I've spent years traveling and sharing my story, hoping it might help other young people with disabilities find the courage to step out of the shadows, to feel less crushed by what society insists are insurmountable differences. I've told my story to all kinds of audiences—different ages, different interests, different reasons for being there. And it was after one of those talks with adults that I discovered something that shattered me.
I'd stepped into a corner for water. My husband Luca was nearby, deep in conversation with someone else, when a young woman pushed her wheelchair toward me with effort, stopped, and stared. Then she asked: "How long have you two been together?" I gave a vague answer—we'd been together a while, we were married. She looked at me and said, "You're lucky. I don't have that luck. Do you want kids?" The question was so personal, so direct, that it caught me off guard. It touched a wound that was still very open. "Yes," I told her. "We'd like to." A cold silence fell between us. She broke it, following her own scattered thoughts. "Lucky you. I got pregnant once, but… I can't be a good mother." I didn't understand. The words didn't connect. But she went on. "My father explained to me that with my disability, I could never be a good mother. He convinced me to have an abortion. But you know…" her voice had become faint. "I wanted that baby. It was my baby."
That conversation shook me deeply. I believe abortion must always be a free choice—one that is painful and difficult, yes, but where that freedom is sacred and cannot be judged either way.
In that moment, when I didn't even know if I would ever become a mother myself, I decided I had to do something to build a new awareness among women with disabilities—the awareness that they can be mothers. When I did become pregnant, I asked myself many times whether to make it public, whether that was the right tool. That's how the campaigns #diversamenteincinta and #diversamentemamma began, where I talked about the challenges I faced during pregnancy and after birth.
From that experience came my proposal to create a dedicated pathway for pregnant women with disabilities—one that activates when a specific exemption code is recognized, bringing together all the specialists needed for different areas of care. For me, that meant an eye specialist, because my eyes, already weakened by a detached retina at birth, could have suffered greatly during pregnancy. It also meant an orthopedist and a home physical therapist. That care kept me from being bedridden and let me walk until just days before I gave birth. But I had time to organize my pregnancy and build my team. Not every pregnancy gets that luxury.
My proposal also includes creating a support helpline for pregnant women with disabilities—one that can offer guidance and plan interventions if needed. After I presented the idea to the Equal Opportunities Commission in Rome's XII District, the city administration took it up. Following a round of hearings, they proposed and unanimously approved a resolution supporting my project and committing to champion it at the national level. Now I hope other cities will follow Rome's lead and that this idea makes its way to Parliament.