When love learns a new language: Parenting a child with a disability

There were three others, all girls, children from other relationships. That revelation hit like a surprise bill at month-end. But one of them, my older sister, would change my life forever.

She lived with cerebral palsy.

I still remember the day we met. Her skin was soft, her eyes shone with that quiet sparkle that sees right through you, and her smile… her smile was pure warmth. The kind that could melt the frost off a winter morning in Lesotho. It wasn’t pity or sadness that filled me that day, it was connection. Deep, soul-level recognition. It was as if she was saying, “Ah, there you are.” And I was saying it right back.

Turning storms into lullabies

Her mother, Mahlape, welcomed me with open arms – no awkward introductions, no explanations, just family. That’s who she is. A woman with courage, humour and the kind of faith that doesn’t need a microphone to be heard.

When Mahlape tells her story, it feels like a sermon whispered through tears and laughter.

“I had my firstborn daughter while I was still at school,” she told me. “I was scared and confused. The father wasn’t around. But my parents, they stood by me. We sang, we prayed, and we raised her together.”

That’s the thing about our mothers, they turn storms into lullabies.

She said they never saw her daughter as disabled. “We called her Madam,” she chuckled, “because she pointed and we just did everything she wanted.” The whole family became a personal team of assistants to Madam. You didn’t question, you just obeyed those tiny hand gestures, because her smile was payment enough.

Whenever I visited, she would light up the room before I even said a word. And somehow, she knew I was drawing close before she heard my voice. Mahlape would tell me that whenever I was on air doing my radio show, Madam would insist on being placed next to the radio. Her body couldn’t move easily, but her spirit would dance. She’d laugh, gesture and beam like the station lights were shining just for her.

That right there, that’s love you don’t learn in any classroom.

"He loved her as if she was his own"

Then came Ntate Sello, Mahlape’s husband, a man who redefined fatherhood for me. “He loved her as if she was his own,” Mahlape said. “He’d help feed her, bathe her and pray with her.” He wasn’t her biological father, but he was her chosen one. And sometimes, the fathers who choose to stay are louder testimonies than the ones who share our blood.

When Madam turned 21, her biological father resurfaced. Mahlape could’ve slammed the door, but her daughter wished to see him. With the support of her husband, Mahlape made it happen. Forgiveness walked in that day wearing love’s colours.

“To mothers raising children with disabilities,” she said, “love and serenity are powerful. Treat them as normal, and you’ll see that God doesn’t make mistakes.”

That line hit me deep. God doesn’t make mistakes.

Because my sister, despite her condition, never lived like a mistake. She lived like a message, one about patience, joy and love that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Her laughter taught me to slow down. Her silence taught me to listen. And her eyes, those bright, storytelling eyes, reminded me that presence is a language of its own.

If you're loving, you're still winning

When she passed away in December 2024, it wasn’t just grief that filled the room, it was gratitude. Mahlape said, “I realised I had been living with an angel. God was testing and building me, and I passed my test.”

That test… it’s the same one many parents are writing daily, the test of love under pressure. Some days the marks are perfect; other days, you barely pass. But if you’re loving, you’re still winning.

So, to every parent raising a child with a disability: You’re not behind. You’re not cursed. You’re not alone. You’re raising a masterpiece, one who might look different, sound different and move differently, but one who carries divine purpose in every breath.

And if you ever doubt yourself, remember Mahlape. Remember Madam. Remember that love, no matter how it’s expressed, is holy work.

Because sometimes angels don’t wear wings, they wear nappies, point instead of speaking, and insist on listening to their brother’s voice on the radio.

And when they smile, the whole world warms up.