I found myself in a line with about thirty others, absorbing insights from experts about running. As someone with hearing impairment, I wasn’t able to hear their advice, so I focused instead on the shoes around me. After that, it was time to practice. I jogged around the track, down pathways, along sidewalks, and even on the beach. I kept pushing myself to run.
Initially, it was incredibly tough. I was in my first trimester of pregnancy, out of shape, and carrying extra weight, not to mention my lungs had been accustomed to a pack of cigarettes daily for two decades. It was undeniably challenging, and I won’t sugarcoat it.
Raising a child with special needs often feels like learning to run. We gather information from numerous sources, listening to many voices telling us what we should do. Sometimes we catch their advice; often, it slips past us. Most of these insights stem from their experiences, and only fragments may prove useful.
Then, we leap into action: advocating for our child, mastering new terminology, sharing our stories through blogs, and pouring out our emotions. We laugh, we cry, and we confront harsh realities—like when someone at the grocery store insults our child.
We wrestle with our past, reflecting on insensitive moments that come back to haunt us. Did I really say I was having a “special” day? Did I chuckle at jokes that belittled others? We crave to give up, feeling overwhelmed by the negativity and the weight of judgment we face.
But we don’t quit. Our love for our child drives us forward. Slowly, it begins to feel easier. We grow stronger, gain understanding, and become fluent in the necessary acronyms. We realize we are not alone; we have allies in this journey.
As we continue, we can breathe more easily. We learn to pace ourselves. We attend meetings, witnessing the struggles of new parents, and we feel grateful that we have navigated past that initial stage. However, there are moments when memories of our early challenges resurface, reminding us of the struggles we endured.
We encounter new obstacles that can knock us flat, like dismissive attitudes at meetings or condescending comments from professionals. It’s infuriating and disheartening.
Yet, just when we feel like we’ve hit a wall, we dig deep for resilience. After a good night’s rest and a cup of coffee, we find the strength to push through.
With time, it becomes easier. Not only can we support our own child, but we can also lend a hand to others in their journey, sharing encouragement and solidarity. We remember that for new parents, everything is still fresh and daunting.
Eventually, we hear someone remark that we are a “poster child for acceptance,” and we can’t help but laugh. We laugh long and hard, tears spilling down our faces as we acknowledge all the moments of self-doubt and discomfort we’ve faced.
We are not poster children for acceptance; we are simply individuals trying our best. And in that effort, we embody love, resilience, and community.
It’s not a sprint; it’s a relay, passed down from one generation of parents to the next. Together, we navigate this journey for the love of our children.
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