Seeing the Forest for the Trees
A few weeks ago, while hiking in a forest heading up to a small hot springs with some friends, I stood in a forest that had once been consumed by fire. Blackened trunks still marked the landscape, reminders of what had been lost. Yet beneath them, young trees stretched toward the sun. Wildflowers covered the forest floor.
Life had returned. Even during the fire, life was still living underground. (Remember this for later. ) Someone pointed to a fallen tree and explained that foresters call it a “nurse tree”. Even after it falls, it continues to nourish the next generation. New roots grow from old strength.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that image.
For the past several weeks, I’ve also been watching conversations unfold about the Americans with Disabilities Act, the *Olmstead* decision, Medicaid, and the future of community living. Like many families, I’ve felt both concern and uncertainty.
But I’ve realized something.
The Future of Belonging
The future of belonging has never depended on a single law or regulation. These laws offer protection, but the community isn’t motivated to provide conditions where all of its citizenry thrives.
Laws do matter. They establish rights. They open doors. They protect people from discrimination.
But belonging is built long before a courtroom ever becomes involved. It is built when a direct support professional helps someone get ready for work, or a neighbor stops to say hello instead of looking away. It is built when an employer sees talent before disability.
And, perhaps most importantly, it is built when a family refuses to believe that their loved one cannot be a viable part of their community.
More than twenty-five years ago, the Supreme Court Olmstead decision affirmed that people with disabilities should not be unnecessarily segregated from community life. It recognized something families had known all along: people belong where life happens in their home of choice, their workplace of choice, their church of choice, and their school of choice.
Having the opportunity to go to their favorite coffee shop where everyone knows their name, like Mikelle, which allows her to participate in the everyday rhythm of our community. She isn’t just included or accepted; she belongs, and that is really what Olmstead and ADA are about.
The vision of belonging remains worth protecting.
But perhaps the greatest threat isn’t simply changes in policy; it is forgetting why community and personal choice matter in the first place.
When we begin talking only about budgets, regulations, and hours of service, we risk losing sight of the human stories underneath them.
Mikelle doesn’t think about Medicaid; she thinks about having coffee with friends, running her bracelet business, recording another podcast, hiring great team members, and enjoying her home, where she feels safe and knows she is the boss, not some program person.
Community living was never about creating extraordinary lives then or now. It is about ensuring people with disabilities have the same opportunity to pursue ordinary ones.
Forests recover because someone—or something—creates the conditions for new life to grow. Even in the darkness, growth can happen underground. Communities are no different.
Each community and person can become a nurse tree for someone else.
No matter what happens in Washington, DC, that work remains ours as a community and as individuals. It happens every day when you pick up the phone, send a text, or write an email. It happens as soon as you walk out your front door.
Where Hope Lives
This is where hope lives. It lives in each of us. Belonging isn’t something government gives us.
It is something we choose to build together, one relationship, one opportunity, and one act of courage at a time.