Up until fourth grade, school was a real struggle for me. I spent more time in the principal’s office than I’d like to admit and carried a daily note home tucked into my backpack (shh… don’t tell my kids). I had been labeled early on as “that kid,” and most teachers treated me accordingly. But in fourth grade, everything changed when I met Mrs. Fisher.
Mrs. Fisher took the time to truly see me. She didn’t read my cumulative folder or listen to what past teachers had said about me. Instead, she chose to get to know who I really was. She sat with me at lunch, patiently helped me with my work, and spent a few minutes each day reminding me that I mattered and that I was cared about at school. Because of her, my grades improved, my confidence grew, and for the first time, I actually enjoyed learning. It was then that I knew—I wanted to help other kids the way she had helped me.
Inspired by the impact she made on my life, I decided I was going to become a teacher. In sixth grade, Mrs. Fisher was diagnosed with cancer and later passed away. Before she died, I made her a promise that I would be the very best teacher I could be. At the time, I had no idea just how deeply her influence would continue to shape my life, again and again.
I went on to teach elementary and middle school for 15 years. Teaching wasn’t just my job—it was who I was. Eventually, though, it became necessary for me to take a leave of absence and later resign to care for my son. Telling my students I wouldn’t be coming back was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I formed deep bonds with them; they weren’t just students—they were my kids. I still think about them daily and remain in touch with many of them to this day.
Since having my son, James, my perspective on nearly everything has changed. I went from being a passionate teacher who loved her students but felt unprepared to teach the outliers, to someone who now fiercely advocates for all children to be educated together. My transformation can best be summed up by this simple truth: you don’t know what you don’t know—until you know.
Here’s how my life led me to this point.
Like so many people, I dreamed my whole life of becoming a mom. I imagined a little mini-me running around, learning family traditions, and celebrating holidays—Christmas mornings, Halloween costumes, Easter egg hunts. I wondered whose eyes he’d have, whose nose, and I soaked up every bit of anticipation.
In 2013, my husband and I decided it was time to have a baby. We were fortunate to conceive quickly, and as a teacher, the timing was perfect. We carefully planned everything around the school year so I could take time off and return full-time after summer, with grandparents ready to help care for our little bundle.
I thought I had it all figured out. We took birth classes, read the books, created a birth plan, and prepared the nursery down to the tiniest detail. My pregnancy was blissfully uneventful—no morning sickness, no major discomfort. I loved every moment of being pregnant.
When we went in to deliver James, I remember holding my husband’s hand as we drove to the hospital. “This is it,” I said. “No turning back now.” Once there, things moved quickly. James’ heart rate kept dropping, and after several doctors checked on me, I was rushed into an emergency C-section. What started calmly suddenly exploded into chaos, like the opening of Be Our Guest—slow at first, then everything at once.
James Alan O’Leary was born on March 17, 2014, with a little tuft of red hair. I was told to pull down my shirt for skin-to-skin—but he never came. He let out one brief cry before being rushed to the NICU. My husband followed him while I lay there, stunned, wondering what had just happened. The day before, everything had been fine. His heart was strong. I had done everything right.
We had no idea how drastically our lives were about to change.
For hours, I waited to be stabilized. The first time I saw my son was through a photo on an iPhone, taken by my angel of a nurse. Nearly two hours later, I was finally wheeled in to meet him—and that’s when we learned he had a serious heart condition requiring immediate transfer to San Francisco. Doctors also suspected Down syndrome, but at that moment, none of that mattered. All I cared about was keeping my baby alive.
Eight days later, we brought James home. Our baby with a broken heart needed to gain weight for heart surgery scheduled at six months old. But he didn’t gain weight. He barely ate and vomited 15–20 times a day. I begged doctors to intervene, insisting something wasn’t right. I was repeatedly told it was “normal.” As a first-time parent, I trusted them.
They couldn’t wait six months. On June 30, 2014, at just 3½ months old, I handed my son to strangers and prayed I would see him again. After a six-hour surgery, he survived—but nearly didn’t make it through recovery. Alarms rang as bile poured from his nose. Doctors discovered an undiagnosed duodenal web, something I had questioned for months. He needed another surgery just seven days after open-heart surgery.
Since then, James has endured 27 additional surgeries and procedures and spent hundreds of days in the hospital. Most occurred before age three, and we’re still waiting for our “one-year hospital-free” milestone. Yet through it all, he continues to grow, progress, and smile. He and his sister are the lights of our lives.
Because of James’ medical needs, I had to leave teaching behind. Writing sub plans from the ER and PICU wasn’t sustainable. Losing that part of myself was devastating. I mourned deeply and felt like I had failed Mrs. Fisher. But what felt like loss slowly transformed into something new—a passion fueled by even greater love.
That passion led to advocacy, inclusion, and acceptance. It began with a simple presentation for World Down Syndrome Day in 2017. From there, our story spread. We’ve spoken to over 16,000 students, universities, and community members, encouraging them to be the one who chooses kindness. We now support families receiving diagnoses and founded a nonprofit, Common Ground Society, dedicated to helping the world find common ground.
I hope the world learns from my son the way I have. Mrs. Fisher taught me—and James continues to show me—that you don’t truly know a person until you take the time to know them. James has made me a better human in every way. And even when things are hard, I wouldn’t change this journey for anything. I am endlessly grateful he chose me to be his mom—and I hope Mrs. Fisher is smiling, proud, and watching from above.
