There’s a strange kind of circularity to landing in Colorado. We didn’t exactly choose it the way you choose a paint color or a couch- it chose us, the way places seem to do when enough threads pull at once and a knot is born. I’ve been looking at couches lately-not that we will be able to fit one in our “new to us” 1875 cabin rental- but damn, I’m obsessed with the new corduroy cloud sofas!
So here we are- finally landed in Colorado.
Both of us Idaho born, Idaho rooted- Moscow was truly home territory. It was where I did the bulk of undergrad, where I moved (back to) in my mid-20s, where Basil was born, & the reason Phin and I’s worlds collided. Not to mention -the area- is all Phin has really ever known besides his research and firefighting travel.
Back in undergrad- We were loose friends- the kind of people who exist warmly in each other’s periphery without ever quite converging. Like an exceptionally slow moving rom-com that kept forgetting to advance the plot. Then we both ended up back [in Moscow] at the same time- both freshly done with wildland fire fighting- living across the street from each other.
Moscow has a way of doing that – pulling people into the same orbit and seeing what happens. It’s a small enough city that you run into someone you know just about every time you walk the dogs downtown, and where the Food Co-op is less a grocery store than a social event. You can’t grab a coffee without running into one of your ex’s family members, someone you went to undergrad with, and someone you once tabled an event with.
As annoying as it could sometimes be, I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss the specific textures of Moscow – the feeling that my life is woven into the fabric of its streets.
The tan cinderblocks of the food coop freshly painted dark green- after all these years- a fresh start of its own. (can you tell I already am grieving it?)
Handwritten labels- probably pealing off- spread across campus, workplaces, and the many apartments I’ve lived.
“Moscow for Clean Energy” signs (delaminating) sitting in the same corners of yards I placed them 5 years ago.
The tape residue left on all the glass surfaces around town- from the hundreds of posters I’ve hung.
All the moscow mountain weather stations, and many other experimental forest supplies labeled with handwritten notes from mine & Liz’s forestry days.
The tens of thousands of plants I’ve helped put in from Lapwai to Deary to Pullman to Potlatch.. creating their own positive impacts.
& as I’ve left my mark on moscow, moscow has left its mark on me.
The beetle-ridden/ water damaged ceiling of our apartment’s living room- what I stared at when I thought my sweet son wasn’t going to get to experience this beautiful world.
Smack dab middle of 3rd street, where Phin and I re-met back in 2022.
The laughs echoing off the walls of many drunken evenings spent at Mikey’s.
The spot I always met my friend, Callie, at East City- under the flag pole with the perfect amount of afternoon sunshine
The dorm room that held some of my darkest memories. Even years later, I’d pass it on my way to work and feel the light dim a little.
My first apartment on Lilly- with the balcony that looked like it was to snap off at a moments notice- where my friend Jamie and I would lay out in bikinis gossiping.
The field I built my tiny home in.
The South Fork of the Palouse River, where Cam and I carted, planted, and watered plants for months, a forever bond.
Seth and Earl’s old house, where we made big climbing plans and a lot of biscuits.
My friend Maddie’s garage, where many a party took place.
The path beside the gym, where I walked with friends through breakups, new jobs, big dreams, small dramas, and all the ordinary moments in between. Years of conversations that helped shape a life, one lap at a time.
The apartment I took Pinny dog home to for the first time.
I know every turn and grade of headwaters trail, I could walk it in my sleep.
Moscow: A rug woven from the loose threads of a life—some bright, some tangled, all impossible to separate from the place that held them.
We were sitting on the Snake River when we figured out we wanted to get married, and I mentioned- almost offhandedly- that in Colorado you can elope with no one present except your dog. So that’s what we did. Colorado has always pulled at me, even before it made practical sense, and that trip became one of the best we’ve ever taken. The mountains, the elopement, just us and Goose – it was exactly right. So in a way, Colorado was already part of the story long before we packed up for this move.
When Basil arrived, our criteria started as “the coolest place to grow up.” It didn’t take long for us to add a few footnotes: excellent healthcare, adaptive sports, and strong resources for the blind.
Through probably a 100 hours of reading reddit forums, ChatGPT Claude AI analysis, and a lot of browsing AllTrails- outside of Denver became the clear winner.
A work friend is renting us a place, at least for a bit while we figure out where (and what we can afford) to buy. We took the scenic route get down here, stopping in both Yellowstone and Pinedale, WY to cushion the blow of the drive.
Yellowstone- A place I’ve returned to again and again through different seasons of life, now serving as a waypoint between the home we were leaving and the one we were building.
I type this as I sit on a yoga mat outside of our camper. Periwinkle looking through the screen, my old pup lounging in the sunshine, and my almost 10- month old asleep inside on flannel sheets with a dinosaur soundtrack playing softly beside him. We have now been living in our camper for a month, and it has been such a reprieve. When you are in the swarm of it all- doctors visits, PT visits in the living room, hours spent in waiting rooms, evenings packing books into diaper boxes, mornings spent writing massive to-do lists- you just keep going and ignore the pain. Waking up to birds, slowly drinking my coffee, daily yoga practices, family hikes, and helping Basil take his first steps in the shade of the pines… it has been a game changer. It has been the transition we needed as a family, with prioritization on our health and wellbeing- work and appointments taking a backseat.
In exciting news-We checked out our new “backyard” yesterday, and let’s just say there is no shortage of adventure. This part of Colorado is a super neat mixture of the magnificent rocky landscapes of the SouthWest and high elevation mountain towns- I’m already in love. Today I worked on Basil’s disability waiver to get health insurance, didi a long list of the typical moving-to-a-different-state-to-do’s, and next-up will pack up the Osprey for a hike to a waterfall in the AM. Phin is away on work, and I get the keys to move-in July 1st. While this dirt lot [ where I am parked at for the next 10 days] isn’t the most pristine of locations- it is serving as a fantastic “catch up” location.
As some of you know, we finally received Basil’s genetic testing results. Since 4 months of age, much of the conversation revolved around cerebral visual impairment (CVI)- which he does hold very similar characteristics to. But genetic testing gave us a more complete piece of the puzzle: Basil has a rare genetic condition involving the CEP290 gene, a diagnosis that helps explain many of the vision challenges we’ve been navigating. In simple terms, the retina doesn’t function the way it should, resulting in severe visual impairment from infancy. Because conditions like Basil’s can change over time, we’re now entering a new phase of testing. Specialized imaging and retinal evaluations will help doctors understand how much retinal tissue is currently functioning and provide a clearer picture of what the future may hold.
In some ways, the diagnosis brought relief. After months of appointments, evaluations, and uncertainty, we finally had something concrete. In other ways, it opened an entirely new chapter. Rare diseases have a way of answering one question while introducing 27 more.
What has changed most is how we think about the future. There was a time when blindness felt like one of many possibilities. Now we understand that accessibility will be a lifelong consideration for our family. Braille is no longer a backup plan. We think differently about schools, transportation, outdoor recreation, technology, and even the way we are setting up our new home.
Imagine trying to baby-proof for a blind—but very daring—toddler. Basil approaches every obstacle with the confidence of a middle-aged man backing a boat trailer for the first time.
There are still many unknowns. Some CEP290-related conditions can be progressive, meaning Basil may lose more of the limited vision he currently has as he grows. There can also be some scary side effects. As of right now, all tests are appearing “normal”, so we are hoping his eyes will be the only “big medical focus”…At the same time, there is genuine reason for hope. Researchers are actively working on treatments and gene therapies for inherited retinal diseases, including conditions related to CEP290. We don’t know what breakthroughs will arrive or when, but for the first time, those possibilities feel real rather than hypothetical.
And if we’re going to navigate a rare genetic condition, Denver feels like a good place to do it. Between Children’s Hospital Colorado, specialists in inherited retinal diseases, plentiful adaptive recreation programs, and strong blindness resources, we’re surrounded by people helping us prepare for whatever comes next. We are all enrolled at his blind toddler preschool and I cannot wait for all they have to offer our family. More than anything, I’m excited for Basil to be surrounded by kids who navigate the world the way he does.
This transition has also given me space to think about my own next chapter. For the better part of a decade, my work has revolved around conservation, restoration, environmental education, and getting my hands dirty outdoors. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. If anything, this move and Basil’s diagnosis have sharpened my focus on creating a career that not only works for our family, but marries my interests and impacts the world in a positive way. Of course, all career planning currently takes place in the context of naps, medical appointments, and whatever new hazard Basil has discovered this week. Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to the places where those interests overlap. Environmental science. Photography. Writing. Storytelling. Some of the ideas are still half-formed, but they’ve been gathering momentum.
One project I keep returning to is a photography exhibit centered around disability, perception, and the outdoors. My vision is to pair photographs I take with images created alongside Basil when he’s older. Whether that means handing him a camera, digitally manipulating images to better reflect how he experiences the world, or using technology that doesn’t even exist yet, I’d love to create something that invites people to think differently about vision and the many ways we experience a landscape. The dream would be to pair the exhibit with presentations and educational programming around disability awareness and inclusion in outdoor spaces.
We tend to imagine blindness as an absence, a world gone dark. But the more I learn, the more I realize it can also be a different way of perceiving—a world of light, shadow, color, movement, sound, texture, and intuition. I know Basil’s experience of the world is rich and beautiful in ways I may never fully understand, and part of me wants to spend a lifetime exploring how to share that perspective with others.
I’ve also become increasingly aware of how few books exist for children with significant visual impairments. There are wonderful Braille and early literacy resources out there, but there is a noticeable gap when it comes to the beautiful, imaginative books that so many families fill their shelves with. The books that become favorites. The books that get read until the pages fall out. The books that children proudly pick for bedtime. Accessibility is often treated as a separate category rather than something woven into the books everyone wants to read. I’d love to help change that.
And then there’s the writing, my writing. Somewhere along the way, I realized I had been searching for a book that didn’t seem to exist-a book written from the perspective of a parent raising a blind child. Not a medical guide. Not an inspirational memoir. Just an honest account of the grief, joy, uncertainty, humor, advocacy, and everyday realities that come with raising a child who experiences the world differently. As someone who turns to books whenever life gets complicated, I’ve been stunned by how little exists on this topic. How can it be? No books, no podcasts- just a few YouTube videos that I can’t even make it through. I’m in the very early stages, and I have no idea where it will ultimately lead, but I feel a tremendous amount of energy behind it. For the first time in a long time, there is a project I can’t seem to stop thinking about. I draft on my crumpled notebook, on voice notes while I hike, and while I do the dishes. The time doesn’t seem accessible, but I know this is a project not only I need, but so many parents out there.
One of the things that excites me most about Colorado is that these conversations, of accessibility, are already happening. Accessibility in the outdoors isn’t treated as an afterthought in the same way it often is elsewhere. There are organizations, advocates, adaptive recreation programs, and land managers actively asking how more people can belong outside. As Basil grows, I hope to be part of those conversations—not just as a parent, but as someone who cares deeply about connecting people to the natural world.
Being the parent of a disabled child is a lot, but it is also an incredible gift. One thing I’ve realized is that I don’t really have a frame of reference for anything else. Basil is my first and only child. I don’t know what it feels like to raise a sighted toddler, just as I don’t know what it feels like to raise a child who sleeps through the night, doesn’t scream when you try to wipe their nose, or doesn’t try to turn every object in the house into a climbing apparatus.
This is simply the version of parenthood I was handed, and most days it feels remarkably normal.
In fact, Basil being blind rarely feels like the defining feature of our lives. Most days are filled with the same things that seem to occupy every parent: Googling things at odd hours, worrying about the future, improvising solutions, and celebrating tiny victories. The details may be different, but the experience often feels surprisingly ordinary.
What Basil has changed is not just our plans, but my perspective. I’ve always had passion and momentum, but watching Basil take on the world with such determination has given me a new kind of fire to do the same. Being his mom has made me more aware of the barriers people encounter, more curious about how others experience a place, and more determined to create spaces where everyone belongs.
Somewhere between raising a blind child and spending so much time teaching people about the outdoors, I’ve become fascinated by the question of who gets to belong outside—and how we make sure the answer is everyone.
It has shown me that disability and joy can coexist, that blindness doesn’t mean a life without beauty, and that accessibility isn’t just about removing barriers-it’s about making sure more people get to participate in the wonder of being alive.
Moscow taught me that a life is built slowly. Through friendships, shared meals, long walks, ambitious projects, chance encounters, heartbreaks, celebrations, and all the ordinary moments in between. It shaped who I am in ways I’ll spend years continuing to discover.
Now, sitting outside a camper with mountains on the horizon and a sleeping baby inside, I can feel the excitement of beginning again. New places to explore. New people to meet. New work to pursue. New adventures for our family.
Moscow gave me more than I could ever fit into a single blog post. It gave me community, purpose, adventure, heartbreak, growth, and a thousand stories worth telling.
Now it’s time for a few new ones.
Colorado, let’s see what happens.
all good vibes, xoxo Liv
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