Celebrating 63 years of Dana Hortman — a daughter, sister, wife, mother, advocate, and so much more.
On November 1, 1963, a little girl named Dana Dooley entered the world.
She had no idea what the next 63 years would hold.
She didn’t know about the people she would meet, the family she would build, the challenges she would face, or the lives she would touch along the way.
She didn’t know that one day she would become a wife, a mother to two daughters, or an advocate navigating a medical world that didn’t always have the answers.
And she certainly didn’t know that 63 years later, her youngest daughter would be sitting down to write a birthday tribute about her.
But before she was my mom, before she became Dana Hortman, and before she ever had to learn the words juvenile dermatomyositis, she had a story of her own.
And today, on her birthday, I want to celebrate that story.
Not just the parts that involve me.
All of it.
The Oldest of Five
My mom was born Dana Dooley on November 1, 1963.
She was the oldest of five children, followed by Donna, Debra, Doug, and Dan.
Five children growing up in the Dooley family, each with their own personalities, experiences, and memories.
I have a photograph of all five siblings together with their mother, and it’s one of those pictures that reminds me how much history exists before our own stories even begin.
Before I was ever born, my mom was someone’s little girl.
She was a big sister.
She was a student, a friend, and a young woman figuring out who she wanted to become.
I even have an old newspaper clipping from Woodbury, Georgia, with her name printed beneath a school photograph.
There she is, Dana Dooley, sitting in the front row.
Long before she became the woman I know as Mom, she was a little girl making memories and growing up alongside her siblings.
Sometimes, as children, we forget that our parents had entire lives before we came along.
They had childhoods, friendships, dreams, and plans.
They had their own adventures, challenges, and stories.
And I think that’s worth remembering.
Because my mom’s story didn’t begin when she became my mom.
It began long before mine.
September 25, 1983 — A New Chapter
On September 25, 1983, my mom married my dad, Raymond Hortman.
She was just 19 years old.
Together, they began building a life that would eventually include two daughters, a family business, countless memories, and more than a few unexpected adventures.
This past September, they celebrated their 43rd wedding anniversary.
Forty-three years.
That’s a whole lot of life together.
A whole lot of changes, challenges, celebrations, and ordinary days that eventually become the memories a family is built around.
Looking at their wedding photographs now, I see two young people standing at the beginning of a journey.
They couldn’t possibly have known everything waiting for them.
The joys.
The responsibilities.
The difficult decisions.
The moments that would test them.
Or the ways their lives would change as their family grew.
But that’s the thing about marriage and building a life with someone.
You don’t get to see every chapter before you begin.
You simply start writing the story together.
And 43 years later, they’re still writing theirs.
December 23, 1986 — Becoming a Mother
A little more than three years after their wedding, my parents welcomed their first daughter.
My older sister, Deanna, was born on December 23, 1986.
And just like that, Dana began another chapter.
Motherhood.
For the first time, she had a little girl depending on her.
A daughter to love, raise, guide, and watch grow into her own person.
For more than three years, Deanna was their only child.
Those years were their own special chapter as a family of three.
And I think it’s important to recognize that, because my mom’s journey as a mother didn’t begin with my medical challenges.
It began with Deanna.
With all the ordinary and extraordinary moments that come with raising a child.
First smiles.
First steps.
First words.
Birthdays.
School days.
And all the little memories that make up a childhood.
Then, a few years later, their family would grow again.
And things would get interesting.
April 18, 1990 — Then Came Me
On April 18, 1990, I made my entrance into the world.
And apparently, I decided right from the beginning that I wasn’t going to do anything the easy way.
I arrived prematurely, weighing just 4 pounds, 12 ounces.
Instead of the typical newborn experience my parents might have imagined, there were medical concerns, uncertainty, and a transfer to a neonatal intensive care unit in Columbus.
I was born in Griffin, but my early days quickly took our family in an unexpected direction.
My parents suddenly had two daughters, one at home and one needing specialized medical care.
I can only imagine how difficult that must have been.
Because when you’re a parent, you want to protect your children.
You want to know they’re safe.
You want answers when something isn’t right.
And sometimes, there simply aren’t easy answers.
My mom had already experienced motherhood with Deanna.
But my arrival introduced challenges that neither of my parents could have fully anticipated.
And little did they know, that was only the beginning of my medical adventures.
Sorry, Mom.
Apparently, I’ve been keeping things interesting since 1990.
When Being a Mom Meant Becoming an Advocate
A few years after I was born, our family faced another unexpected chapter.
I developed symptoms of juvenile dermatomyositis, or JDM, a rare autoimmune disease that affects muscles and skin.
Suddenly, my parents were navigating a diagnosis that most people had never heard of.
And in the 1990s, finding information and resources wasn’t nearly as simple as opening a computer or picking up a phone.
There weren’t social media support groups filled with families sharing their experiences.
There weren’t nearly as many readily available resources explaining what life with JDM could look like.
And even medical professionals didn’t always have the answers.
But my mom wasn’t willing to simply accept that there was nothing more to learn or do.
She asked questions.
She searched for information.
She worked with doctors, therapists, teachers, and others involved in my care.
She learned a medical vocabulary that no parent ever expects to need.
And she became one of my strongest advocates.
But what stands out to me now isn’t just the appointments, treatments, and medical decisions.
It’s how hard she worked to make sure I still had a childhood.
Because having JDM didn’t mean I stopped being a little girl.
I still wanted to go to school.
I still wanted friends.
I still wanted to swim, ride horses, participate in activities, and do the things other children did.
And my mom understood that.
She knew there were things I couldn’t do exactly like everyone else.
But she also knew that didn’t mean I shouldn’t be given the opportunity to try.
More Than Doctors and Hospital Rooms
Some of the most meaningful things my mom did for me happened outside hospitals.
She advocated for accommodations at school.
She helped teachers and classmates understand my diagnosis.
She worked to make sure I had the tools and support I needed to learn alongside my peers.
And let’s just say, there were probably a few teachers who learned very quickly that Dana Hortman wasn’t someone you wanted to argue with when it came to her children’s education.
Mom wasn’t afraid to speak up.
And from some of the stories I could tell, a few teachers might still remember those conversations today!
But underneath that determination was something important.
She wanted me to have the same opportunities as everyone else.
There were times when I needed a wheelchair.
Times when I needed braces.
Times when school looked different for me.
Times when fatigue, weakness, treatments, or appointments changed our plans.
But there were also horses.
Swimming.
Friends.
School activities.
Camp.
And opportunities that helped me build confidence and independence.
My mom didn’t have the power to make JDM disappear.
But she could help make sure it didn’t take away every part of childhood that mattered to me.
And she did.
Not always by doing everything for me, but by helping me find ways to do things for myself.
That’s a distinction I appreciate even more as an adult.
Because independence isn’t always about doing everything without help.
Sometimes it’s about having people who believe you’re capable and are willing to help you find another way.
And my mom was one of those people.
The Woman Behind the Advocacy
Here’s something I’ve come to appreciate more as I’ve gotten older.
My mom was navigating all of this while still being a wife, raising two daughters, working, maintaining relationships, and living her own life.
She wasn’t just the mother of a child with a rare disease.
She was also Deanna’s mom.
Raymond’s wife.
A daughter.
A sister.
A friend.
And a woman with responsibilities, interests, and experiences of her own.
That’s something I think we sometimes overlook when we talk about parents of children with complex medical needs.
We talk about their strength.
We talk about their sacrifices.
We talk about the appointments they attend, the treatments they manage, and the things they do for their children.
And all of that deserves recognition.
But they are still people outside of those responsibilities.
They have their own worries.
Their own dreams.
Their own difficult days.
Their own accomplishments.
And their own stories worth telling.
My mom’s life has never been limited to being my caregiver or advocate.
She and my dad have built a life together, including their work at Griffin Jewelers and the relationships they’ve developed over the years.
She has watched her daughters grow up, experience milestones, face challenges, and begin their own chapters.
She has experienced the joys and changes that come with family, marriage, friendships, and simply living life.
And through it all, she’s continued being Dana.
Not just Mom.
Not just Mrs. Hortman.
Dana.
The little girl who grew up as the oldest of five.
The young woman who married Raymond.
The mother who welcomed Deanna and then me.
And the woman who has continued growing and changing through every season of life.
The Things I Understand Differently at 36
There’s something interesting about getting older.
You begin looking at your parents differently.
Not because you love them any less or because they suddenly become different people.
But because you start understanding things you couldn’t possibly have understood as a child.
When I was little, I knew my mom took me to appointments.
I knew she helped me with treatments.
I knew she talked to teachers and made sure I had what I needed.
But I didn’t fully understand everything happening behind the scenes.
I didn’t understand how much planning went into making sure I could participate in activities.
I didn’t understand how many conversations she probably had with people about my needs.
I didn’t understand how exhausting it could be to balance the needs of an entire family while also navigating a rare medical condition.
And I certainly didn’t understand what it must have felt like to watch your child struggle with something you couldn’t simply fix.
At 36, I see some of those experiences through a different lens.
I recognize the effort.
I recognize the persistence.
And I recognize that my parents were figuring things out as they went, just like the rest of us do.
There wasn’t a handbook for raising a child with JDM.
There wasn’t a perfect answer for every situation.
There were simply decisions to make, challenges to navigate, and two daughters who needed their parents in different ways.
And somehow, they kept moving forward.
The Story Continues
Today, my mom’s life looks different from the days of raising two little girls.
Deanna and I are grown.
The childhood appointments, school meetings, and daily routines have changed.
And now, instead of watching me navigate elementary school with a wheelchair and a stack of medical appointments, she’s watching me publish books about those experiences.
Life really does have a funny way of coming full circle.
When I started writing Written Along the Way, I knew my parents would be important parts of the story.
How could they not be?
They were there long before I ever understood what JDM was.
They were there through the difficult years.
They helped me experience things I might otherwise have missed.
And they helped shape the person I became.
But something I’ve learned through writing is that the people in our stories have stories of their own.
My mom isn’t just a supporting character in mine.
She’s the main character in hers.
And I think that deserves celebrating.
Sixty-Three Years of Dana
Today, November 1, 2026, my mom turns 63.
Sixty-three years of memories.
Sixty-three years of growing, learning, loving, and experiencing life.
Forty-three years of marriage.
Two daughters.
A childhood as the oldest of five siblings.
And countless moments that have helped shape the woman she is today.
When I look through the photographs we’ve collected, I see so many different chapters.
A little girl named Dana Dooley sitting in a school photograph.
A young woman smiling beside the man she would marry.
A bride beginning a new life.
A mother with her daughters.
A woman surrounded by family.
And the mom I know today.
Every photograph tells a different part of the story.
And every part matters.
Happy Birthday, Mom ❤️
Mom,
I know I’ve told pieces of our story through my books, my website, and conversations with others.
I’ve talked about the ways you advocated for me, the challenges we faced, and the opportunities you helped make possible.
But today, I wanted to do something a little different.
I wanted to celebrate you.
Not just for everything you’ve done for me.
Not just for the years you spent navigating doctors, treatments, and school accommodations.
Not just for the ways you’ve supported my writing journey.
But for the woman you are and the life you’ve built.
For the little girl you once were.
For the big sister you became.
For the wife, mother, daughter, and friend you’ve been through the years.
For the experiences that shaped you long before I came along.
And for the chapters you still have ahead of you.
I know our lives haven’t always been easy.
I know there have been challenges none of us expected.
And I know that, like everyone else, we’ve all had moments when we were simply doing the best we could with what we knew at the time.
But I’m grateful for the life you’ve helped give me.
I’m grateful for the opportunities you fought for.
I’m grateful for the independence you encouraged.
And I’m grateful that, at 36 years old, I get to look back and recognize things I couldn’t fully appreciate when I was younger.
I hope today reminds you that your life is worth celebrating for so many reasons beyond being my mom.
Because your story matters, too.
Happy 63rd Birthday, Mom.
I love you.
And I’m so glad my story gets to be part of yours.
Love,
Tiffani ❤️
Written with love in celebration of Dana Hortman’s 63rd birthday — November 1, 2026.
Some of the most important people in our stories were living extraordinary chapters of their own long before we came along.
Tiffani Joi Hortman
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