#lifewriting

That looking back through my posts in a browser, outside the app, is VERY soothing.

The Inventory

The Cockpit

Not rewriting my childhood. Finally understanding it.

I still find it strikingly difficult to comprehend the life I've lived. Not because it was extraordinary, but because looking back so much of it was inaccessible to me, as though I was present for it without ever understanding what was happening. It wasn't a childhood where she was gradually learning who she was. Looking back, I see a child trying to survive a life – a life she couldn't understand, and one she couldn't explain.

It's taken 16 years of writing to reach this understanding.

Helicopter parenting only scratches the surface of what a child goes through. It wasn't simply that my parents were overprotective or overly involved. The deeper issue was that I grew up with something they knew about that I didn't.

My physical needs were attended to, but my emotional and psychological needs as a child living with what I would later come to understand was a disability were never recognised or addressed.

What I had was never spoken about.

That distinction matters.

It is possible to care for someone while still leaving them unequipped to understand themselves. I wasn't given the language, the context, or the opportunity to make sense of who I was. Instead of helping me to understand why I experienced the world differently, my differences became behaviours to manage.

Throughout my childhood, I was made to follow my twin's lead. In many ways, she became my reference point for how I was supposed to move through the world, though that wasn't fair on either of us. As we grew older and I continued to struggle, the comparisons became increasingly apparent. Rather than recognising that we had different needs, I was expected to navigate life by the same rules that seemed to work for her, even though those same rules could never apply to me.

I was continually being judged for getting lost without ever having been given the map.

I was the angry child – but angry for a reason. Anger rarely appears without one.

Children don't have the words to explain why they feel overwhelmed, or fundamentally different from everyone around them. Without an understanding of my disability, I couldn't explain any of those things – not to other people, and certainly not to myself. My anger became part of my identity long before anyone asked what might be causing it.

School deepened that confusion.

When you don't know you have a disability, every struggle feels like a personal failing rather than something that deserves understanding. I don't believe my experience is unique. I believe anyone who grows up without understanding their disability will eventually find themselves revisiting their childhood, searching for answers that should have been given to them as a child. No child should have to grow up without understanding what they deal with – in my case a disability that affected me physically, mentally and emotionally.

Over the years I experienced setback after setback, yet those setbacks were rarely met with understanding. Instead, they gradually became evidence that I was seen as incapable.

Over time, that changes how you interpret yourself.

Instead of building an identity based on self-knowledge, I built one around misunderstandings. Instead of being able to learn about my strengths alongside my limitations, I learned to stay quiet. Instead of developing confidence through understanding, I spent years believing I wasn't capable.

I wasn't deprived of care in the obvious sense. My parents looked after me physically. They made sure my practical needs were met. But emotional understanding is a different kind of care. Helping a disabled child understand themselves is not an optional extra; it's part of raising them. Without it, you can grow up living inside an experience you have no framework for interpreting.

I believe that's why I find it so difficult to come to terms with my life. I'm trying to construct a story I was never given while I was living it. I'm looking back at decades of memories with information I didn't have trying to understand why I felt the way I did, why I struggled, and why I was labelled rather than understood.

There is something profoundly painful in realising that I could have understood myself much earlier if someone had simply explained what was happening to me. Not because it would have removed my difficulties, but because it would have allowed those around me to separate my disability from my identity. I might still have struggled, but I may not have spent so many years believing those struggles were evidence that I was to blame, or flawed.

Through my spiritual experiences, I now understand that my mother is deeply remorseful. My father, too, is aware, although I am less certain how far along in his journey he is. It does not lessen the impact of what happened or the decades shaped by it, because for many years I carried all of this alone. Now, I no longer have to.

I know I will never fully come to terms with the childhood I experienced, in the way I experienced it. Too many decades were spent without the knowledge or the support that could have helped me to make sense of what I went through.

It's been a life shaped by difficulties. Looking back, I realise how much of it was spent trying to make sense of experiences I was never given the understanding to interpret. As a small child, I knew I was angry, but I also knew I wasn't a bad child. Yes, it was my story because I've had to live it, but it was never my story to carry. In time, it became a story that was necessary to piece together, to be told.

What I'm trying to do now: is not to rewrite my childhood, but to finally understand it. In many ways, I think I've finally written the explanation that the child I was, was never given.

About the Author

Ilana Estelle is an author and writer, and the founder of The CP Diary. Born with something she didn’t know she had, later learning it was cerebral palsy, and then ten years after – also being diagnosed with autism, she has turned personal adversity into a powerful platform for awareness, reflection, and change. Through her writing, Ilana inspires readers to explore resilience, mindfulness, and what it means to live authentically, no matter the challenges.

Looking for inspiration and honest reflection? Visit The CP Diary for daily insights. To explore Ilana’s books and resources, head to her author page and discover how her journey can support your own.

Heute hat Facebook mir wieder einen alten Beitrag vorgeschlagen (siehe Link ganz unten). Einen, den ich mittlerweile fast jedes Jahr noch einmal teile.

Und jedes Jahr lasse ich den Text unverändert.

Zum einen leider: “Wenn nicht die Hälfte Deutschlands gerade ihren xenophoben Trieben freien Lauf ließe und mir das scheiß Angst machen würde…” Ich hoffe immer noch, dass irgendwann der Tag kommt, an dem ich diesen Halbsatz streichen kann. Ich würde mich wahnsinnig freuen, wenn er einfach nicht mehr wahr wäre.

Auf der anderen Seite kann ich mein Glück kaum fassen. Denn der andere Teil stimmt seit Jahren genauso. Damals schrieb ich: “Mein Leben war noch nie so gut wie jetzt. Aber damals dachte ich das auch schon.”

Das Verrückte ist: Auch heute stimmt dieser Satz schon wieder.

Manche Menschen sind nicht mehr Teil meines Lebens, neue Menschen sind Teil meines Lebens geworden, manche waren nur kurz ein Teil davon.

Aber eines ist geblieben:

Das größte Glück und das größte Abenteuer in meinem Leben waren und sind die Menschen darin.

Gemeinsame Gespräche. Gemeinsame Erlebnisse. Menschen, die mit einem lachen, streiten, erleben, arbeiten oder einfach einen Abschnitt des Weges mitgehen.

Mein Leben wird immer nur schön, durch die Menschen darin.

Auf noch mehr beste Zeiten im Leben!

🍻 (auf meiner Seite mit Rhabarberlimo)

​Nubsis, Nubsis, everywhere!

Kartons überall, Schrauben, Nubsis, von denen man nicht genau weiß was sie halten sollen. Und vor allem viele Dinger… Dinger halt, keine Ahnung, sie werden einen Sinn haben… mutmaßlich… und schau mal 6 neue Inbusschlüssel… die Umzugshelfer kommen also nicht… das Internet geht doch noch nicht… irres Lachen… wir kriegen das schon hin…

Irgendwo dazwischen zwei Menschen, die eigentlich nur versuchen wollten, aus flachen Paketen einen drei-dimensional bewohnbaren Zustand zu zaubern.

Ein Umzug ohne Umzugsunternehmen ist schon eine eigene Form von Naturkatastrophe mit Ansage. Dies hier ist ein Umzug mit größtenteils neuen Möbeln. Ich würde jedem in meinem Umfeld in dieser irren Zeit des Umzugs helfen, weil niemand diesen Irrsinn allein stemmen sollte. Und dann ist da mein Herr Schmitt. Wir sind keine Kollegen, die sich irgendwann an der Kaffeemaschine zugewunken haben. Wir haben uns vor 4 Wochen Hals über Kopf verliebt und stehen jetzt da. Schraubenzieher in der Hand, weil bei ihm dieser Umzug schon lange geplant war (zum Glück zieht er in eine Wohnung in fußläufiger Nähe zu mir).

Das ist anstrengend, wirklich anstrengend… körperlich, organisatorisch, nervlich. Dinge funktionieren nicht, Dinge fehlen, Dinge sind falsch gedacht, die Technik streikt oder Leute lassen einen im Stich. Man ist verliebt wie die Hölle und möchte romantische Spaziergänge, gemütliche Filmabende und am liebsten alle paar Minuten übereinander herfallen. Die meiste Zeit verbringt man aber mit Inbus, Akkuschrauber und Nubsis, die ihren Platz finden wollen. Und trotzdem hat genau dieses gemeinsame Scheitern und Weiterbauen etwas, was sich auch gut anfühlt.

“I want you to have this.”

I glance down at the five-dollar bill one of my coworkers stuffs into my hand.

“What for?” I ask, confused and wondering who she wants me to give the cash to.

She’s already halfway out the door before she answers.

“I see how hard you work, and I appreciate it.”

Dazed, I look back at my other coworkers and managers, who are smiling back at me. I stumble over to one of the expos, who, to my knowledge, hates my very existence, awkwardly handing them the bill.

“Do I give this to you?” I ask. There’s simply no way somebody meant to give this to me.

A hand lands on my shoulder, steadying me. “No, honey. You put that in your pocket. You’ve earned it.”

After weeks of awkward small talk, blunt orders thrown my way, and demands that felt too heavy for even a food runner to carry, I had already reached a seemingly obvious conclusion: I simply don’t belong.

As I watched others laugh, dance, and tell inside jokes and stories that reminded me how new I still was, I often wondered, “What am I doing wrong?”

I tried to initiate conversations. I did everything my coworkers, managers, and customers asked of me. I stayed late whenever I could and tried to make life easier for the next person.

So why am I still watching from afar?

I’m brought back to one of my very first shifts. An expo whose name I hadn’t even gotten the chance to learn called my name and beckoned me over with a commanding hand.

It had been a hectic Saturday night, and anybody in their right mind would have wondered why anyone chose to work this job.

“Jocelyn.”

I trotted over to her naively, clearly misreading the situation. “Yes?”

“Do you know where the grill is?” She suddenly leaned in close.

Of course I do! It’s right outside. “Mhm!” Oh, I was so happy to prove useful!

“Then go there when I tell you to.” She growled through gritted teeth.

Well, that wasn’t what I expected.

But I did go to the grill! The plates were right there! Delicious kabobs and a meaty half-rack were sitting right in front of her, fresh from the grill.

Yet, believing I had done nothing wrong, I had no will to argue. My only instinct was to please.

“O-okay.” I stumbled over my words, glancing to the side and retreating to my tiny corner in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, that first interaction became the lens through which I viewed everything she did.

From then on, she felt like a fireball, ready to burn away any confidence I had.

Any question I had was brushed off or met with a very long eye roll.

“But this is-”

“Does it have a ticket?” She spoke sharply.

“N-no, but this is-” I almost whimpered.

“Run this. NOW.”

If I ever got in her way,

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cried, apologizing over and over, desperate to prove I wasn’t a burden.

And for a while, that’s all I saw. Every sharp command became proof. Every eye roll became another piece of evidence. I had already decided what she thought of me, so everything she did only served as confirmation.

But the funny thing about assumptions is they tend to only show you what you are looking for.

I don’t remember the exact moment I stopped seeing her as someone expecting me to fail. There wasn’t any big conversation or apology. She didn’t suddenly become a different person. I just slowly started noticing that maybe she wasn’t angry at me; maybe she was simply a blunt person working in a chaotic environment.

I never had a moment when everyone suddenly welcomed me with open arms. There was no grand shift where I became the center of every conversation or instantly felt like I belonged.

Instead, it happened slowly, barely noticeably.

A lineman went out of his way to say good morning to me. People asked me questions back for the first time. Another lineman gave me one of his raw cookie dough pieces. A coworker showed me the secret spot in the walk-in when the heat becomes unbearable.

And maybe that was the hardest part to admit: I wasn’t invisible. I was just so convinced I was unwanted that I stopped looking for the ways people showed they cared.

That five-dollar bill wasn’t just five dollars. It was a reminder that the version of myself I had created, the new girl nobody wanted around, the person always one mistake away from being a burden, was never the complete story.

Sometimes, we are so busy waiting to be rejected that we turn away when someone is already reaching out their hand.

And sometimes, belonging doesn’t come from everyone suddenly making space for you.