This story begins in the quiet hum of an incubator, in a hospital room where survival was uncertain and every hour felt borrowed. Born four months early, the writer’s life started in intensive care—fragile, painful, and full of unknowns.
What follows isn’t a tale of triumph over disability. It’s a deeply personal account of growing up in a world that often overlooks disabled people—where access, understanding, and connection weren’t guaranteed. From her early years in Zimbabwe to life as a mother in the UK, it’s about adapting to challenges most people never see, and finding love and meaning along the way.
This is a story about presence. About showing up, even when it hurts. And about the quiet strength it takes to keep going, especially when you’re expected not to.
Danielle’s Story
I was born at 25 weeks, weighing just 900 grams.
The doctors told my mum I wouldn’t survive—that I had minutes, maybe hours.
But I fought.
And I survived.
My mum had to undergo an emergency operation while she was just five months pregnant. I was so small I had to be placed straight into intensive care. I spent over a year in hospital, surrounded by machines, wires, and breathing tubes. My family wasn’t even allowed to hold me at first. It was long, exhausting, and painful—not just for me, but for everyone who loved me.
My mum still tells me how tiny I was—so small that my baby bouncer looked like a doll’s toy. She would carefully place it on top of the microwave while cooking dinner, just so she could keep an eye on me. That image has never left me. I was so small—but always loved.
I was later diagnosed with cerebral palsy. My muscles were always in pain. I didn’t crawl. I couldn’t walk until I was four. I had daily physiotherapy—painful, tearful sessions that left me exhausted. I remember crying, just wanting someone to rub my legs or hold my hands. The pain was constant. But I kept going.
I couldn’t hear for a long time either. The world was silent until the day I got a hearing aid. Suddenly, sound opened up, and everything changed. I heard voices. Music. Life. It was like breathing in colour after living in grey.
Later, I taught myself how to lip-read so I could better understand people and feel connected to the world around me. I didn’t wait for the world to adapt to me—I found my own way to meet it halfway.
I went to a special school called Petra College in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe—the only one that offered 1:1 support and speech and language therapy. But even there, things weren’t always easy. I was bullied. I struggled to make friends. I often sat alone—not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t feel welcome. I felt different, and sometimes… invisible.
But I was lucky to have teachers who saw me.
In preschool, there was a sweet older teacher I used to call Granny Smith. She made me feel safe and loved. She eventually moved to America, but I’ve never forgotten her.
Then in Year 1, I met Miss Taylor. She was my whole world. She believed in me. She made me feel special, seen, and understood. When she got married and moved countries, I was heartbroken. But if she could see me now, I know she’d be proud of how far I’ve come.
From Year 1 to Year 7, I met many amazing teachers—too many to name—but each left something in my heart. Some of them are still in my life today. Some have read my story, met my children, even met my husband. That means more than words can say.
At 14, I moved to the UK, and life hit me hard again.
Everything was different—the people, the system, the expectations. I remember walking into school and thinking:
“Everyone looks so grown up, so smart, so sure of themselves…”
I didn’t feel ready.
I was shy, scared, and insecure. I told my mum I wanted to go back a year—not because of the schoolwork, but because I didn’t feel like I belonged. I struggled with low self-esteem. No one really knew how hard it was just to show up every day.
What most people don’t know—even now—is how much pain I was hiding.
I got good at pretending.
I smiled when I wanted to cry.
I laughed when I felt like disappearing.
I hid my depression so well that even those closest to me didn’t always see it.
I was the girl who could fight back tears and still wear a smile.
And sometimes… I still am.
But things changed.
Because somewhere along this journey, I met the love of my life—Dario Rio Smith—and he changed everything.
He helped me see the world in a new way—not through fear or pain, but through love and possibility. He reminded me of my worth. He didn’t see disability. He saw me. And with him, I’ve built a life full of laughter, love, and healing.
I got married.
And I became a mother to two beautiful children—Bunny and Dofie.
They are my heart, my joy, and my reason to keep going. Watching them grow reminds me just how far I’ve come.
I’m grateful every day that neither of my children have cerebral palsy. But what touches me even more deeply is how naturally they understand me.
Without being formally taught, they’ve learned how to communicate with me.
If I don’t hear someone, Bunny will gently sign to them or help me understand.
Dofie will sometimes start using sign language with me without being asked—as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
They don’t see my hearing loss as a problem.
They see it as part of who their mum is.
And in their own sweet ways, they show me a love and connection that goes beyond sound.
It’s like they were born knowing how to reach me—and they do, every single day.
Even now, as an adult, I’ve come a long way. I work. I raise my children. I push forward every single day.
But fitting in still feels hard sometimes.
Making friends hasn’t gotten much easier—not because I don’t want to connect, but because I’ve learned the difference between being around people and being truly understood.
Some people I thought were friends turned out not to be.
They weren’t real.
They weren’t kind.
They weren’t safe.
And that hurts—especially when you’ve already had to fight so hard just to be accepted as you are.
So now, I keep my circle small.
I protect my peace.
And even if I still feel a little out of place sometimes, I remind myself:
I belong here.
I’ve earned my place in this world just by being me.
To anyone out there—
You are not alone.
You are stronger than people know—stronger than you might even realise.
So please…
Keep going.
Because your story isn’t over yet.
❤️❤️❤️❤️
Danielle
About Me
I am a mother of two, born with cerebral palsy and hearing loss. Through my journey of overcoming pain, isolation, and self-doubt, I’ve learned to live with purpose, resilience, and love. I write to share hope, amplify disabled voices, and remind others that we all have a place in this world.