Three years ago, my life changed in an instant. My partner, Emily, experienced a spinal cord injury that left her paralyzed. Overnight, I became a caregiver—without training, without a roadmap, and without a moment to pause.
What followed was the hardest job I’ve ever had—and the most meaningful one. Being a caregiver meant learning how to navigate complex health systems, advocate for access to basic services, coordinate appointments, manage medications, and keep life moving forward when the world felt like it had stopped. I was doing it all while holding down a full-time job.
And I’m not alone.
According to AARP and the National Alliance for Caregiving, over 53 million Americans are unpaid caregivers, with nearly 61% also working full- or part-time jobs. Many are sandwiched between caring for children and aging parents, or—like me—supporting a loved one living with a disability. The emotional, financial, and physical toll is real. One in five working caregivers reports high levels of stress that impact their health and job performance. Yet, very few feel seen or supported at work.
We don’t talk enough about this. We don’t talk about the quiet strength it takes to hold it all together. We don’t talk about how many employees are caregivers—often in silence—and how few workplaces offer meaningful support.
That’s why I helped start Lotus Disability.
Lotus was born from the belief that no one should have to navigate disability alone—not the person with the disability, and not their caregiver. We exist to provide personalized, holistic care coordination and support for employees impacted by disability, whether directly or through a loved one. We meet people where they are, and we stay with them as they bloom into what’s next.
My journey as a caregiver has changed me. It’s shown me how broken our systems can be—and how much beauty and resilience live in people who rise anyway. It’s made me fiercely committed to building a world where people with disabilities are celebrated, not sidelined, and where caregivers are supported, not forgotten.
Hope, for me, is no longer a vague concept. It’s something we can design. It's access to care without endless red tape. It’s benefits that work in real life. It’s employers who lead with empathy. It’s a future where people with disabilities and their caregivers are not only included—but centered.
If you're reading this as a caregiver: I am with you.
If you're someone with a disability navigating it all: I am with you.
And if you're an employer: You have the power to make work better for millions of people.
Let’s build a future where everyone can bloom beyond barriers™.
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