By Michael Phillips
I haven’t spoken with Taran Nolan. Not yet.
But I’ve read about her. I’ve listened to those who love her. I’ve heard the agony in their voices as they describe a court system so blind, so broken, that it punishes a mother not for what she’s done, but for what she’s survived.
Taran is a mother, a quadriplegic, and a survivor of a traumatic brain injury. She lost a daughter in a tragic accident that nearly killed her as well. She lives with the unbearable pain of grief, recovery, and the endless bureaucratic assault of the family court system. Her case is currently playing out in California, where the very laws meant to protect parents with disabilities are being ignored in favor of unchecked judicial discretion and bias. Her story is not just personal. It is systemic. And while I haven’t met her, I see the outlines of injustice clearly—because I’ve walked through it too.
The Cost of Survival
Family court sees Taran’s disability not as something to accommodate, but as something to weaponize. The effort it takes just to get out of bed, dress, and appear in court is staggering. But her strength is met not with support, but suspicion. She’s been denied basic accommodations. Caregivers she depends on have been barred from proceedings because her ex “doesn’t like them.”
One court placed her at a counsel table in her wheelchair while she testified. Only later did they allow her the dignity to transfer herself to the witness chair—not because they offered, but because she asked. That request, that simple act of bodily agency, was everything. And it had to be fought for.
When Trauma Becomes a Trial
Taran has moments of impulsivity. Moments of emotion. Of course she does. She is a mother who lost a child and lives in a body forever changed. But in family court, emotion is ammunition. When Taran speaks passionately, the court labels her unstable. When she grieves, the court questions her fitness to parent. No space is made for brain injury, for PTSD, for human heartbreak.
Instead of working with her to maintain contact with her children, the system has decided her expressions of pain are proof of danger. So she hasn’t been able to see her children.
A Gavel Against the Disabled
She was placed in a batterer’s class—a wheelchair user, a woman who cannot form a fist. That’s the weight false accusations carry in family court, even for someone with her physical limitations.
She was then denied access to the building because the door had no automatic opener.
She has been locked in rooms. Her phone has been taken. Her ramps have been removed. She has been treated not as a mother worthy of support, but as a problem to be managed, a case to be silenced.
I haven’t spoken with Taran Nolan. But I’m speaking up for her.
Why This Matters
Because her story is not hers alone. I know dozens of parents—disabled, neurodivergent, traumatized, marginalized—who are stripped of their rights daily in family courts, and in public, that operate with zero understanding of disability or trauma. I’ve lived it myself.
When you punish survivors for surviving, when you treat visible disability as weakness and emotional expression as danger, you are not serving justice. You are serving stigma.
A Court of Public Conscience
Taran may not have a voice in court right now. But she has one here. And her voice, even if shaking, deserves to be heard. The court has gagged her. I will not.
This is not just about court filings or custody schedules. It’s about the right of every parent to be seen as a full human being—grieving, struggling, healing, and loving.
So to Taran, and others like her: Even if I haven’t met you yet, I hear you. I see you. And I will not stop speaking beside you.
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