Some stories don’t arrive with a dramatic spark. They take root slowly, quietly, and then grow into something you can’t ignore.
This one began with a boy.
He’s 14. Thoughtful. Brave. Diagnosed with a rare condition often called Tree Man Syndrome, which causes thick, bark-like growths on his skin. While most people have never heard of it, some turn away when they do. Even so, what I saw in this boy was something entirely different.
I saw wonder. A young man asking the kinds of questions most adults avoid: What is possible for me? Can I have a future that isn’t shaped by my diagnosis? Will I ever be seen beyond it?
These weren’t questions of pity. They were questions of potential, and they stopped me in my tracks.
At his side is an adoptive mother whose love doesn’t shout; it endures. Her days are filled with caretaking, advocacy, and quiet acts of fierce belief. She doesn’t wear a cape. Instead, she wears patience, humor, and determination. She’s helping him reimagine what his life can become, even while navigating the self-doubt that all teens experience.
It started with a conversation I had with my husband. We were brainstorming places Jude could visit on a personal field trip that would allow him to explore things he enjoys without being limited. We created a list, developed a plan, and shared it with his mom.
One day in conversation, I said to him, “You ever think about becoming an author?” He tilted his head, expressing interest. We talked about documenting how he sees the world, not just the physical limitations or the pain, but the details only he can notice. The ones that most of us miss. In this way, his story, told in his voice, could become a mirror for others. And a window, too.
I’m working on a children’s book inspired by him, a boy with bark-covered skin who blends into the forest, convinced it’s safer to be hidden than to be seen. But through embarking on a journey of self-discovery (a field trip) and the wisdom of a persistent mama figure (sound familiar?), he begins to peel back the layers and discover that maybe, just maybe, the world is ready for who he really is.
- At times, writing is therapy.
- Other times, it’s legacy.
- And often, it’s both.
This story will honor a boy who’s learning to ask big questions and a mother who never stopped believing the answers were worth finding.
And I hope, in the pages that follow, a child somewhere else might read it and whisper, “Hey… that feels like me.”
