Stories.
Stories, when told truthfully, have the power to turn bureaucratic walls into open doors. They make the invisible visible. They remind us that behind every policy, form, and acronym, there is a human being trying to live a good life.
Last week, I found myself once again telling Mikelle’s story — not to an audience of advocates or policymakers this time, but to a stranger on the other end of an email written in the tone of a bill collector.
The Nurse Assessment Process for CFC.
“Five days to respond or else.”
That’s how the message began. No greeting, no context, just the kind of bureaucratic threat that tightens the chest of any caregiver who’s walked this road before.
I called the customer service number listed — only to be greeted with options for Maryland and Ohio. No Colorado. No home. No help.
So, I did what storytellers do when the system doesn’t make sense: I wrote. I sent an email explaining the problem. That evening, a text arrived, asking to schedule Mikelle’s nurse assessment for the next morning. The sender turned out to be the project manager for Colorado’s new Community First Choice nurse assessor program.
I told her about the email. She asked for a copy, apologized, and promised to fix it. Within hours, the wrong phone number was corrected.
Working through a Negative Reputation
We spoke about Teligen’s history — how families have long seen them as a nameless, faceless entity deciding the quality of their loved one’s care. I told her how exhausting it can be for families to respond to a five-day deadline, as if we must hold a medical degree to prove what we already live every day. She listened carefully and said, “That’s a different division now.”
She promised things would be different. And to her credit, they were.
We scheduled Mikelle’s assessment for the end of the week. The nurse arrived on time, casually dressed, kind-eyed, and curious. The entire visit lasted just 35 minutes. No six-hour ordeal, no cold scrutiny. We referenced Mikelle’s task plan, laughed about her coffee ritual, and ended with a sense of relief. Advocacy, at that moment, had done its quiet work.
I texted the project manager afterward, thanking her for helping things run smoothly. I thought, perhaps naively, that we were done.
Assessment Complete-but…
Days later, an email arrived: “Assessment Complete.” But there was no link, no document, no clarity.
So, I called the call center again — now, thankfully, with a Colorado option —and was on hold for thirty-five minutes. A kind nurse filling in for the line asked for a file number. I found it. Then came a digital scavenger hunt: one broken website, another portal that required information I didn’t have. After another half hour, we found the letter. I printed it, stared at it, and realized I didn’t understand what it meant.
So, I waited for Mikelle’s case manager. Her secure note landed like a hammer: “I don’t understand why Mikelle’s budget was significantly reduced.”
Panic is Real
A wave of panic ran through me — familiar and unwelcome.
I sat with Maryann, Mikelle’s lead team member, and we combed through the new assessment, line by line. Somewhere in the system’s logic, Mikelle had apparently been reduced to eating once a week, among other minor but catastrophic errors.
We called the program manager — she promised to call back. The next morning was Saturday. She was working. So was I. Together, we corrected the mistakes. Within an hour, Mikelle’s funding was restored.
Make the Connections. Reach out.
All because I had made the first call. All because I had told our story.
Storytelling, in moments like this, isn’t about drama or flair — it’s about precision, persistence, and connection. It’s about reminding the system that we are here, that our stories matter, and that dignity lives in the details.
So here’s the lesson for every family navigating this new program:
Make the call. Tell your story. Build the relationship.
Behind every email, there’s a human being who might listen — and when they do, the story becomes the bridge between bureaucracy and humanity.
Call to Action:
If you are a family caregiver, advocate, or professional navigating Colorado’s new Community First Choice program—don’t stay silent. Make the call. Send the email. Share your story. Systems change when people speak with courage and clarity.
Your lived experience has the power to shape the process for everyone who follows. Whether it’s catching an error, building a relationship with an assessor, or simply humanizing a complex system—your voice matters.
And to those leading these programs—listen deeply. Behind every assessment is a family carrying both love and responsibility. Compassion and curiosity go a long way toward building trust in a system that desperately needs it.
Storytelling, after all, is how we remind each other that people—not processes—are the heart of care.