Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of speaking to audiences of all kinds, but the youth market always holds a special place in my heart. This week, as I prepare to speak at YADAPP I found myself thinking about the moment that changed the way I see myself forever.
The year was 2018, and I was speaking in the youth market talking to students about bullying, kindness, inclusion, and embracing our differences all around the United States and Canada.
One day, at a private school in New Jersey, I had given a keynote to the high school students, and before speaking to the middle schoolers, we visited a classroom of kindergarteners. When we walked in, the little boys and girls were sitting on a mat in the center of the room. The classroom was filled with color—yellow, green, purple, blue, and red scattered all around—and the air was full of joy and laughter.
The teacher called out, “Criss cross applesauce,” and all the kids crossed their legs and sat up straight to listen. The counselor I was with sat in a blue chair, and I sat in a wooden rocking chair at the front of the room next to her—my leg brace visible under my jeans. The teacher handed the counselor a children’s book that talked about anti-bullying and how it feels to be left out when you’re different.
As she read, I watched the expressions on the little kids’ faces. They sat cross-legged on the colorful rug, eyes wide, completely still for a few minutes, which every teacher knows is a miracle. When she finished, tiny hands shot up everywhere. One by one, the kids started asking questions and sharing their thoughts.
“Do you like dogs?” one asked.
“Do you have a favorite color?” another said.
Then two little girls sitting near the front raised their hands together. One had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile; the other had darker hair and green eyes. They looked at the counselor, then at me, then back at her, and said, “We like the girl in the rocking chair.” In that moment, my heart was full.
Here I was, someone who had been talking all day about disability and differences, someone who didn’t always feel like I belonged, and two little girls had just seen me, not my disability. They didn’t see a girl with a brace on her leg or a limp when I walked into the room. They saw me—and they liked what they saw.
That day marked the start of my love for speaking to little kids. They were curious, honest, and unfiltered. They asked questions fearlessly and loved without hesitation or judgment. They didn’t see a girl with a disability—they saw me for me. That moment, I realized something I’ll never forget: Sometimes, the purest kind of connection comes from the eyes of those who haven’t yet learned how to judge. Those two little girls reminded me what it feels like to be seen—not for what you can’t do, or how you look walking into a room, but for who you are. They didn’t see me, the person sitting in the rocking chair, as fragile or different. They saw me as perfect, just the way I was.
That moment showed me that connection isn’t complicated. It doesn’t come from the perfect speech or the perfect story. It comes from being real enough for someone, anyone, to look at you and simply say, “I like the girl in the rocking chair.”
That day reminded me that being seen without judgment is one of the greatest gifts we can give or receive. When we stop judging, we start seeing. And when we start seeing, we begin to truly connect.
As I look back on the journey, I remember those two little girls in the classroom who said, “We like the girl in the rocking chair.” They didn’t see a limp or a difference—they just saw me. They saw me as whole. And just as they saw me, I’m starting to see myself—perfect, just the way I am.
Recent Comments