My Heart Can’t Even Believe It by Amy Silverman
How My Heart Can’t Even Believe It expands our understanding of disability, love, grief, and belonging—and what it teaches us about redefining “normal.”
Discover how one mother’s story invites a deeper cultural shift—from viewing disability through limitation to recognizing tenderness, joy, and meaningful achievement.
I was hooked from the very first paragraph.
By the time I finished the introduction, tears had blurred the words on the page. These weren’t sad tears. They were the kind that come from being touched—deeply—by love that is unfiltered, unguarded, and expansive.
Before the introduction even ended, I had fallen in love with Sophie—Amy Silverman’s daughter, who has Down syndrome. Not because she is inspirational in a performative way, but because Silverman allows us to see Sophie as fully herself: tender, joyful, complex, capable, and deeply human.
Love Without a Filter
One of the most striking qualities of this book is how clearly Silverman conveys Sophie’s access to joy. There is an openness in Sophie—a willingness to leap toward life, people, and pleasure—that reshapes everyone around her.
This is a meaningful achievement, even if it doesn’t always register as such in a culture obsessed with productivity and independence. And Sophie’s achievements don’t stop there. She’s learned Spanish. She’s always been in mainstream education. She picks up dance choreography with ease. She’s adept with technology—often helping her mother, who freely admits that tech is not her strength.
Silverman gently but firmly challenges the narrow ways we define success.
As journalist Ryan Gabrielson of the Center for Investigative Reporting writes,
“The solution is to view the disabled, regardless of diagnosis, as capable of meaningful achievement. Because they absolutely are.”
This book makes that truth impossible to ignore.
Grief, Loss, and the Shape of a New Normal
Silverman doesn’t romanticize the experience of raising a child with a disability. She tells the truth—about grief, overwhelm, fear, and loss—without ever stripping Sophie of dignity.
There are moments in this book where the weight of uncertainty feels familiar, even if the circumstances are different. That sense of How am I going to get through this? The feeling that the future has been rewritten without your consent.
And yet, Silverman reminds us of something quietly powerful: we do get through. We figure it out. We adapt. We create a new normal.
That new normal isn’t free of hardship—but it isn’t devoid of joy, either.
Not Fitting the Mold—and Choosing to Build Something New
As Silverman finds her footing as a special-needs parent, she grapples with a surprising realization: she doesn’t fit the mold.
She writes:
“I know I was supposed to fit into this new role as parent to a kid with a disability, but I didn’t know how to do that. Those moms were harried but tender, stoic, and knowledgeable… They kept their hair short, drove light-colored minivans, and always had a Wet Wipe ready… I had the last one covered; other than that, I was fucked.”
(Yes—she really is that funny.)
There’s something deeply liberating—and terrifying—about realizing you don’t belong to the existing template. Silverman doesn’t try to squeeze herself into it. Instead, she clears a new path.
She moves forward without certainty, removing debris and roadblocks as she goes—making the road more accessible not just for Sophie, but for those who come after.
Humor as Survival, Not Avoidance
One of the great strengths of this memoir is Silverman’s humor. She weaves it seamlessly into moments of pain, fear, and seriousness—not to minimize them, but to survive them.
I found myself laughing out loud more than once, surprised by sharp turns of sarcasm that land precisely because they’re grounded in truth. The humor doesn’t distract from the emotional weight—it makes it bearable.
Belonging, Difference, and the Longing to Be “Normal”
As Sophie grows into adolescence, the story deepens.
She remains open-hearted and exuberant, but she also becomes more aware of her differences. Like so many teens, she longs to fit in—to be “normal” (whatever that is).
These moments are tender and complex. They remind us that inclusion isn’t just structural—it’s emotional. Belonging isn’t only about access; it’s about being seen and welcomed as you are.
I suspect Sophie has many more lessons ahead—for her family, and for all of us. I truly hope there is a sequel.
Five Reflections I’m Carrying With Me
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Disability Does Not Diminish Humanity
Capacity, tenderness, joy, and meaning are not erased by diagnosis. -
Grief and Love Coexist
Holding both doesn’t weaken us—it deepens us. -
There Is No Single Right Way to Parent or Care
When the mold doesn’t fit, creating your own path is an act of courage. -
Humor Can Be a Lifeline
Laughter doesn’t negate pain—it helps us survive it. -
Belonging Is a Human Need
The longing to be accepted, included, and loved is universal.
The Quiet Paradigm Shift This Book Invites
My Heart Can’t Even Believe It is not just a memoir—it’s an invitation to see differently.
Silverman asks us to question the stories we’ve been told about disability, success, normalcy, and worth. She shows us what happens when we let go of rigid expectations and allow love to expand beyond them.
What emerges is not a lesser life—but a fuller one.