My First Post is Inspired by Disability
The Unstoppable Abby — The Fire Under My Butt and 'But...'
I can’t help but let my first post be about ‘The Unstoppable Abby.’
After all, my daughter Abby is the bravest person I know—my inspiration for all things hard.
The odds were stacked against her when she began this life with an unexpected three-month premature birth at one pound alongside her twin sister Libby.
At age 27 Abby returned to Cabrillo College after a short break. She wants to understand everything she can about mental health gather tools for trauma recovery and master navigating life with complex disabilities. She wants to be a social worker like her older sister and support others like herself.
Abby survived eight surgeries under two pounds in the Stanford NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). She spent the first four months of her life fighting for breath, comfort, and holding. She was tiny, smaller than my hand, yet she is as strong as an ox. Her entire small intestines exploded at birth. I was told by the specialist they called in from Canada, “We have never successfully operated on a baby this small.”
They prepared me for the worst: tube feeding, organ transplants, and a short life. Three months later, the doctors were shocked to discover that she had grown back all of her intestines. "This is impossible!" Not.
Our innate ability to heal breaks all the rules (at least in her case it did—not so for her twin who shines with a different story)… to be told as able.
My fierce mother-cop persona patrolled the ward with milk-oozing breasts that played a strong part in finally bringing her home at four months old, just over three pounds. But truly, Abby’s zest for life is what kept, and keeps her chugging along—breaking all the rules—Unstoppable.
I am not going to sugarcoat this. Her birth was a tragedy, hi-jacked—interrupted by the industrial medical complex—a full-term natural birth was robbed from her/me, her twin, and her older sister. Our family broke with unexpected hardships and exquisite gifts. I’m here to share our losses and victories.
This 8-minute video documentary shows the early days of touch and go, and tremendous victories for all of us.
We have defied the odds and gloomy prognosis. Abby is earnest about her healing, growth, and learning potential while demonstrating what is possible with adequate support, primarily— love and a caring community.
I’ve been telling Abby for too long, “I want to write, tell more stories, express the unspoken, inspire, and connect with the healing stories of others. Offline I’ve been well-connected through my work as a body-centered therapist, guide, and retreat facilitator. Online is harder for me. I’m easily confused, my intuition closes off, and I get lost in the mix of talking heads.
“Mom, it is never too late to try something new!”
Said Abby, the young woman who learned to walk at age six and is still learning to help her eyes team well together so she can track words on the page.
I remember the early years when she crept or crawled to explore every corner of our house. She went from one kitchen cupboard to the next, brought out every pot and pan, and climbed in to be sure she didn’t miss anything. When friends visited our home, they left their shoes at the door. Abby put a shoe on each hand and crept around the house as if using her hands to converse with that person. In our preschool, she studied her typically developing peers using the toilet and refused to wear a diaper even though she had frequent ‘accidents.’ Until one day two little friends helped her climb up on the toilet seat in anticipation of her first contribution.
“Look, I pooped!” We heard her exclaim with a smile too big for her face. “Now, I need to wash my hands.” She boasted proudly.
In our conversations, we spoke about feeling inhibited and paper cuts for looking different. She often says, “Mom, why do people stare at me?” Or “Why can’t I do what other kids do?” Or “Am I weird?”
I tell her that every human has challenges, some more than others, some less visible, but I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have concerns about how they appear or sound to others from time to time. Everyone wants to belong and deserves to feel good about who they are.
I tell her, “Abby, I suck at technology. It’s exhausting. I get distracted by the flashy images. I want to write but what if I can’t develop an online presence—then what?”
She told me, “Mom, you have to do what I do. Protect yourself with bubble wrap. That way no one can get at you.”
I smile inside myself, “Where did she come from? How did I get so lucky to have her to listen to, cherish, and hold?”
I listened. I am here, bubble wrap or not, writing as The Salty Crone.
I joined Substack to witness you, honor your craft, and learn from you. I want to receive your wit, wisdom, and healing stories.
I’m relaxing the old nagging voices that numb and dumb us with horse shit. I’ve seen too much to be hushed. When I stare at myself in the mirror and say, “But Prajna….” I will be like Abby with the fire of curiosity under my butt and burn off that nonsense and choose to write—to live. I will remind myself (and you) of all the hard things Abby has accomplished with less physical ability than most of us.
I don’t necessarily enjoy writing about hard things. Yet the more I write, the hard and heavy feel easier and lighter, more beautiful and appreciated—healing happens for me and I hope for you. An intimate embrace of the messy beautiful occurs—followed by integration into a blossoming whole life.
Wait. Maybe I do enjoy writing about and through the messy muddy middle.
Raw vulnerable writing is a doorway to stepping out of cages of outdated modes of ‘normative, perfection, and pleasing’ that mask who we are. This is how I root more in my body, center in life—as it is, and witness meaning bloom. Life becomes a playground for words, hearts, and art that connect us to a deep soul-filled life. Tears from hardships turn into joyous celebrations. We stand together in our hard-won wisdom.
I write from the margins of life as this is where I dwell—with differences/disability and GIFT. The more I stay here, with full allowance to be human—the more words fall out of me—like a gift.
Call me an introvert, someone who prefers in-person connections, or a techno-phobia-maniac. I haven’t fully unpacked my social dilemma. I was in years of twelve-step recovery meetings with head in hands, who rarely raised her hand, lived in a cloister, later exited an ashram/cult of ten years, never married, and still prefer silent retreats—a nomadic lifestyle over the boardwalk, block parties, or social gatherings.
However, I’m proud to be called candid—the salty crone!
Like all of us, I am growing older. I like to challenge and dispel myths about aging, pleasure, and uniqueness—no matter where we find ourselves on the ever-changing and sometimes evolving human spectrum. It’s a privilege to grow older, to receive and know in our blood and our bones the wisdom of those who have gone before us.
Substack is not the only thing I’m committing to. I joined a gym after breaking my leg and considered dating (for a hot minute) after almost 30 years of not feeling it. My oldest daughter exhibits concern about my reclusive lifestyle. She gave me a book on ‘asexuality’ for Christmas. (Look at my face—raised eyebrows, lips turned in a frown.) I had to google: Asexuality: not having sexual feelings toward others: not experiencing sexual desire or attraction. Okay, that’s two nots, but this does not necessarily mean they do not experience romantic attraction or have intimate relationships. It is said to be an inborn absence of sexual desire.
What? Scratch that. I’m not. People who identify as asexual, are often referred to as "aces.” I guess I won’t be calling myself the ace salty crone.
Enough on Not Sex, back to Abby. She is superior in feeling, sensing, caring, loving, and showing up in a world that did not plan on her heroic thriving.
It seems this is the same for many of us, especially when we lose an ability, a loved one, a job, you name it—loss can strip us naked—it’s devastating—and grace doesn’t leave us in the NICU—the mystery does burst through.
Exhibit A: The Unstoppable Abby.
One of my teachers, Jungian Analyst and author, Marion Woodman, sees loss as a rite of passage. I add that loss is one of many lost rituals that humanity is hungry for.
Rites of passage are accompanied by intensity. Intensity brings us to the moment when the mystery bursts through.
— Marion Woodman
Abby spends time preparing for college. She draws maps, meets her professors in advance, and acquires the needed adaptations and accommodations for her physical and visual challenges. She trains her companion dog Woodzie (Thank You to Guide Dogs for the Blind) to be by her side. There is the unexpected—things she doesn’t know how to prepare for like stares, exclusion, print she can’t read, parties she is not invited to, or broken elevators.
And she continues to be unstoppable, she keeps showing up.
I want to show up like Abby in this space called Substack with zest, vigor, and permission to be a beginner, without waiting to perfect my storytelling online.
• Can you name that place in yourself that doesn't always feel confident entering a world you are not sure will welcome you?
• What do you say to that part?
• How do you offer yourself kindness and encouragement to do it anyway?
If you want to read the full story of my twins, know their names, and be part of their exquisite journey, check out my memoir Edge of Grace, Fierce Awakenings to Love.
I want you to feel the fire of inspiration under your butt—beyond and before the ‘buts’—to continue with whatever might feel too hard, too intimidating, too much, or like it can wait. Don’t wait. You can’t wait.
I have stories to tell—so do you. The question is: where to begin? How do we reap meaning, mirroring, and mystery?
SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN AND LET THE WORDS TUMBLE ONTO THE PAGE.
Life is too short for perfection, pleasing, waiting, or believing the “but I’m not good at …..” Burn, Melt, Wonder. Crawl into the cupboards of your life, explore the nooks and crannies, put yourself in someone else’s shoes, roll a while in a wheelchair, or cover yourself in bubble wrap—if you need to. But never forget to shed the nonsense, unwrap yourself, and claim who you are—your innate preciousness.
You like Abby are more than enough. I’m glad you are here. Let’s do this.
Thank you for reading and receiving your dose of The Salty Crone.
with love,
Prajna O’Hara
I loved reading this and want more from the salty crone
Abby is so special - I hope to meet her one day xx