My First Post is Inspired by Disability

The Unstoppable Abby — 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 tackling all things hard.

The odds were stacked against her from the very beginning, starting with an unexpected, unwarranted three-month premature birth at just one pound, alongside her twin sister, Libby.

At age 27, Abby returned to Cabrillo College after a short break. She’s determined to understand everything she can about mental health, gather tools for trauma recovery, and master the art of navigating life with complex disabilities. Inspired by her older sister, she dreams of becoming a social worker to support others like herself."

Abby and Woodzie from Guide Dogs for the Blind

Abby survived eight surgeries before she even reached 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. Tiny—smaller than my hand—yet strong as an ox. Her entire small intestine exploded at birth. The specialist they called in from Canada told me, “We have never successfully operated on a baby this small.”

They prepared me for the worst: tube feeding, organ transplants, and a short life. But three months later, the doctors were shocked to discover she had grown back all of her intestines. "This is impossible!" Not so, when mothers’ milk is available.

Our innate ability to heal breaks all the rules—at least in her case. (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 vital role in finally bringing Abby home at four months old, just over three pounds. But truly, Abby’s zest for life kept her chugging along, breaking all the rules. Untamable — Unstoppable!

I won’t sugarcoat this—nor should I. Her birth was a tragedy—hijacked and interrupted by the industrial medical complex, a system built on the ‘power-over’ control of women’s bodies. A full-term natural birth was stolen from her, from me, from her twin, and her older sister. Our family was shattered by unimaginable hardships that heightened our tender sensitivities.

I’m here to share how we balance the tension of opposites: loss and gain; oppression and recovery; disability and ability; contraction and expansion; shadow and light. My work aligns with the teachings of Eunice Zimmerman, Marion Woodman, and others like Carl Jung, who explored archetypes, myths, the unconscious, and mystical union, or Pema Chödrön, who guides us to find strength in discomfort. My stories seek to awaken feminine wisdom and inspire meaning.

This 8-minute video documentary shows the early days of touch and go, and tremendous victories for all of us.

Abby in the early days in the NICU

We have defied the odds and the gloomy prognosis. Abby’s commitment to her healing, growth, and learning potential inspires me. She shows what is possible with adequate support—primarily love and a caring community.

For too long, I’ve been telling Abby, “I want to write, tell more stories, express the unspoken, inspire, and connect with the healing stories of others.” Offline, I’ve felt deeply connected through my work as a body-centered therapist, guide, and retreat facilitator. Online, however, feels different—it’s harder for me. I get confused easily, lose the plot, and feel my intuition shrink amidst the endless chatter 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 talk about inhibitions and the introjection of “paper cuts” from looking different. She often asks,

“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 faces challenges—some more than others, some less visible—but I don’t know anyone who never worries about how they appear or sound to others. Everyone wants to belong and deserves to feel good about who they are.

I admit to 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 figure out how to work online—then what?”

“Mom, you have to do what I do. Protect yourself with bubble wrap. That way no one can get at you.”

“Where did she come from? How did I get so lucky to have her to listen to, cherish, and hold?” I smile to myself.

I listened. I am here, bubble wrap or not, writing as The Salty Crone.

Abby, older sister Autumn, and me visiting our host family in Guatemala.

I joined Substack to witness you, honor your craft, and learn from you. I want to soak in your wit, wisdom, and healing stories.

I’m letting go of the old nagging voices that numb and dumb us with horse shit. I’ve seen too much to be silenced. When I hesitate to push the PUBLISH BUTTON, “But Prajna…,” I will channel Abby’s fire of curiosity—let it burn away the 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 always enjoy writing about hard things. Yet, the more I write, the heavier becomes lighter, the hard becomes soft, and empowerment happens—for me, and I hope for you. Writing becomes an intimate embrace of the messy and the beautiful.

Wait. Maybe I do enjoy writing about and through the messy muddy middle.

Libby and Abby celebrating their 25th birthday at the bowling alley.

Raw, vulnerable writing is a doorway to stepping out of the cages of outdated modes—‘normative,’ ‘perfection,’ and ‘pleasing’—that mask who we truly are. Through this, I root more deeply in my body, center myself in life as it is, and witness meaning. Life becomes a playground for words, hearts, and art that connect us to a deep, soul-filled existence. Tears born from hardship transform into joyous celebrations. Together, we stand rooted in our hard-won wisdom.

I write from the margins of life because this is where I dwell—with differences, disability, and GIFT. The more I stay here, leaning into the human, the more words pour out of me—like a river.

Call me an introvert, someone who prefers in-person connections, or a techno-phobia-maniac—I haven’t fully unpacked my social dilemma. I’ve spent years in twelve-step recovery meetings, rarely raising my hand, yet with immense respect for the raw honesty. I lived in a cloister, exited an ashram (or cult) after ten years, never married, and still savor solitude.

I’m proud to be known for embodying candor, wit, and wisdom—the salty crone!

Like all of us, I am growing older. I relish the chance to challenge and dispel myths about aging, pleasure, and uniqueness—no matter where we find ourselves on the ever-changing, evolving human spectrum. Growing older is a privilege—an accumulation of ancient wisdom received from the blood and bones the wisdom of those who have gone before us.

Substack is not my only “new thing.' I joined a gym after breaking my leg and briefly considered dating (for a hot minute) after almost 30 years of not feeling it. My oldest daughter, concerned about my reclusive lifestyle, gifted me a book on asexuality for Christmas. (Picture my face—raised eyebrows, lips pulled into a skeptical frown.)

I had to Google it: Asexuality—not having sexual feelings toward others; not experiencing sexual desire or attraction. Okay, that’s two "nots," but apparently, it doesn’t exclude erotic experiences, romantic attraction, or intimate relationships. It’s said to be an inborn absence of sexual desire.

What? Scratch that. I’m not.

People who identify as asexual are often called “aces.” I guess I won’t be called 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.

Jungian Analyst and author, Marion Woodman sees loss as a rite of passage. I add loss as one of many lost rituals that humanity is eager to behold.

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 obtains the adaptations and accommodations she needs for her physical and visual challenges. She trains her companion dog, Woodzie (a heartfelt thank-you to Guide Dogs for the Blind), to stay faithfully by her side.

But there’s always the unexpected—things she can’t prepare for: the stares, the exclusion, the print she can’t read, the parties she isn’t invited to, or the broken elevators.

And yet, she continues to be unstoppable. She keeps showing up.

Abby is in London with our friend Jane playing dress up. Thank you, Jane.

I want to show up like Abby in this space called Substack—with zest and full permission to be a beginner: unschooled, uncensored, and unapologetically imperfect in my online storytelling.

• Can you name that voice that diminishes your confidence and makes you feel like you don’t belong?

• What do you say to that tender part of you?

• How do you offer yourself kindness and encouragement to show up anyway?

Dive into my memoir Edge of Grace, Fierce Awakenings to Love to experience the raw, unfiltered story of my initiation into the complexities of motherhood. Witness the extraordinary journeys of four heroines—stories of resilience, love, and courage that will empower you to stand for the rights and choices of girls and women everywhere. A resource and a guide that our mothers wish we had.

Don’t wait. You can’t wait. Tell your story.

Where to begin? How do we reap meaning, mirroring, and mystery?

SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN AND LET THE WORDS TUMBLE—TEARS TRICKLE

Life is not rational. It’s too short for perfection, pleasing, waiting, or believing the “but I’m not good enough ...” 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.

Thank you for being here and reading The Salty Crone.

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with love until next time,

Prajna O’Hara

That’s me on my 67th birthday hiking with Woody.