‘I fight for Medicaid because I know what it means to have it—and what it would mean to lose it.’

Medicaid is on the chopping block and our community is scared. Ashley and her mother both depend on Medicaid in Louisiana and share how crucial these services are.

Independence has never been something I could take for granted. As a wheelchair user with cerebral palsy, every aspect of daily life-getting out of bed, cooking a meal, running errands-has required careful planning and extra effort. My mother, who is also physically disabled, faced many of the same struggles.

For as long as I can remember, we have been navigating a world that wasn't built for us, doing our best to survive when survival shouldn't have been the only goal.

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Before Medicaid and home and community-based services, every day was filled with impossible choices. Without help, I had to push my body past exhaustion just to complete simple tasks. My mother and I relied on each other, but as two disabled people, that was never enough.

There were times when we had to go without things we desperately needed-proper care, reliable transportation, accessible home modifications-because they simply weren't within reach. The stress of not knowing how we would get through the next day, let alone the next year, was crushing.

Suddenly, I didn't have to skip medical appointments because I couldn't afford them. I didn't have to worry about how I would get essential equipment or whether my mother and I could access care without draining every bit of our energy. Medicaid wasn't just a safety net-it was a bridge to a life where we could finally breathe.

The real turning point came when I received home and community-based services. Having a personal care attendant meant I could focus on my career, my advocacy work, and simply living my life without every moment revolving around my disability. I could wake up knowing I had the support to get through my day without exhausting myself before noon. My mother could finally receive the care she needed as well, giving her the dignity and autonomy she had been denied for far too long.

Without these services, my life would be unrecognizable. I wouldn't be able to teach, work with organizations that matter to me, or advocate for disability rights in my community. I wouldn't be able to be an active part of society-I would be stuck, forced to rely on whatever scraps of support were available, constantly at risk of losing even that. My mother and I would be left struggling in a system that doesn't consider what happens when disabled people don't have access to the care they need.

Every time Medicaid and home and community-based services are threatened, I think about what life was like before I had them. The fear, the exhaustion, the impossible choices. These programs are not luxuries. They are what allow people like me and my mother to have a say in our own lives, to work, to contribute, to exist with dignity.

I fight for these services because I know firsthand what it means to have them-and what it would mean to lose them. Independence shouldn't be reserved for the few who can afford it or fit into systems not designed for us. It should be a right. Medicaid and home and community-based services gave my mother and me the ability to live, not just survive. And that's something worth fighting for.

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