I See You

A reflection on art, community, and why I wrote "Raising a Rare Girl." (It's the book's 3rd birthday!)

There’s an episode of Star Trek called “The Next Phase” where two characters, Geordi and Ro, become invisible. They can pass through bulkheads, tables, people. This probably sounds cool, but they become increasingly freaked out because it’s like they don’t exist. “I’m right here!” they shout to Captain Picard and crew, but nobody hears.

For the first half of the episode, they think they’re each alone in their invisibility. Then they find each other. And they’re so relieved. “You can see me?!” one says to the other. “I’m really glad you can see me! It’s like I’m here, but I’m not here.”

They hold up their hands. Finally, after people have been passing through them all day, they make contact with another human. They touch! “Well, we’re solid enough to each other,” one says, relieved.

Okay, I’m not a Trekkie, but when I first saw this episode with my husband, it was just a few weeks after the publication of Raising a Rare Girl. And I got a light case of the chills. That’s why I wrote the memoir!, I thought. So parents like me and their kids would feel seen. So people who’ve felt invisible would be able to touch hands, connect.

Today, Raising a Rare Girl is officially three years old! (Happy Birthday, Book!) The book was launched just a few months into the pandemic, so it’s had a very word-of-mouth existence. And yet, three years later, I still get letters weekly from readers. And I read every one.

Sometimes people just thank me. “You see me,” they write. (Or, in the words of the latest Goodreads reviewer, “I’ve never felt so seen!” Thanks, Brittany!) Sometimes readers share long stories about their kids and about their experiences as parents. I feel like we’re Geordi and Ro, touching hands. “I see you!” I write back in reply.

In the world of typical parents with their typical kids, it can be easy to feel unseen. The other parents are heading out to playgroups, and you’re calling ahead to be sure you can get through the door with a wheelchair. The other parents are chatting on the sidelines of library craft hour, and you’re serving as occupational therapist, hunching over your child with a pair of scissors. Your favorite podcasters are all suddenly bemoaning their empty nests, and no one thinks to mention that maybe “raising fully independent kids” isn’t everyone’s aim—or reality. Typical parents don’t really know our world. And honestly, they sometimes pass through us. They don’t mean to. But they do.

That’s why it feels so amazing to have moments of “I see you! Do you see me?” Readers, over the past three years, you’ve held your hands up and made contact. You’ve shared your stories, and your photos of your beautiful children. You’ve shared the book with your occupational therapists and your pediatricians and your special educators. (You even sometimes invited me to speak to them!)

Some of you aren’t even of this parenting world, and you still found value in the book. That was always my biggest goal: To have the book reach not just parents but anyone who wants to explore what happens when life breaks us open, in the hardest and best of ways.

So, on this, the book’s third birthday, allow me to shout out a great big Thank You!

I believe words and art can help bring us together. They can help us find each other. They can increase our empathy for one another. They can create community, where there might have been only isolated islands before.

And in the process, words and art can help us feel more fully human. And that’s always my mission as a writer, regardless of the subject: to help people—myself included—feel more fully human. To help us all feel more whole in our humanity. So, thanks again, dear Reader, for joining me on the journey!

Fiona and met a local Pride event.

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Stay tuned later this month for more about my upcoming book, Psalms of Unknowing: Poems!