Caily's World

07/28/2026

As a mom of a child with a disability I always feel I am my daughter’s voice and this story is so tragic and shocking!

And this is why we need to fight for cameras💔 this is one speech no parent should ever have to stand in a courtroom and make… ever.

Good morning, Your Honor,

Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to stand before you today as my son’s voice.

My son, John is a 21-year-old young man with the cognitive abilities of a toddler, and in many ways, an infant. He has profound, nonverbal autism and a global developmental disability.

John requires assistance with nearly every aspect of daily life that most of us take for granted. He needs help bathing, dressing, eating, and using the bathroom. Like a baby, he cries when he is in pain and seeks comfort when he is frightened. He cannot tell us when he is hurting. He cannot describe fear. He cannot call for help. He has lived a life without words for nearly twenty-two years.

John resides in a residential program specifically designed to care for individuals like him- who rely entirely on others for their safety, dignity, and well-being. I entrusted that program with my son’s life because I believed he would be protected by compassionate professionals whose responsibility was to keep him safe around the clock.

Never, in my worst nightmare, did I imagine that the person assigned to care for my son would become the person who would brutally assault him.

Receiving a phone call from the Suffolk County Police Department informing me that my son had been violently abused and that his caregiver had been arrested is a call no parent should ever receive.

As part of the investigation, I was asked by the Assistant District Attorney to watch the surveillance footage documenting what happened to John.

I sat there in absolute horror -as I watched video surveillance of Johns abuse -three times from three different angles.

What I witnessed will remain with me for the rest of my life. Those images have become permanent memories that replay over and over in my mind, returning as flashbacks during the day and nightmares every time I close my eyes.

On the morning of June 4, 2024, at approximately 7:42 a.m., Tyler Spinelli attacked my son as John quietly stood in the hallway near the restroom, most likely waiting for his routine morning shower.

John wasn’t being aggressive.

He wasn’t acting out.

He wasn’t a threat to anyone.

He was simply standing there.

The surveillance footage shows Tyler Spinelli violently knocking my son to the ground before punching him, kicking him repeatedly and spitting at him.

At one point the video surveillance captured Tyler Spinelli- dragging my son across the floor by his shirt …holding it from around his neck. The look in Johns face during these actions were heartbreaking. At times, my son appeared to be scared to death.. while other times he appeared to fight for his life …

Sadly, with a IQ of a small child and the inability to call for help, he remained completely defenseless.

Several times during the assault, Tyler walked away, leaving my son curled up on the cold floor in fear.

You would hope that during those moments Tyler would come to his senses -that he would stop, call for help, or simply walk outside.

Instead, he returned to continue the savage assault -while my son lay helpless on the floor

One image from that video will stay with me forever.

Throughout the entire attack, John never let go of his favorite toy a small rubber duck.

While enduring unimaginable violence, that tiny rubber duck became the only comfort my son had.

Watching that video was unbearable, especially as his mother.

John desperately tried to pull away from the abuse, but at one point Tyler Spinelli stood on top of my son’s rib cage to restrain him while repeatedly kicking him in the abdomen.

The surveillance footage shows John crying and waving his hands desperately in the air.

To me, those movements said everything his voice never could.

“Please stop hurting me.”

But John couldn’t say those words.

He couldn’t scream.

He couldn’t tell anyone what was happening.

He simply endured it.

As if the physical abuse were not enough, Tyler Spinelli spit directly into my son’s face while ordering him to remove his clothing.

The surveillance footage captures my son terrified, confused, and desperately trying to comply with the commands of the very person who was supposed to protect him.

What makes this crime even more heartbreaking is that this was not a random act of violence committed by a stranger.

This was a caregiver.

Someone my son trusted.

Someone I trusted.

Someone who knew John had no voice, no ability to defend himself, and no way to tell anyone what had happened.

John will never be able to stand before this Court and explain how terrified he felt that morning.

He will never be able to describe the physical pain he experienced.

He will never be able to explain how this changed him.

So I must do it for him.

As his mother, I carry that responsibility for the rest of my life.

The physical injuries eventually heal.

A mother’s heart does not.

Every time my phone rings unexpectedly, I relive that day.

Every time I close my eyes, I see my son lying helpless on that floor.

Every time I think of the trust I placed in those responsible for my son’s care, I am reminded that they failed him in the worst possible way.

Your Honor, my son has spent his entire life depending on the kindness and integrity of others because he has never been able to advocate for himself.

On June 4, 2024, that trust was shattered.

Today, I ask this Court to remember that John is far more than “the victim.”

He is my son.

He is a human being.

He deserved compassion.

He deserved dignity.

He deserved protection.

Instead, he was met with cruelty.

Today, I ask that his life, his suffering, and his inability to speak for himself be fully considered when determining an appropriate sentence.

I stand here as his voice because he cannot.

I only ask that today, his voice is finally heard and justice is served

Thank you, Your Honor

Jodi's Voice

07/26/2026

Off to camp Lavi - have fun Calush!

07/24/2026

The best moments aren’t always planned. Sometimes they’re simply found, sitting beside the water with someone you love.

07/22/2026

There is no place for hate of any kind in this world!

07/21/2026

There is one small word that has enormous power: but.

We use it without even thinking.

“I’m sorry, but…”

“You’re a great candidate, but…”

“He’s a wonderful person, but…”

The moment we hear the word but, everything that came before it begins to fade away. The apology, the compliment, the empathy. They suddenly become secondary to whatever follows. In fact, when I’m interviewing someone for a job, one of the words I listen for most carefully is but. If someone tells me, “She’s brilliant, hardworking and incredibly capable, but…” I immediately know that whatever follows is what they really want me to hear. That is the part they consider most significant.

As the mother of a daughter with Down syndrome, I hear this word all the time.

“I’m sorry, but your daughter doesn’t fit our school’s profile.”

“I understand, but don’t you think she’d be happier in a special needs setting?”

What hurts isn’t just the rejection. It’s the assumption behind it.

Somewhere along the way, society decided that if someone has special needs, they must all belong in the same place, learn the same way, enjoy the same things and have the same future. It’s as though people think they are all identical.

Imagine if we spoke about every doctor, every lawyer or every teacher that way. We would never say, “Well, they’re all doctors, so surely they all belong in the same hospital doing exactly the same job.” We instinctively understand that every individual is different.

Yet when it comes to people with disabilities, we often stop seeing the individual and start seeing only the diagnosis.

My daughter is not “special needs.” She is a young woman with her own personality, her own strengths, her own challenges, her own dreams, her own sense of humor, her own fears and her own ambitions. Her diagnosis explains one part of her life. It does not define the rest of it.

There is also something fascinating about the Hebrew word for but. In Hebrew, but is aval. The word for mourning or grief is evel, and both come from the same Hebrew root, א־ב־ל.

Perhaps that is fitting, because but so often introduces a moment of loss. It is the point where possibility gives way to limitation, where encouragement gives way to rejection and where the whole person begins to disappear behind a diagnosis.

“We believe in inclusion, but…”

“Your daughter has so many wonderful qualities, but…”

“We would love to help her, but…”

In mourning, we grieve someone who is no longer present. In these conversations, but can make a person disappear while they are still standing right in front of us. Their strengths, individuality and potential are replaced by a category and by someone else’s assumptions about where they belong.

Perhaps but is a word we should remove from our vocabulary far more often and replace with and.

“Your daughter has specific needs, and she also has enormous potential.”

“This may require additional support, and let us explore how we can make it work.”

“She has a disability, and she deserves the same opportunity to be seen as an individual.”

And allows two truths to exist at the same time. But too often erases the first truth so that only the limitation remains.

My daughter is more than a diagnosis. She is a person, and she deserves to be seen as one.

Maybe we should replace but with and.

“I’m sorry, and let’s see how we can make this work.”

“Your daughter has unique needs, and let’s find the environment where she can thrive.”

One word changes the conversation. More importantly, one word reminds us to keep seeing the person instead of reducing them to a label.

Perhaps it’s time we stopped saying, “Yes, but…” and started saying, “Yes, and…”

07/15/2026

I’ll keep sharing this because there is no better advocate for your child than you, until they learn to do it for themselves. 💙

07/14/2026

Some people are born intelligent.

My daughter was born wise.

Yes, she’s incredibly smart. She’s well travelled, an avid reader, and the kind of person who seems to have an encyclopedia stored in her mind. She absorbs information effortlessly, remembers the smallest details, and is endlessly curious about the world.

But that’s not what amazes me most.

What amazes me is her understanding of people. Especially her sister.

Anyone can love a sibling with special needs. Love is the easy part.

What is far rarer is the ability to truly understand them. To instinctively know what they need before they can find the words themselves. To notice the subtle changes that others miss. To know when to encourage, when to protect, when to step back, and when to quietly step in.

She has an extraordinary gift for creating an environment where her sister feels safe, understood, accepted, and never judged. She doesn’t try to change her. She simply meets her where she is.

There is no degree that teaches this. No book that explains it. It is a wisdom that comes from empathy, patience, and a heart that genuinely seeks to understand another human being.

But today, my deepest gratitude is for the sister who has walked beside her every step of the way.

Not because she had to.

Because she chose to.

There is something profoundly beautiful about the bond between sisters.

And then there are sisters like these, whose relationship reminds me every day that understanding can be one of the greatest expressions of love.

I couldn’t be prouder. ❤️

07/13/2026

07/10/2026

Another awesome camp day at SeaWorld. 🐬💙

But the real story isn’t SeaWorld.

The real story is that I’m feeling awesome.

This year, I feel like I’m part of the group.

In the past, I tried really hard to fit in. Part of the time I did. But it always took so much effort, and sometimes it just became too much. Even when things went well, it often felt like hard work.

Maybe I’m growing up.

Maybe I’m learning to accept myself, challenges and all.

Whatever it is, it feels different.

It feels lighter.

It feels happier.

And right now it feels good to just be me.

07/08/2026

Education is a right. Not a privilege.

For the past 18 years, I’ve put on my boxing gloves every single day to fight for my daughter, Caila’s, right to an education.

Caila has always lived between two worlds. She’s too high-functioning for many special education environments, yet she needs more support than mainstream education can realistically provide. She falls into the space in between, where there are far too few options.

Recently, I visited another school. The principal was thoughtful and compassionate. She told us, “We don’t think this is the right educational environment for Caila. Intellectually, she’ll be bored. Socially, she won’t find her peer group. Emotionally, we worry she won’t feel that she belongs.”

The painful part is that she’s probably right.

But if every school reaches the same conclusion, where is a child like Caila supposed to go?

This has been the story of Caila’s life. Not because she lacks ability, but because our systems are often designed for children who fit neatly into predefined categories. She doesn’t.

I’ve spent my career building communities, helping people feel they belong, and encouraging organizations to think differently. Yet nothing has required more persistence than advocating for my own daughter.

I’m not asking educators to do what’s easy. I’m asking them to do what’s right.

There has to be room for children who don’t fit the mold. There has to be flexibility, creativity, and a willingness to build educational environments around children, rather than expecting children to fit existing environments.

After 18 years, I don’t know how much I’ve moved the needle. Some days it feels like I’m fighting the same battle all over again.

But I do know this: if enough parents keep speaking up, if enough educators and policymakers are willing to rethink the system, then perhaps the next family won’t have to fight quite as hard.

Because education isn’t something we grant as a favor.

It’s a fundamental right that every child deserves.