From Her Strength to My Story

I grew up learning resilience the hard way. My childhood was filled with moments that demanded strength, patience, and a determination most people never see. Those experiences didn’t define me, but they shaped the advocate I would become. They taught me to listen, to lead with compassion, and to fight for a world where no one feels alone in their struggles.

My mother and I were connected not just by love, but by shared struggle. We understood each other’s pain without needing to explain it. When she hurt, I felt it. When I hurt, she held me through it - even when her own body was failing her. We were each other’s strength in a world that didn’t always understand what disability truly looks like.

Growing up disabled in Alabama wasn’t easy. I saw how people looked at my mother. I saw how they looked at me. I saw the assumptions, the judgment, the lack of compassion. I saw how often disabled individuals are dismissed, overlooked, or treated as less capable. And I saw how hard my mother fought to protect me from that - even when she couldn’t protect herself.

Her strength wasn’t loud - it was steady, quiet, and constant.

When my mother passed on December 23, 2020, everything changed. Losing her felt like losing the one person who understood my journey completely. The world felt heavier and quieter without her, and for a long time, I carried that grief privately. I wasn’t ready to turn it into anything - I was simply trying to learn how to live in a world she was no longer part of.

But even in those years of healing, her strength stayed with me. The more time passed, the more I realized that what we lived through together wasn’t just our story - it reflected the experiences of so many disabled individuals and families across Alabama. The barriers we faced weren’t isolated. They were systemic. And her life deserved more than silence.

Eventually, I reached a point where I knew I couldn’t keep our story tucked away. I had to honor her in a way that created change for others. I had to turn our pain into purpose - not immediately, but when I was finally strong enough to do it.

That’s why I created The Corina Mae Foundation.

This foundation is built from both of our experiences - her battles, my battles, and the love that carried us through them. It exists to create understanding where there is ignorance, compassion where there is judgment, and support where there is silence. It exists so that no disabled person or family ever feels alone, misunderstood, or unseen.

Today, I carry this work forward as someone shaped by lived experience - not defined by it. I live with disabilities and medical challenges, but they don’t tell the whole story of who I am. I’m Noah: a son who loved his mother deeply, a person who understands barriers without being limited by them, and an advocate committed to building a more compassionate Alabama. I lead this foundation with the resilience I grew up with, the empathy my mother taught me, and the belief that every disabled person deserves dignity, respect, and a voice.