Parenting with a Physical Disability: Hard Lessons I Learned

Before I became a dad, I spent a lot of time wondering how I’d manage parenthood with Cerebral Palsy. Not in the “Can I love a child?” kind of way—that part was already locked in. But in the nitty-gritty, practical sense: How do you chase a toddler in a wheelchair? What happens when your hands don’t cooperate during a diaper change? How do you keep up with Little League games when your energy taps out before the third-inning stretch?

That’s part of why I started Wheelchair Daddy, my blog about parenting, disability, and life in all its messy, joyful, hilarious unpredictability. I wanted to share the stuff most people don’t talk about: the awkward moments, the creative workarounds, the fears no one wants to say out loud. I created it as a space where other parents—especially dads with disabilities—could feel seen and less alone. It’s part lived experience, part honest reflection, with a healthy dose of dad humor. Because let’s face it, sometimes laughter really is the best mobility aid.

Becoming a parent with a physical disability is a journey filled with joy, exhaustion, and more than a few “how the heck am I going to do this?” moments. It’s not about overcoming anything. It’s about adapting everything. Looking back, I can see five lessons that would’ve saved me a lot of second-guessing (and possibly a few pulled muscles). If you’re a disabled parent-to-be, consider this your pre-season training. These are the lessons I wish someone had passed along before I became someone’s dad.

Lesson One: Redefine What “Capable” Looks Like

One of the first things I had to unlearn was the idea that parenting success was tied to physical ability. Trust me, you can’t measure your worth as a parent by how fast you can bolt after a toddler or how gracefully you fold a stroller into a trunk. If that were the case, I’d have failed out of fatherhood before we even got home from the hospital.

Being capable isn’t about checking boxes off someone else’s list. It’s about showing up with creativity and love. Early on, I realized that just because I couldn’t lift my son like other dads didn’t mean I couldn’t bond with him. We had floor time, lap rides, and ridiculous sound effects that only I could make. (Don’t ask—my kid loved them.) The way I held him was different, but the feeling? Just the same.

Your child doesn’t need a superhero parent. They need you. And if you do happen to rock a cape while pushing a wheelchair, that’s just bonus flair.

Lesson Two: Don’t Wait to Build Your Village

Here’s a truth bomb: You cannot do this alone. No one can. Parenting is not a solo sport. It’s a team marathon. If you have a physical disability, it’s even more important to build your village before the baby comes, not after.

In my case, that meant being upfront with family and friends about what I could and couldn’t do. It also meant leaning into community spaces like online disability parenting groups, local support networks, and even a few surprise heroes. (Like our neighbor who once rescued my drone from a tree. That story’s on the blog—worth the click if you’re curious.)

You’re not weak for asking for help. You’re wise. And you’ll need more than just babysitting favors. You’ll need people who listen, problem-solve, and remind you that yes, you’re doing just fine even if dinner was Goldfish crackers and juice boxes.

Lesson Three: Your Home Needs to Work for You, Not the Other Way Around

Let’s talk logistics. Your living space needs to make parenting easier, not harder. I quickly learned that my house wasn’t exactly designed with disabled parenting in mind. So we adapted.

We lowered a changing table to fit my wheelchair height. We skipped the trendy crib with a side that didn’t open and found one that worked better with my mobility. We organized the baby supplies so I didn’t have to reach or twist in ways that would leave me stuck for hours. (Real thing, real blog post.)

One of the smartest things we set up was what I call a “rolling nursery.” I kept a diaper caddy, bottle supplies, and wipes in a bin I could move room to room. It sounds simple, but when you’re juggling fatigue and a crying baby, every ounce of convenience matters.

Pro tip: Do a practice run before the baby arrives. Try changing a stuffed animal on your setup. If you can do it while sleep-deprived and one-handed, you’re golden.

Lesson Four: Fatigue is Real, and So Is Permission to Rest

Here’s the part no one wants to admit: You’re going to get tired. Not “I need a nap” tired—more like “If I blink too hard, I might teleport into a 3-day coma” tired.

Parenting with a disability means you already manage physical limits. Add sleepless nights and the emotional toll of caring for a tiny human, and burnout can sneak up fast. It’s not defeat. It’s biology.

So give yourself permission to rest. Say no when your body demands it. Let your co-parent take the reins when needed. And if you don’t have a partner, schedule breaks into your week like appointments you can’t miss.

I used to feel guilty watching my wife carry the heavier parenting load some days. Then I realized that guilt wasn’t productive. It didn’t change my ability, and it didn’t make me a better dad. What made me a better dad was knowing when to show up fully—and when to recharge so I could.

Lesson Five: Visibility Matters, for You and Your Kid

One of the most powerful things you can do as a disabled parent is simply be seen. Be out there, stroller and wheelchair rolling side by side. Be the parent at school pick-up who uses a walker. Be the dad cheering from the bleachers, even if it takes three minutes to get there.

Because your child is watching.

I remember once, after a baseball game, my son told me he liked when I was on the field. I hadn’t done much—just sat by the dugout and gave him a thumbs up. But to him, I was there. I was visible. And that mattered more than I knew.

You’re not just teaching them how to tie shoes or say please and thank you. You’re teaching them what strength looks like. You’re showing them that disability isn’t something to hide, apologize for, or feel weird about. It’s part of the fabric of their family, and it’s beautiful.

Final Thoughts: You’re Not Broken. You’re Built for This.

If you’re reading this and worrying whether you’re up for the job, let me save you some time: You are.

Parenting with a physical disability isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about learning on the fly, adjusting plans, and showing up again and again—even when you’re sore, tired, or Googling “how to treat teething with household items.”

It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to not be okay. And it’s okay to be proud of what you’re building—a family that runs on love, grit, and maybe a few adaptive tools from Amazon.

You won’t do everything perfectly. None of us do. But if you lead with heart, humility, and maybe a little humor, you’ll be just fine.

Author Bio:

Glenn Moscoso is a dad, husband, and the voice behind Wheelchair Daddy—a blog that blends parenting, humor, and life with Cerebral Palsy. Based in Atlanta Georgia, he writes about the real (and often ridiculous) moments of fatherhood from a wheelchair perspective. When he’s not cheering at baseball games or chasing blog deadlines, he’s likely figuring out how to attach something else to his wheelchair. Follow his journey at wheelchairdaddy.com or @wheelchairdaddy on social media.

If this piece moved you, made you laugh, or made you feel seen, then you’re exactly who Audacity Magazine is here for. We’re building a bold, unapologetic space where people with physical disabilities can see their real lives reflected—without pity, without filters, and definitely without limits.

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