Today I found myself sitting in a soft moment — the kind that doesn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare, but with a sentence. A simple, honest sentence from my son that nearly brought me to tears: 

“No thank you. I would like some juice.” 

That was it. That was the sentence that stopped me in my tracks — not because of what he said, but because of what it meant. 

As a Black woman, a mother, and someone navigating this world with a neurodivergent mind and heart, I’ve lived a life filled with both jagged edges and rounded grace. There have been days where communication felt like climbing uphill in the rain with no map. Days where I questioned if I was doing enough. Being enough. Understanding enough. 

But today, my son told me what he didn’t want — and then clearly expressed what he did. And I understood him. Immediately. No guesswork. No decoding. Just connection. Do you know how powerful that is? 

For years, our conversations felt like puzzles with missing pieces. Now, slowly, steadily, we are building bridges with full sentences and full hearts. 

And in that moment, I realized — this is what progress looks like.

 Not always loud.

 Not always seen.

 But deeply, deeply felt.  

I’ve learned to count these quiet wins. To hold them in my palms like sacred things. Because they are. 

When I look at where I started and where I stand now — as a mother, as a woman, as someone navigating life a little differently — I don’t see brokenness. I see brilliance. I see strategy and softness. I see growth on days when I thought I was standing still. 

And I want to remind you: you’ve come far, too.

 Even if no one claps. Even if it’s not posted. Even if it’s just a sentence from a child that makes you pause and smile through tears.  

So today, I invite you to reflect on your own wins — the ones that don’t scream but still shine. The boundaries you set. The rest you gave yourself. The way you showed up, even when you were tired. The way you made space for someone else to grow. 

These are victories. Yours. Ours. 

We’re not just surviving anymore.

 We’re learning. We’re speaking.

 We’re blooming — in our own language, in our own rhythm, in our own time. 

And that, my friend, is something worth celebrating.  

With heart,

 Jacoria