Today, I encountered two types of people. For a fleeting moment, I let my guard down. It’s hard to believe anyone could forget the weight of having a child with special needs, but for a brief time, I did. As we strolled through our favorite local park, a hidden gem in the heart of Ireland, the sun shone brightly—a rare treat. I held my eldest son’s hand while his younger siblings darted ahead, with my husband pretending to chase them using our son’s empty wheelchair as a playful vehicle. In that instant of joy, I let the worries associated with our reality slip away; I snapped a picture, laughed, and embraced my eldest as he whistled with glee.
At first, I didn’t notice the onlookers, and they likely had no real reason to pay us mind—other than my husband’s amusing antics. We often choose to visit the park early, avoiding crowds that can amplify our struggles. It’s too difficult sometimes to witness what might have been, or to endure the stares and comments that often come our way. We want our eldest to enjoy these moments without the added pressure of sensory overload.
A friend once asked me if people really do stop and stare at us. I reluctantly confirmed that it’s all too common. Just as I was lost in the joy of the moment, I caught sight of a family ahead, their gaze fixed on us. Initially, I thought they were amused by my husband’s antics, but soon realized their attention was on my eldest son, Ethan, and me.
“Does he need the chair, or can I chase the boys up that hill?” my husband shouted back. “No, wait for us!” I replied. Ethan sometimes tires quickly, and we can’t stray too far without his chair.
As my husband vanished into the trees, I felt the eyes watching us, and then… chaos erupted. Ethan’s frustration became physical. He lashed out, and we knew we had to secure him in the chair for his safety—something no parent wants to do. It’s a harsh reality of our lives, one that weighs heavily on us and affects our other children too.
After a moment, Ethan began to calm down, but I still felt the stares. Two adults stood nearby, seemingly observing our family dynamics. Their presence felt judgmental, as if we were being scrutinized for simply trying to manage our situation. It’s a feeling that can sour an entire outing; the weight of their gaze made me uneasy.
As we continued our day, we loaded the boys into the car and headed to the beach. We were determined not to let anyone ruin our fun as we explored the stunning coastline of Galway. While we enjoyed our time, my middle son, Leo, eagerly snapped photos of Ethan and us, capturing joyful moments that are becoming increasingly rare due to the challenges of Hunter syndrome.
We settled on a park bench, where Leo directed us in posing for a family photo. Just as we smiled, Ethan reacted with frustration, slapping and kicking. I readied myself for judgment from passersby, but one man surprised me. He approached with a smile, offering to take our family picture. Despite the chaos, he seemed unfazed by Ethan’s outburst.
“Family pictures can be tough to get, even on good days,” he chuckled, capturing the moment with genuine warmth. I couldn’t help but laugh too. It was a reminder that our family doesn’t need to look perfect; we just need to be together. After he left, I felt grateful for his kindness—a stark contrast to the judgmental stares we often receive.
In the world, there are two types of people: those who judge and those who understand. Let’s strive to be like the kind stranger.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Alex Johnson shares a poignant experience of navigating life with a child who has special needs. During a family outing, she contrasts the judgmental stares from some onlookers with the kindness of a stranger who offered to take their family photo. The narrative emphasizes the importance of understanding and compassion in the face of challenges, reminding readers that every family deserves moments of joy, regardless of their circumstances.