When I finally moved out of the hospital in February 2018, Taya was seven and Blake was five.
After six months apart, I wanted nothing more than to have my babies back with me.
But it didn’t happen overnight.
We started with visits for a few hours at a time. Slowly, over approximately six months, those visits became longer until eventually we reached something I had been waiting desperately for:
Overnights.
Having my children sleeping under my roof again meant more to me than I can explain.
Before my accident, I was the mom who wanted everyone sleeping in their own beds. After my accident? Come snuggle.
Those little bodies climbing into my bed at night or in the morning suddenly felt like something I never wanted to take for granted again.
I was also learning that being a good mom didn’t necessarily mean doing everything I had done before.
I couldn’t drive them to soccer or gymnastics. I couldn’t watch them run across a field.
But I could show up.
And I did.
I went to soccer games, gymnastics and school events. Sometimes people wondered why I would go when I couldn’t actually see my children participating.
Because I was their mom.
I could hear the excitement. I could listen to what was happening around me. My caregivers became amazing play-by-play commentators, telling me where my kids were and what they were doing.
Most importantly, my children could look over and know Mom was there.
One of my favourite memories happened at their school’s Terry Fox Run.
At separate times, each of my kids came over, took my hand and ran around the field with me.
For those moments, I wasn’t the blind mom sitting on the sidelines.
I was simply another parent running alongside her children.
Their school also found ways to include me instead of focusing on what I couldn’t do. I went into their classrooms to talk about the blind community. Once a week, I helped make sandwiches for students who needed meals. For swim club, the kids would line up behind me and we’d make our way together across the street to the recreation centre.
I was beginning to find my place again.
I was also fortunate to connect with one of my caregivers, someone I had actually known through school and mutual friends for most of my life but had never really known one-on-one.
Something was different with her.
I didn’t feel like a patient.
I felt like a woman my own age hanging out with a friend.
She had a daughter close to Taya’s age, our children became friends, and somewhere along the way, so did we. Years later, that friendship between our families is still there.
But rebuilding my confidence wasn’t always filled with beautiful moments.
One day, Taya and I went swimming together.
Swimming was something I knew. I had grown up in swim club and was completely comfortable in the water. When we arrived, I introduced myself to the lifeguard, explained that I was blind and that Taya was my daughter, and let them know I was a strong swimmer.
We had a great time.
As we were moving between pools, I asked Taya to tell me when we reached the step.
She did exactly what I had taught her to do.
“Okay, step, Mom.”
I stepped.
Except it wasn’t a step.
It was the ledge of the baby pool.
I went face-first into the water.
I was startled and scared. I started crying. Taya started crying. The lifeguard rushed over to make sure we were okay.
Physically, I was fine.
Emotionally, I was crushed.
What hurt wasn’t falling into the pool.
It was knowing I had scared my daughter again.
She had already watched her mom disappear into a hospital for six months and come home completely different. Now I felt like I had put that fear back into her.
She hadn’t done anything wrong.
But in that moment, I felt like I had failed her.
We held each other and left the pool.
There were going to be many moments like that as we figured this life out together—some funny, some frightening, some frustrating and some absolutely beautiful.
I couldn’t give my children exactly the same mom they had before my accident.
I couldn’t drive them everywhere. I couldn’t watch them score a goal or see their faces during a school performance.
But slowly, I realized those weren’t the things that defined motherhood.
I could listen.
I could hug them.
I could embarrass them.
I could advocate for them.
I could show up.
And when they needed me, I could make sure they knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Mom is here.
Sometimes being there is the most important thing we can give our children.
