work, the conversations feel surreal in their normalcy. How are you, Irma? My coworkers ask.

I'm fine. Thanks. Just busy with deadlines. I responded with a practiced smile while in my head I'm worried about my mom. Has she taken her pill on time? Did she make sure not to have dairy with it? I feel the numbness in my right hand that's been getting worse, but I haven't had time to get checked out, so I dismiss it and continue typing. Being a leader means everyone looks to you for strength. When interns come to me worried about burnout, I listen compassionately. Share resources so they can advocate for their mental health. But who does a leader lean on? How do I admit some mornings it takes everything in me just to transfer from my bed to my wheelchair. My muscles screaming from caregiving and my own muscular, skeletal diagnosis. That sometimes I mute myself during video calls to catch my breath, to push back tears. You're such an inspiration, they say. And I want to laugh at the irony. They think it's about overcoming my disability. About breaking glass ceilings. About being Latina in a leadership role.

They don't know that my real daily victory is simply holding myself together, keeping the plates spinning while feeling like I'm crumbling inside. However, the generational echo isn't lost on me. My mom hid her struggles to be strong for me. Now I hide mine to be strong for her, for my community, for everyone who needs me to be the unshakable leader they believe I am. I know that it may seem like a lot, but I do what I do for my mom, for the community, for myself, because I care. I care deeply, and I am passionate about everything I do. It's what my mother taught me to love and give love. It's a strange symmetry how advocating for my mom has strengthened my voice for others. Every time I push back against dismissive doctors or navigate the system that wasn't built for us, I'm not just fighting for her, I'm channeling the same fierce love into my work for the entire disability community. For crying out loud, it's been 34 fucking years since the ADA passed, and still we're explaining our humanity to doctors who won't look us in the eye.

To politicians who treat us as budget items rather than people, to a society that sees our existence as either an inspiration or an inconvenience. The same patronizing tone that that doctor used with my mom and when I was five, echoes in multiple spaces today. Where disabled voices are still treated as optional additions rather than essential perspectives. This lesson of love through action has shaped not just my relationship with my mom, but my entire approach to leadership and advocacy. As I've grown into my role as both caregiver and community leader, I've come to recognize how deeply these parts of my life intertwine. I think about this during meetings where I'm often the only disabled person at the table. Every time I speak up about accessibility, about representation, about the simple dignity of being seen I hear my mom's voice. (FOREIGN LANGUAGE). My daughter don't let them dismiss you. You deserve respect. Deserve to be heard just as much as anyone else. You are worthy. Don't give up.

That's why I push myself to be visible. Even on days when my body and mind beg me to retreat. Because every time I go into a meeting or a stage, I'm not just representing myself, I'm creating space for others who would have been told their futures are limited. When I advocate for better health care access or work accommodations, I'm fighting not just for my mother or myself, but for every disabled person who ever felt their voice doesn't matter. My mother taught me that advocacy is love in action. Now I understand it's also a torch we pass forward, illuminating the path for others. When I mentor others or speak at community events, I'm extending the same lifeline my mom threw through me. A belief in possibilities beyond others limitations. Every policy I help shape, every barrier I help break down every young person I mentor is a tribute to her legacy of fierce, unrelenting love. This advocacy isn't just about fighting against something, it's about fighting for someone. For the little girl in the doctor's office, being told what she can't do for the mother struggling to navigate healthcare in a language that isn't hers.

For every disabled person who's been told to make themselves smaller, quieter, less visible. When I insist on inclusive language and representation, I'm really saying what my mom told me all those years ago. I love you too much to give up. Yet even as I fight these larger battles, it all comes back to those quiet moments with my mom. Every victory in a boardroom, every policy change, every barrier broken down echoes back to that first lesson in advocacy I learned in a doctor's office so many years ago. Some nights after mom is finally asleep, I sit by her side and remember that little girl in the doctor's office swinging her feet, unaware that she was giving a death sentence. I think about how my mother's advocacy shaped my life. Gave me the courage to surpass every limitation that doctor tried to place on me. Your mother is very lucky to have you. People often say when they learn I'm her caregiver. But I know the truth. I'm lucky to have her. Every time I speak up for her now, I'm simply returning the gift she gave me all those years.

When I'm exhausted, when the weight of balancing my own health issues with her care feels impossible, I remember her face in that doctor's office, red with righteous anger, fighting for my future. Now it's my turn to fight for hers. Even on days when my body protests. When a work deadline looms. When friends drift away. Because I never have time to call back. I've become her voice, her advocate, her guardian. Rolls, she once hold for me. And if sometimes in the quiet of nights. Tears slip down my cheeks from the weight of it all, I know she'd understand. After all she taught me the fiercest love often comes with the deepest ache. And that advocacy is just another word for I love you too much to give up. Thank you.

RISA:

Emma. That was incredibly powerful. Thank you for sharing your story. People are putting in the chat. How powerful your story has been for them to hear. So, thank you. Coach Ken. Are you in a place to be able to come back to your story?

KEN JENNINGS:

Yes, I am.

RISA:

OK, let's get you a video on and we'll put it over to you.

KEN JENNINGS:

OK.

RISA:

Thank you, Coach Ken.

KEN JENNINGS:

OK. I'm going to play like it was yesterday. After making a tackle, I fell on my back. I get back up and ran to the sidelines like I have done a thousand times before. Only this time I am mentally not physically running back to the sideline. I tried getting up again and again. Nothing happened. At this point I realized I couldn't move. Then I could hear and eventually see all the coaches and paramedics running to my aid. The paramedics did what I called a pen test. He took a pen and started rubbing the pen against my feet and asked me if I could feel it. I responded no. Then he went to my leg, and I said, no, my thigh? No. My stomach still no. I didn't feel anything. But finally, when he rubbed the pen against my face, I responded yes. By then I could also feel tears running down my face while the coaches and paramedics wept around me. It was October 8th, 1988. I had broken my neck and shattered my third and fourth vertebra. I'm now a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down. That was that was the day Kenneth Jennings, the football player, died.

But Kenneth Jennings, the man, was born. As they were about to rush me to the hospital my coach did something that I believe saved my life. He stood over me and he refused to let them take me to the local hospital because it was considered one of the worst hospitals in the city. Somehow, he persuaded or demanded that they take me to take me by helicopter to northwestern the hospital. And they would taking me to the emergency room, I stopped breathing. In that moment, I had an out-of-body experience. I was sitting up in the upper right-hand corner of the room, watching the doctors frantically trying to bring life back into my lifeless body. I was watching all this happen and a total peaceful, pure and white space. During that moment, I felt God was making a decision. Whether I should live or die. When they finally restored my breathing again, my out-of-body experience ended. My new life began. A few days later, the doctor came in and gave me and my family my diagnosis. He said, I will be paralyzed for the rest of my life, and I only would be able to communicate by blinking.

I wouldn't be able to talk on my own, breathe on my own, eat solid foods, or even have kids. Then said my life expectancy would only be ten years. Then he said, and one cannot even imagine how devastating that was for me and my family. But in spite of that, we believe God and the power of prayer. We never felt a belief that was going to be my destiny. Even as I laid there with tubes coming out of every possible part of my body, even though I could not breathe without the help of a ventilator. Even if I had a big metal halo brace screwed into my head so I would totally be stable, even then I still knew in my heart and spirit that was not going to be my destiny, nor that God can make the impossible possible. After leaving the hospital and going back to rehab, I had already begun talking lightly through my training and my neck and a whisper with my voice. The hospital is about what you can't do. Rehab was about the possibilities of what you could learn to do in your new normal. While there, I met someone who became paralyzed about ten years before I did play professional football.

He told me all these great things he was doing and living a full life, and that I could do the same. For the first time, I believed it because this time the person who told me this also rolled out of the room and their power wheelchair, just like I will have to do. After leaving rehab, I went back out into the world, realized I had three strikes against me. I was young, black and disabled. I knew I was going to have to work three times harder than everyone else to get what I wanted and needed in life. I had to become an advocate for myself and I had to start right away. The Board of Education told me I could not return to my high school, and that I had to go to an educational setting that could accommodate my needs. They told me this educational setting would be best for me, because they didn't think I would be able to keep up academically and in a normal educational environment. I tried out the new school, but after a few weeks I knew it wasn't the place for me. The old shy me would have accepted what they said.

But the new reborn me, knew different. I fought and challenged and threatened to sue the Board of Education. And I told them there was a reason I wanted to go back home to where I started at. I explained to them that I remember that before I got hurt, when I seen someone in a wheelchair, I would find myself staring and wondering what was wrong with them. I figured feel if I feel like that, other people feel like that too. Other people felt like that too. If they let me go back to my old high school, it would be an opportunity for approximately 1500 students to be around someone that's disabled. And I believe that it would be a positive benefit for all of us. And believe me, it truly was a positive, uplifting experience for everyone. I became one of the first quadriplegic to go back to a regular high school setting in a wheelchair. I graduated on time with the rest of my class and improved my GPA from a 2.6 to a 3.75. Many years later, a classmate sent me letters on how they were working with people who were disabled and wanted to thank me.

I didn't just want to be an advocate for myself, I wanted to be an advocate for others too. I helped start a foundation called Increase the Peace. We were invited to speak at the majority of the high schools and grammar schools in the city of Chicago. But I still felt like something was missing. My first love, football, was not a part of my life. I knew I would never play football again, so how could I reconnect to be and be a part of something that I still loved, even though I was injured playing? I decided I wanted to become a coach and as I embark on this journey, I went to several different schools to talk to coaches I knew and asked them, could I coach at their program. Coach after coach. School after school, no one will hire me or give me a chance. They feel that I couldn't coach football as a quadriplegic or as they put it, without the use of my legs or arms. When I was playing football, my coach told us that football was 90% mental and 10% physical. I knew the game, so I had the mental part down and I had the kids for the physical.

Finally, there was one coach who took a chance on me when no one else would. Oakwood High School gave me a chance and I became their defensive and defensive line coach. I'm proud to say I've helped coach our teams over the years to five state quarterfinals and three state semifinals. And with the help of the coaches, I've personally coached two high school All-Americans. Pretty good for somebody who can't move his legs or arms. Through my coaching career, I met someone who also was an advocate for disability folk. We created a foundation called named Gridiron Alliance. One of our goals was to create a pathway to assisting and assure newly entered high school athletes that they are not alone. We provide a support system and help pass through our support system. We also helped get a law passed in the state of Illinois for catastrophic injury insurance for high school athletes. I was proudly chosen as the volunteer of the year by the governor. Advocacy starts at home, which led and created my own motto.

I'm blessed to be able. Whatever it is I'm able to do, I'm blessed to be able to do it. Thank you.

RISA:

Coach Ken, thank you for sharing your journey and the impact that you've had in all that you do. Now, I'm going to invite our final storyteller for today, JP, and she can hopefully gain an amazing comment about your story in the chat. People are so grateful to you. But JP, we're thrilled to have you out today and share your story, which includes snippets of your childhood. So, I'll let you take it away from here.

JP PRICE:

Thank you, Risa. This is JP speaking. I go by JP because it's quicker. I use she/her pronouns, and I respect yours for yourself. I present today with shoulder length blonde hair, gold rimmed glasses that make you wonder if I fell in love with 70s fashion. I did. A grey sweater and a beautiful necklace that shows, moon phases. Because I'm a space cadet. My mama always said that you can deal with anything once you know what you're dealing with. It's the unknowns that cannot (INAUDIBLE) you. I recall a Friday evening after school, I was in sixth grade, and my braces tore at the inside of my lips. My forearms ached. sorry. My bangs, they were too short because I cut them myself. My head was on my mama's lap, and I was sobbing. Big tears without a reason. And my mom would say, hey, you don't have to know the reason, honey. Just cry it out. Sometimes you just need a damn good cry, right? Cry it out. It'll come to you. Anybody ever experienced that? That feeling of not being able to capture the thoughts and the feelings that you speed across our synapses, not able to catch them.

Kind of like a butterfly in a net. And just give them their proper consideration. When I was a child, I thought my status of being different was because I was never really from anywhere. See, at age 11, my parents sold the only home that I had ever known, along with our cat named fortunate. Lucky for short. Who sells their cat? Their pet with their home? My practical father. That's who I'm walking into that new school in Missouri. There was a different screech instead of a bell sound. The scratchy synthetic piping of those school supplied gym shorts that kind of felt like mini razors on the tops of my thighs. And how odd that the old and the new cafeteria kind of smelled the same, like stale milk laced with sugar and bleach. There was so much information to process, and if I looked at my paper for too long, my teacher would yell at me because I wasn't following along. Right? But then I'd look at her to read her lips, and she'd accuse me of staring at her with a mean look. But it was tough to hear about the chatter of the other students and the noise.

The street noise outside. Why was she so mean? And what did she do? Where did she hide all that powder that wafted in the wake of her step? All the other kids, they looked right through me as if I wasn't even there. Me with my I really white eyebrows, my sunburnt patches on my cheeks and my neck. My brother's cut off purple corduroy, hand-me-down shorts that I refused to retire. And my hair sun bleached white with green tips from the Indiana Public Schools chlorination treatments. Yeah, those six months in Missouri living in that new neighborhood, they were tough. I was the gritty blue light special, and everybody else around me was creased and monogrammed masses with matching notebooks and sneakers. Back in Indiana I was actually a part of the gifted program, The Bright Kids. But in Missouri, I was so behind that I kind of needed a tutor and a speech therapist. I was saying words the way that I heard them. But then come to find out, through the standardized hearing tests that the schools in Missouri, I actually needed a surgery for my ears so that I could hear things correctly.

And so that happened thankfully, right? And as we continued to migrate from Missouri on further north to Illinois with my dad's promotions in the Army, it was my twangy accent and my new socioeconomic reasons that I didn't fit in. You see, in Illinois, I was starting junior high in a foreign cost of living zip code hierarchy Called Lake County, Illinois. Some of you know it. Yeah. And I was in the lowest cast stepping out of that new government subsidized Fort Sheridan front door. There were so many demands to be present with others. And yet that topic from science class literally had my imagination whirling visions of moons and stars. My dad liked to tease me, and he would sometimes say, hey, Space Cadet, what color is that moon that you're staring at? And I was thinking, well, maybe now I could give him a legitimate answer, right? At school, I just wanted to hold the thought stream for a few minutes. There was so much input. It often felt impossible. And like most teens, I couldn't stand myself.

I didn't fit in, despite even making the cheerleading team. The blonde jokes were very popular, and at times I pretty much felt like the airhead in the room because I wasn't catching the social cues. I'd spend my lunch breaks hiding in the library. Now, I say, I always attributed the rejection from the other kids to the fact that I wasn't from there. But the reality is, my mom actually smoked while she did laundry in that stuffy Fort Sheridan basement. So, you could imagine. Kind of like that Adam Sandler movie. I was the stinky kid in class. So, humbling to admit that. I do have some fond memories, though. I recall playing in the dirt with the boys, and I used to swing from the monkey bars. Next to that, one pigtailed classmate is on the backs of my knees, both of them. And the flashes of summer breaks churning through library books, trying not to get drips of water on the pages while I slept on the concrete ground. And read books on the concrete ground in the very noisy community pool.

I know I'm painting a bit of a glum story, right? It sounds kind of lonely, but I always had a handful of loved ones, no matter where we lived. Anyone ever really count that for yourselves? See, we have family, right? And then we have framily. Friends who are like family. As we get older, we have our besties, I hope. Right? Maybe a significant other. And maybe it's because I moved so much over the years, but a lot of other people, for me, I just instinctually put them into this acquaintanceship category. I don't assume that I belong. And let's admit it, like, keeping in touch is hard. Thank goodness for the expectation that people don't have to stay in touch once they procreate, right? My friends thought I let them down way less after that once we hit it that age. And I'm not necessarily anti-social. It's just really hard to maintain connections when my mind takes me in so many topics. And again, as a woman of a certain age now, I layer in those decades of hormonal driven feelings, the lack of impulse control, and honestly, I just shrug.

I accept that I am different. I was an adult when I first learned the real root cause of not fitting. In all of those years. I was 35 and by then I was married. I was a homeowner. I had 100% commission job top producing, by the way. I was a breadwinner at the time because my husband was going through cancer treatment. My job, that 100% commission job, it was with Countrywide Home Loans during the middle of the mortgage meltdown in 2009. And so really anybody in that situation, they would have been stressed. Right? So, I just thought I was having another panic attack when I requested a last-minute appointment with my doctor. And rather, I got my diagnosis. I do have ADHD. And my doctor suggested two things to me. Number one, consider talking to a talk therapist. Number two, consider ADHD medication. And for the first time in my life, I sort of had that aha moment, right? that we get with a diagnosis. I finally knew what I was dealing with. And the research thereafter, the acceptance of my intrinsic neurocognitive differences, it reframed my childhood and my young adulthood.

The diagnosis curved my path towards an even greater health overall. And as I continue to explore what helps me thrive and what doesn't. In the last six years of my life, the truth of autistic sensory sensitivities was revealed to me. And you've heard a couple examples of that in my childhood. Maybe it was obvious to you. Over the years, I've sort of realized five life hacks that have worked for me, and I want to share them with you. Number one, I stick to routines like bringing fidgets and earplugs to social situations because they help me avoid panic attacks from stimulus overload. Number two, I really allow my mind to nomadically wander, just like I often moved after the age of 11. I embrace novel changes, like exploring new places to hike or road ride. Number three, I'm really at peace with my alone time. Not a lot of people my age say that, right? I have a small circle of trusted loved ones, and at times, while it is lonely, it's just more about quality than quantity, right? Number four.

I still meet regularly with a talk therapist, and I take my ADHD medication in the same way, you might take Advil or Tylenol for a headache just as guiltlessly. And I think that's very important for us to be able to say. Number five, I embrace my gritty and bookish past. I literally live my life's purpose, reserving specific energy and time on my calendar to support others in their neurodivergence acceptance journey. I continue to refine my definition of thriving with minor distinctions as I age. And as my mama always put it, we can deal with anything once we know what we're dealing with. I'm JP, thank you for listening.

RISA:

JP, thank you so much for sharing your story and for sharing how you are leading now as you are moving into a captain. Thank you everyone. Thank you, Anna, Irma, Coach Ken JP, for being vulnerable with us today, for connecting all of us through story and experiences. And a lot of love and family in these stories as well. So, thank you so much, everyone, for attending, for joining today. we look forward to connecting in the future. Our next (INAUDIBLE) power hearing will be in December, with registration and reservation opening in mid-November. So, we hope to reconnect soon and thank you all. Goodbye.

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