And Still, We Begin
I don’t know about you, but I have mixed feelings about the start of a new year.
Some years feel like an adventure waiting to happen. Mikelle may have opportunities just over the horizon—new ideas, new connections, new ways to grow her work and her life in the community.
And sometimes—like this year—I find myself wondering what the heck is going to happen to our country, and to one of the strongest long-term support systems available to people with disabilities anywhere in the world.
The headlines mirror that concern. Congress hasn’t helped by failing to support the Affordable Care Act fully. Here in Colorado, we know there will be cuts to long-term services—we don’t yet know who will be impacted, or how deep those cuts will go.
So here we are, straddling the space between hope and optimism and the fatigue that has quietly accumulated. Some of the challenges ahead we can name. Others will arrive unannounced.
And still, we begin.
We Have Practiced for This Moment
Not because we’re naïve about what lies ahead—but because we are practiced.
We have lived through complexity before. We have adapted when systems shifted. We have built when resources were thin. We have advocated when voices were ignored. We have reimagined when the old ways no longer worked. And we have persisted—sometimes quietly, sometimes fiercely.
The skills you, I, and Mikelle have developed over years—sometimes decades—are not abstract. They are portable. They are powerful. And they are precisely what this moment calls for.
This is not a year for rigid plans.
It is a year for nimbleness, clarity of purpose, and creative courage.
The Skills You’re Carrying Into This Year
Take a moment and notice what you already carry with you—because you’re bringing more into this year than you may realize.
You know how to tell stories that help people understand what’s really at stake. Not just what happened, but why it matters. You know how to connect lived experience to impact, and how to help others see the human side of decisions, policies, and systems.
You’re deeply resourceful. You’ve figured things out when there was no clear roadmap—when funding shifted, support fell through, or the rules changed midstream. You know how to stretch what you have, braid supports together, and create something workable when the system offers very little.
You’re an advocate, even on days you’re tired of having to be one. You understand how systems work—and where they break down. You know when to speak up, how to do it strategically, and how to keep going without losing your integrity.
And you’re a translator. You help people understand complex lives and layered needs—especially when others don’t yet have the language to do so. You bring clarity without oversimplifying, and compassion without apology. That’s not just communication. That’s leadership.
As you move into this year, don’t leave these skills behind. Build on them. Share them. Let them guide your next creative steps.
You don’t have to reinvent yourself.
You just have to trust what you’ve already become.
Holding Grief, Choosing Forward
As we step into this year, it’s important to say this out loud: being prepared does not mean being untouched.
Many of us live with chronic grief—the kind that doesn’t resolve neatly. It sits beside love and determination. It shows up when funding changes threaten what we’ve built, when systems fail to keep their promises, and when the future feels harder to trust than it once did. (More on this in the next blog.)
If you feel disappointment, let it be named.
If you feel tired, let that be honored.
And when you’re ready—not before—ask gently:
What is this moment inviting me to do differently?
Not smaller.
Not quieter.
Not alone.
But perhaps more creatively. More collaboratively. More rooted in what truly matters.
We are not giving up on meaningful lives.
We are not stepping away from inclusion.
We are not surrendering the community.
We are adjusting our footing, sharpening our vision, and moving forward—together.
And still, we begin.