Our Stories: Finding Liberation in Truth

>> CLARE:  Welcome, everyone.  My name is Clare Killy, and I'm the directorof programs at Disability Lead.

I use she/her pronouns, and I'm a Whitewoman with brown and gray hair, wearing a navy top and sitting in front of ablurred background.

Today's program includes ASLinterpretation and CART, or realtime captions.

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Lastly, while the chat is set formessaging hosts and panelists only, we encourage you to utilize the reactionsicon at the bottom of your screen throughout the program to show support andencouragement for today's storytellers. Feel free to practice that now if you'd like.

We are so pleased to welcome you for oneof our most beloved programs, storytelling with Disability Lead members.  We are fortunate to have three incredible andtalented members with us today, Timotheus Gordon, Jr., Jon Haven, and LilianaSchiller.  All three of them are pastfellows of the Disability Lead Institute, a yearlong fellowship for aspiringleaders with disabilities who are ready to make change in their communities.

Applications are open now for the 2027Institute, and I look forward to sharing more about how you can apply later inthe program.  

I want to sincerely thank Timotheus,Jon, and Liliana for their willingness to share their personal experiences withus.  

Finding the right words requires laborand vulnerability.  But the results canbe a catalyst for change.  

Please note that some of the contentexplored in the featured stories may be triggering for some, including stronglanguage, and topics of emotional abuse, self‑harm, and therapy‑inducedtrauma.  

We encourage you all to take care ofyourselves in the ways that work for you.

And now, let's begin storytelling.  

At this time, I'm pleased to welcome ourfirst storyteller, Timotheus Gordon, Jr., to join me on screen.

Welcome, Timotheus.  We look forward to hearing your story.

>> TIMOTHEUS:  Thank you, Clare.

Hi, everyone.  My name is Timotheus Gordon, Jr.  Also known as T.J. Gordon.

My pronouns are he his, and for audiodescription, I describe myself as a king‑sized, handsome African‑American male,with a mini fro, wearing a black T‑shirt, green shoes, and I'm currentlysitting in my office at the University of Chicago, my workplace.  

Here is my story:  

Honor and loyalty are in my name.  My grandfather named my father after SaintTimothy in the New Testament of the Bible. I guess I liked Greek and Latin names so much because he named my onlypaternal uncle, Adolphus, or to me, Uncle Dol.

My name, Timotheus, means honoring Godin Greek and Latin.  The first part of myname, Timo, T‑i‑m‑o, means to honor, to revere.

You see, my name is more than a wordthat identifies me among billions of people on this earth.  It is a one word encapsulation of my values,of what I contribute to society, and of how I influence people, places, andpowers to be around me.  

When you hear the name, TimotheusGordon, Jr., think of an award‑winning researcher, an advocate a helped found aself‑advocacy group for disabled people of color.  

You should also think of someone whofights for equitable parenting, and independent living and neurodiversecommunities.

You should think of someone who is trueto himself, has two master's degrees, and is still so easy going, he can talkto anyone anywhere.  

Above all, when you hear my name, youshould think of someone who honors his commitment to freedom, equity, andproviding opportunities to the disenfranchised.

But even in my circles, they stilloverlook my name.  Are my circles brave,safe spaces anymore if I don't have a place to lay my head?  A place I truly call home.  

Because I would rather follow the pathmy name means and face more opposition than be what people around me want me tobe, thus gaining more access to comfort through conformity.  

You see, now I understand what theymeant in The Crucible, when they said, "you're ruining my name.  You're ruining my name."  

When my own village thinks of Timotheus,they don't see a grown man who has achieved a lot in more than 39 years thanthey expected.  They don't see theTimotheus who has his own voice and ways to navigate rivers.  My name does not matter to them at all.

To them, just like during my childhood,I am only a Black autistic body, a body that can be filled with the directionand thoughts of others.  

I am just a puppet, expected to carryout whatever the village wants me to do.

What I have contributed to this time onEarth doesn't matter to my village, or even when others respect the work I amputting in, and the effort I am making to achieve.  

I am a show pony.  Look at how Timotheus overcame autism to geta full‑time job.  Live in a subsidizedunit, and earned two degrees!  Look athow articulate and inspirational he is!  

But if I'm not the show pony, then I ama slow, beaten‑up outcast to you.  

Poor Timotheus, he doesn't know how toparent or live as we do.  He can never belike us, because he doesn't understand our jokes, our purpose for him.  He's lost. He misunderstands us.  He thinkshe knows everything.  He thinks he'sbetter than us.  He doesn't want to beone of us.  

They miss the honor of my name and dismissme as Mr. Advocate instead.  

My legacy, my name, is not a fill in theblank where you can just insert your expectations of me and command me to carrythem out.  It will not be diminished justbecause my village downplays what I have done.

I am the expert and the voice of myadventure, so just ‑‑ so I am just as qualified to have a say in how myname should be displayed and spoken.  Inavigate my rivers.  You do not.  

Yes, I don't move through the world as aneurotypical.  My achievements and aspirationsmay not align with mainstream expectations. So what?  

My achievement and aspirations are justthat:  Mine.  They are what make Timotheus concreteexamples of what I bring to the world.  

For example, fatherhood in my villagemeans playing with the children, paying child support, and doing whatever theco‑parent tells you to do.  

My version of fatherhood, as I pledgedto all around me, is to support their growth and development, support theirdreams, and guide them to become great in any way they want.  

Despite the fears, the jeers, and theroadblocks, that's what I have been fighting for with my goddaughter,Laurenwolf, and my son, Theoy, like a buoy, by the way, being an active fatherfigure.  

Let's consider their name for me:  Mr. Advocate.  It is a joke that my village will use it todescribe how I'm too good for the village now, though I don't know if I even wasa good fit to begin with.  

But that's another story.  

That's another story.  

In all, the moniker is used to describeme as irrelevant, and supporting outcasts of society who don't belong.  

Consider that part of my name,considering that part of my name means honor, Mr. Advocate should be aname that describes my ultimate job:  Touplift and champion neurodivergent, disabled, Deaf and marginalized folks.

This Mr. Advocate fights for the so‑calledoutliers and misfits to live free, equitably and productively withsupport.  Just like I have been pursuinga freer life as an autistic self‑advocate where I can live out my dreams insteadof feeling relegated to low expectations coming from my village.

People see only a limited view of whatI, Timotheus, can offer.  They canexploit ‑‑ then they exploit what I offer for their benefit.  Excuse me.

For example, some expect me to have allthe answers on how to ensure their loved ones succeed in college.  Yet blame me when I cannot give them theanswer they want.  

Sadly I am only an expert on my ownundergraduate experience at the University of Minnesota, from 2006 to2010.  Why is it that if I don't have allthe answers, you dismiss me?  

Some people offer me opportunities tospeak about my autistic experience to a room of family members, educators, andcaregivers.  But don't take advantage ofme, expecting me to work for free.  

Why do you think disabled labor shouldcome cheap?  Why do you think disabledlabor has no value?  

Timotheus honors dignity in pay.  

I am neither your cash cow nor yourOracle at Delphi.  There is no honor toexploitation at all.  No honor in it.

But Mr. Advocate, he's the punchingbag for people who don't want me to be me. Maybe I wronged them in the past. Maybe they want what I have. Maybe they want to get to know me better.  But don't know how to do so gently and withrespect.  Or maybe they are projectingtheir guilt on to me, expecting me to take it.

Whatever the case may be, Timotheus doesnot mean to slander people in Greek or Latin. I don't just see the flaws of others. So I expect you not to see just the flaws in me.

No need to explain further how I do notbelong.  You're preaching to the choir.

I am an alien in a familiar Earth, but Iam more than just imperfections.  Learnthe whole story of me, all sides of me. Learn the truth of my name.  

When you hear the name Timotheus, don'tthink of me as a punch line, failure, or just a publicity stunt.  Think of me as a person committed to hiscraft, his vision, and his mission:  Toserve, to educate, to create, and to uplift through advocacy, adventure,academia, and the arts.  

Thank you.  

>> CLARE:  This is Clare speaking.

T.J., thank you so much for sharing yourstory with us.  Let's take a moment tocelebrate T.J.  There is, Timotheus,Timotheus, Timotheus, there's a lot of support coming in for you here.  

Thank you for sharing your story.  Feel free to exit the screen when you areready.  

>> TIMOTHEUS:  Timotheus out.  

(Laughter.)

>> CLARE:  And at this time, I would like to invite ournext storyteller, Jon Haven, to join us on screen.  

Welcome, Jon.  We look forward to hearing your story.

>> JON:  Thank you.

Hi. My name is Jon Haven.  I usehe/him/his pronouns.  I'm a 31‑year‑oldWhite man with long red hair, blue eyes, a mustache, glasses, and I'm wearing ablue shirt.  

This is my story:  

I'm an autistic who spent about a decadeworking in applied behavior analysis therapy. Yeah, those folks who are known for working to make autistic people lessautistic.  

Trigger warning for those who have poorexperiences in ABA.

Technically I'm AuDHD.  ADHD and autistic.  

I was told I had ADHD when I wasseven.  I was first or second grade.  

At that age, I loved field trips, hadthoughts buzzing like bees in my head, dreaded sitting at a desk for longperiods of time, endured long school days, prepping me to be a working cog inthe capitalist machine.  

And played with the other weirdos.  

I was bright in school, and at times,impulsive.  

For example, in third grade, I stole adigital watch from a rich kid's backpack that had funny animations on it.  I recall it clearly, because the impulse feltout of my control, and my stealth was very poor.  

The kid walked by and saw me stealinghis prized watch.  I can't recall thepunishment as much as I recall the shame.

Another time that year, I stood in linewaiting for the teacher to clarify something on our homework.  The student in front of me was taking a longtime to understand a basic concept, so I blurted "sometime thisyear!"  

My teacher was taken aback, reprimandedme and thanked the other students for their patience.  

I have always hated unfairness.  You probably remember taking math speedquizzes that were timed, when the time was up you would swap with anotherstudent and grade their quiz.  

More than once, a student continued towork on the math speed tests for about five or ten seconds after time wasup.  I would mark them off for the onesthey did after the time was up.  Whyshould they get extra time when I don't?

The student would then complain that Iwas marking them down for no reason, and the teacher would ask me toexplain.  I would explain, and theyusually told me something along the lines of don't police your peers.  

For other neurodivergent folks, you knowwhat I mean.  The rules are bullshit,except when they are not.  And they areusually enforced on us.  

Don't get into a fight with anotherstudent harassing you.  Come to theteacher.  

Then the teacher reprimands you to stopat that timing on your peers.  You're asnitch.  Whatever your opinions onsnitching are, snitching is what they told us to do.  Adults would end conflict saying, "lifeis not fair," like they were teaching me a lesson when they are justtrying to justify their bullshit.

While I had ADHD, I did not talk aboutit much, did not have it explained to me, and I labored daily to hide that partof myself.  I masked a lot inschool.  Hiding things that made medifferent from my neurotypical peers.  

My eccentric and improvisationalstorytelling was ridiculed, my stimming made me gay and students found ways topush my buttons, because when I was angry, it was funny.

I worked hard to be less neurodivergent‑likethan some others who were also like me.

Being different puts you lower in thesocial hierarchy.  For most of mychildhood, after school days ended, I was exhausted from masking, and emotionalregulation became very difficult.  

I would fight with my parents veryoften.  My parents labeled me as angryall the time.  They even sent me to talktherapy in middle school to address ‑‑ to help me manage my anger.  However, they did not put in effort toaddress their emotions, anger, and emotional abuse.  

Don't get me wrong.  In many ways my parents overextendedthemselves for me and my brothers.  Atthe same time, they did not and still have not gone to therapy.  

In elementary school, medication helpedme quite a bit.  And occupational therapyhelped a lot.  That therapy was a spacewhere someone actually got it.  I feltaccepted in OT.  I was able to swing,learn how to soothe my senses, take off my mask, and have assistance initiatingtasks.  

My time in OT is a major reason Idecided to work in ABA when I graduated college.  

Before I was connected with thedisability community at large, I hesitated to even identify as disabled.  In fact I don't remember when I first learnedabout neurodivergence, but it was later than you'd expect.

After college I was told by a friend whoworked in the field that applied behavior analysis therapy could greatly impactthe lives of kids who needed treatment to thrive.  

Today healthcare practitioners stillconsider it the standard for treating autism.

So I was quickly hired into a starvingwages job as a therapist at an ABA clinic. I was provided about 25 hours of video, scenario‑based, and hands‑onbehavior management training, and needed to pass a performance test as atherapist running an ABA session.  

The system I trained in provided muchmore training than many clinics and ABA centers ‑‑ that ABA centers doprovide or even are required to provide.

While I completed a decent amount oftraining, hardly any of it focused on autism itself, and it was not nearlyenough to be trauma‑informed in our approach.

ABA is a little different from othertherapies.  There is a supervising board‑certifiedbehavior analyst who has a master's degree in education, applied behavioranalysis, or psychology, who oversees all the treatment.  

They write the behavior interventionplans, meet with the family, and train the therapists or technicians.  

Therapists and technicians are the onesdoing the direct treatment, which for some kids was up to 40 hours a week.  This treatment is strongly tied to changingthe environment around the client to get them to engage in certain behaviorsmore, and other behaviors less.  Thisruns into issues when people are not educated about autism.  

I gave my job my all.  I even became the lead therapist after a yearat the clinic.  I lasted longer thanmost.  And yes, I still got paid shitwages as the lead therapist.  

I was given a caseload with kids who hadhigher support needs, helping them work through self‑injurious behavior orphysical aggression.  I had kids bite me,kick me, punch me.  

Because the supervisor was not educatedin autism, they would have us prevent the kids from stimming, until theyreached the point of tears.  

I was told the stimming would hurtthem.  I was told it would ostracizethem.  We forced kids to stop lining uptoys in a line because that is not functional play.  

Shortly after becoming the leadtherapist, I entered graduate school to become a board certified behavioranalyst.  While I was initially set onbecoming a mental health counselor, my supervisor at the time convinced me thatbeing a BCBA, would, one, come with employer sponsored tuition reimbursement,and two, essentially consisted of being a counselor to parents for theirkids.  

I was worn out from directtreatment.  I needed the income that camefrom a supervisory role, and while I had my reservations, it seemed like theright path forward.  

Let me be clear, I don't regret thispath.  As I traversed through graduateschool, I became a pariah with some I worked with because I was seen as givingtoo much leeway for the kids I served.

I see a lot of positive things in ABA,but what exists as ABA today is incompatible with what ABA ought to be.  

During my time in graduate school, Ibegan to notice cracks in the system, but persisted because I vowed to neverengage in the practices that I was told to do as an entry‑level therapist.  

So in 2020, two and a half years after Ientered the field, I passed the board certified behavior analyst exam, and wasassigned a caseload with adults who have intellectual disabilities.  

This test may have been the mostchallenging exam I have ever taken.  Atthat time we were in the heat of the pandemic. There was a lot of systemic upheaval. There were growing discussions about neurodivergent‑affirming ABApractices.

At that time I was deepening my ties tothe disability community at large.  

When I was in this supervisory position,the work began grinding me down even more. Rather than modifying environments to accommodate those I treated, staffwanted the adults to act a certain way.

They would not listen to me.  They would not follow protocols.  And they regularly violated the rights ofthose I served.  

As far as management above me, mydisability accommodations were not respected by my supervisor.  Because they were seen as a temporaryhindrance to my independence.  

My supervisor aimed to phase out myaccommodations, like I was a client of theirs. Up until this point, I saw cracks and issues that needed reform.  When it hit me personally, I found the entiresystem to be irreparable.  

You see, ABA is owned by wealthycapitalist, neurotypical assholes who want to make disabled folks cogs in theirmachines.  

I was taught it was a means to helpdisabled people flourish and give them the tools to communicate their needs,but that rarely happens.

So a few years later, in 2023, I quitthat full time role, because it burned me out. It led me into a severe depression.

After a short break, I attempted to findemployment outside of the field, but there were no opportunities.  

So I made my way into part‑time ABA withkids, and that was in some ways worse.  

For three years I bounced betweenclinics trying to find a place where I could exercise my ability to help thesekids, but every clinic that employed me, only cared about money.  Every place was incredibly disorganized withno accountability.  The therapists were poorlytrained.  The schedules were impossible,and the health insurance companies called all the shots.  

I attempted to make change but whenyou're alone in an endeavor, it is too much to bear.  

In March of this year, I finally freedmyself from ABA, and now proudly work in the City Colleges of Chicago as adisability specialist in the trio office at Harold Washington College.  In my role now, I don't have to changeanyone, or feel like I have to change myself.

We adapt, and we accommodate.  

Thank you.  

>> CLARE:  This is Clare speaking again.

Jon, thank you so much for sharing yourstory with us.  A lot of support comingin for you.

I want to give a pause and give a momentto celebrate Jon.

>> JON:  Thank you, everyone, it was an honor.

>> CLARE:  Thank you, Jon, we appreciate you.  Feel free to exit the screen when you'reready.  

And at this time I'd like to invite ourfinal store teller, Liliana Schiller to join us on screen.  

Welcome, Liliana.  We look forward to hearing your story.  

>> LILIANA:  Hi, everyone, thank you so much for havingme.

My name is Liliana Schiller.  I use she/her pronouns, and I'm a White womanwith long brown hair, glasses, a black T‑shirt and a pink cardigan.

This is my story:  

Her eyes looked me up and down,registering disbelief.  I had seen thatlook before, and I knew what was coming.

I don't believe you.  My son's autistic, and you're nothing likehim.  Are you sure?  

Yes, I'm sure, I think to myself, myinternal tone of voice sharp and annoyed, but I pause, breathe, andrespond:  

Yup, I was diagnosed at 25.  I plaster a smile across my face, becausethat's what I'm supposed to do, right? Women smile to relieve tension.  Ilearned that from watching others.  If Idon't smile, she'll think I'm rude, and I know that being rude is, well,rude.  

She responds, I would have never knownyou're autistic.  You hide it sowell!  

The upward curve of my lips and thecrow's feet next to my eyes stay in place, but my body tells me I'm angry.  Like so many autistic people, I often miss mybody's cues, but anger?  I know herwell.  

She starts at the tips of my toes, andslowly creeps upward.  My ankles start totingle, and as she climbs up my legs, her pace quickens.

Knowing she's near, my heartbeatsfaster.  My temperature rises and mypalms get sweaty.  My thinking mindfinally notices her presence, but it's too late.  Anger embraces my entire body, like a motherembracing their child.  I relax into herarms and allow myself to feel.

Beneath the surface, I'm boiling, but mysmile remains.

Research shows that women mask morefrequently and more effectively than men. Masking is a highly sophisticated internalized coping mechanism that'san intense and often unconscious effort to suppress autistic traits.  

Women are often undiagnosed because theyimitate neurotypical social behaviors better than men.  I want to stress that people of all genderidentities mask, and while I do not agree with the gender binary, most studiesfocus on the disparities between men and women.

There are many, many reasons why womenor women‑identifying folks mask more than men.

For starters, in the patriarchy, womenare socialized to prioritize conformity and empathy.  We're expect to be agreeable and sociallyadept, laugh at that joke, suppress our frustration and remain polite so as notto provoke.

We want to feel connect and have a senseof belonging and we often mask to fit in.

And compared to autistic men, autisticwomen internalize their distress instead of externalizing it.  Rather than meltdowns, our distress manifestsas anxiety, depression and self‑harm.

But I can assure you, I have still hadmy fair share of meltdowns.  They oftenarise when my informs system is overloaded and overload is the result ofconstant, inescapable overstimulation.  

I know when I'm reaching overloadbecause my body interprets small things like a person coughing on the bus, as afull assault on my senses.  

That person flipping through their twosecond clips of TikTok without headphones? They're oblivious, but my body is hyperaware.  That child at the grocery store who is maybejust a little too close to me at checkout, they don't mean any harm, but mybody feels threatened.  

I interpret these small moments asweights being added to my life vest.  Atfirst swimming becomes just a bit more difficult, but as the weights compound,I can no longer stay above water.  Ican't do anything but sink.  

I sank a lot as a toddler when simplethings like seams in my socks would trigger a meltdown.  The only way I would calm down was if my momheld me as tide as she could.

As I got older, my meltdowns becameangrier.

Over time I started to sense thatexternal anger wasn't appropriate.  Ilearned to be more docile and to hide my anger. That's when I began to internalize my meltdowns.

As a teen I'd go into my room and hitmyself as hard as I could in the head. I'd walk in circles, tears quietly streaming down my face and justhurt.  

Because I was unable to express myselfthe way my body craved, I started exhibiting quieter forms of distress.  My preferred method?  Finger picking.  

In eighth grade, I remember going to thenurse's office for Band‑Aids so often that she eventually gave me a box to keepin my desk.  In high school, I kept a bagof Band‑Aids in my backpack, and I still have that same zip lock bag.  

In college one of my professors noticedthis behavior and asked me to stay after class. You pick your fingers a lot.  Shesaid, do you ever feel anxious?  I don'tknow, I guess sometimes, I replied.

She referred me to my school'scounseling center and at 19, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorderand major depressive disorder.  Neitherdiagnosis felt right, but I guess it was something.

At 21, I taught at a school for studentswith severe and profound disabilities. Only then did I learn about autism. I'd heard of it before, of course, but I didn't know anything aboutit.  

As I got to know my students, I began tosee myself.  Wait a minute.  I flap my hands like that.  Well, hold on, my body's craving movement,can I get um from my desk and ‑‑ up from my desk and walk around too.

I remember a day when a teacher broughtout a trampoline during my music class. As a kid I used to repeatedly jump up and down when I was excited and Iwould have loved a trampoline.  The waythis constitute jumped to their heart's desire warmed my soul.

The pieces started coming together but Ikept this information to myself.  A fewyears later I casually mentioned it to my mom and sis perfect but nothing camefrom it.

In 2021, my sister sent me a multipartTikTok about a girl's autism journey, and boy howdy, it was as if I filmed thevideos myself.

I began thinking seriously about beingautistic.  I didn't know where to start,so I asked my primary care physician if she knew of an adult autism test, shereferred me to Lurie Children's Hospital which was unhelpful because I was nota child.  So I took it upon myself andfound a center.

The testing process was absolutelyabsurd.  It was designed forchildren.  

When I asked about this, thepsychologist told me that there were no other options.  I don't know if that's true, but I couldn'twait any longer and proceeded with the test.

The entire process took about amonth.  And in August 2021, I was finallydiagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.

I expected to feel relief, but instead Ifelt immense grief.  Why didn't anyonenotice that sooner?  And why did I haveto suffer?  

I'm not angry at anyone inparticular.  In fact I know my mom triedwhen I was a baby.  She spoke to doctorsabout my meltdowns, but there was little to no research on autistic girls atthe time, and I think that this speaks more to our society than it does to myfamily.  

To most people, I'm not autistic.  To some I'm not autistic enough and to othersI'm way too autistic.

I've opened by autistic identity forfive years, but I'm basically relearning how to be.

I catch myself masking all thetime.  Most recently I attended a workevent and was chatting with someone I had just met.

I was smiling and nodding and thenfurrowing my brows and nodding and then smiling and nodding again.

It fit so forced and ‑‑ felt soforced and unnatural.  It felt like thescene from men in Black where that tiny alien controls the human's body.  Sometimes when I mask I feel like that alienpulling the human levers for myself.  

It's so hard to break from these socialscripts so I can appear normal.

I constantly ask myself, why do I maskso much and why is it so hard to stop?  Iallow myself to be authentically autistic in so many ways, but breaking theveneer of my perfectly curated mask feels impossible.

When I'm constantly performing forothers, I enter a period of debilitating autistic burnout which is a severeform of exhaustion, marked by a loss of skills, intense fatigue and asignificant increase in sensory sensitivity.

I once heard that burnout often happenswhen the energy required to mask finally collapses.

For decades, I felt like that alien in ahuman suit.  I watched the humans behaveand adopted their manners and to not be found out.

But I like my unmasked self.  I'm smart, thoughtful, funny, strange, dorky,weird.  I like my brain.  I like being autistic.  And even though it's hard, I like unmaskingand showing everyone who I really am.

It'll take a very long time to unlearn30 years of socialized behaviors.  But Iam motivated to help others live the way they want to, not the way societyexpects them to.  

Living by others' expectations isexhausting, and in a world that was not made for disabled people, we must showup as our real selves.  

That's the best thing we can do, and Ihope we can do it together.

Thank you.  

>> CLARE:  This is Clare speaking.  Thank you so much, Liliana.  Thanks for sharing your story with us.  

I'll have a moment for all the supportcoming in.  

And at this time I'm going to invite Jonand Timotheus to join us on screen again.

Give me one moment to make sure everyoneis visible.  

And let's spend some time celebratingall three of our storytellers.

Thank you so much.  Such powerful stories.  We really appreciate you, Timotheus, Jon, andLiliana.  Let's send some gratitude theirway.

I know that all of you worked reallyhard in preparing and we're so proud to have you as members of the DisabilityLead network, so thank you for your openness and authenticity.

And I hope each of you know that someonein this audience has been changed by your story.  

Thank you all so much.  

I invite you to stay with me on screenfor final remarks, and continue to see all the support that's coming yourway.  

I'd also like to extend an additionalthank you to Disability Lead's members, Tekki Lomnicki and Megan Doherty fortheir coaching, support, and expertise in helping our storytellers prepare whatthey shared today.

And thank you to our access providers,Jo Gayle, providing CART, and AiMedia, providing American sign language.  

Today's gathering is about holdingpeople you don't know in your heart, and making room for their voices and theirneeds.  

This is the only way we will achieve theequitable and inclusive communities each of us yearns for.  

And on the note of community building,I'm pleased to share that applications are open for the 2027 Institute,Disability Lead's yearlong fellowship for aspiring leaders.  If you are a person with a disability who livesor works in the Chicago or Southwestern Pennsylvania regions, and you have atleast five years of leadership experience, you are eligible to apply.  

The Institute is a one of a kindexperience for emerging or established leaders with disabilities to engage indeep reflection, learning, and skill building with a close‑knit community ofpeers.  

After completing the program, allfellows become lifetime members of the Disability Lead network, just like ourthree storytellers today.  

In the chat, you'll find the link whereyou can learn for and apply.  And there'sstill time left to meet our early bird deadline of July 1.

Applicants who submit a full applicationby July 1 will receive a full interview and if you don't meet that deadline,there's still plenty of time to apply, because applications will be open untilthe beginning of September.

In the Institute isn't right for you butyou can think of others who would benefit, please help us spread the word oroffer to serve as a nominator for a potential candidate.  You can contact us at applications@DisabilityLead.orgwith any questions.  We hope to see youapply and thank you for spreading the word.

Finally, help us continue to providehigh quality programming by offering your input on today's program using thefeedback form linked in the chat.

And we hope you'll stay with us ondisabilitylead.org, and join future programs.

Thank you again to our fabulousstorytellers and members, and thank you for joining us.  

We hope you have a wonderfulafternoon.  

(Concludes at 12:48 p.m. CT.)
                                         

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The text herein is an unedited rough‑draft file.  Communication Access Realtime Translation(CART) Captioning is provided in order to facilitate communicationaccessibility.  This transcript may notbe verbatim, has not been proofread, and is not a certified legal transcript.

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