A Hallway Conversation That Led To An Unparalleled Path

Jessica Huang 

Brooklyn, NY

Spastic quadriplegic cerebral palsy 

I am 22 years old, a grad student , I walked across the stage and graduated from college, and I’m still being seen by a wonderful group of pediatric providers at NYU Langone.

Before I ever stepped onto that graduation stage, before I fully understood what “transition” meant, there was a moment in a quiet hallway at NYU during one of my physical therapy sessions that changed the way I viewed my future.

It was my fourth appointment of the week, yet another Lokomat intensive. That day had included a land session, and for the first time in a long while, I finally felt like I was carrying over the cadence from the machine into my overground walking—my feet continuously clearing the floor as I took slow, steady steps. My body was gaining a rhythm, and for the first time in a long time, I was imagining possibilities instead of limits. As we paused in the hallway, I casually mentioned something that had been on my mind for months: I wanted to walk across the stage to accept my diploma and surprise my family.

I didn’t say it like a plan. I said it like a hope I’d finally stopped whispering to myself. My therapist looked at me—curious, steady—and instead of dismissing it, she said something I’ll never forget: “Then we need a two-year plan.” A hallway I had walked through hundreds of times instantly became a place where I could build toward dreams.

In the weeks that followed, that single hallway confession grew into conversations I didn’t even know I needed. We talked not just about the moment of graduation, but about what it would take to give me stability through college—how to balance intensive therapy, new responsibilities, and the pace of young adulthood with CP. I talked about wanting to be more independent, and about wanting to honor the years my parents had invested in my care. I realized that staying with my team wasn’t about avoiding adult care; it was about staying grounded while everything else in my life was moving quickly.

That hallway became more than the space between two treatment rooms. It became the beginning of a different kind of transition—one rooted in partnership, clarity, and a shared understanding that adulthood isn’t defined by age or policy. It’s shaped by the support that helps us move forward safely and confidently, and by the space we’re given to define independence on our own terms.

I wanted the next steps in my care to honor the work we’d done, the dreams I had, and the person I was becoming. In that hallway, we unknowingly started a bigger discussion: that the needs of young adults with CP require more than a cutoff date. They require thoughtful planning, guidance, and room for us to shape our goals as we grow.

Looking back, that moment taught me that our voices matter far more than we think. Goals don’t need to be fully formed or polished to start meaningful conversations. Sometimes, all it takes is saying what’s on your heart while standing in a hallway during a PT session.

And if you’re a young adult reading this, don’t wait for someone to ask what your goals are. Bring them into the room. Share them, even if they feel too big or too early. Your story—your voice—is powerful. And transition should always be built with you, not just around you.