Let’s be real: I’ve never been a fan of running. Sure, during my soccer days, I could overlook the fact that I was, in fact, running. But the moment I found myself just sprinting for the sake of it, I’d rather stop and belt out show tunes in public than keep my heart rate up. I’ll admit, I might have some unresolved aspirations for Broadway stardom. Back in college, I tried to balance my love for cheese bread with a bit of exercise, thanks to a supportive roommate who often urged me, “Just to the mailbox, Sarah. You can do it!”
But ice cream was always a valid alternative in my book. Running was never my passion, which made it all the more surprising one afternoon when I announced to my husband, “I’ll be right back; I need to step outside.” I threw on some sneakers, indulged in a brief escape from adult responsibilities, and began to walk down the street. Picture me, arms flailing like Edward Scissorhands, devoid of any distractions like my phone or keys. Suddenly, in a burst of energy reminiscent of Forrest Gump, I found myself running. I wasn’t fatigued or uninterested; I was simply enjoying the outdoors alone.
When I checked my distance later, I discovered I’d covered over two miles, including a challenging hill. It was a moment of unexpected triumph. I attempted to replicate this feat a few days later, only to find myself staring at that same hill, turning around, and singing “Climb Every Mountain” all the way home.
Upon my return, it hit me: what was I trying to escape? There it was—the bright red walker I had acquired a month earlier for my daughter, Mia. She had recently been diagnosed with cri-du-chat syndrome, a rare genetic condition affecting 1 in 50,000 births. Uncertainty loomed over whether she would ever walk or talk.
I initially felt hopeful when I brought the walker home; it seemed like the key to proving the geneticist wrong. With her orthotics enabling her to pull up, I thought this would help Mia gain the strength to walk. But each time she saw it, she would burst into tears. I knew I should encourage her, but honestly, we both preferred dancing in the kitchen. My husband was more adept at working with Mia, while I busied myself rearranging her therapy schedule. I often watched neighborhood kids, younger than her, frolicking in the yard while I measured our kitchen to see if it could fit a wheelchair.
This milestone was incredibly painful for me. It wasn’t just me feeling the frustration; our dedicated therapists were trying everything to get her to take steps. Was her hypotonia preventing her from bearing weight? Did she understand the motor skills needed to walk? The cries during physical therapy—were they from exhaustion, discomfort, or frustration? Mia spent countless hours with her team, playing with hula hoops, banging on drums, and using weighted tools to help support her body.
One particularly challenging day, our family trainer brought her dog, Benny, to the session. The team recognized Mia’s fascination with Benny, and it became the perfect motivation for her. The desire to pet the fluffy dog was enough to encourage Mia to take her first supported steps.
That moment will always be etched in my memory, much like my mother’s cherished recollections of An Affair To Remember. No matter what I’m doing, I’ll get emotional thinking about the day my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, who was believed to be unable to walk, took her first steps.
A few weeks later, in a quiet moment, I found myself saying to my husband, “I’ll be right back; I need to go outside.” As I walked down the sidewalk, I was filled with immense pride for Mia. She had crossed off an item from her “won’t be able to do” list. I quickened my pace—if my daughter could learn to walk, surely I could manage to reach the mailbox.
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In summary, witnessing my daughter’s journey to walking was a profound and emotional experience that not only challenged my perceptions but also inspired me to embrace my own challenges.