A Letter Explaining My Differences To the Kids I Babysit

 To the kids I babysit for:

     

     You may not realize this yet, but you will someday—I am not a “normal” babysitter. A lot of other fourteen- to -fifteen-year-olds have had the opportunity to babysit thus far, but not me. I’m grateful to your parents for allowing me to babysit. I wouldn’t really have blamed them if they didn’t trust me to take care of you, even if it’s out of my control. Even when you’re not very well-behaved, I remind myself this is a good experience for me. I want to have kids someday. Whether that can or will happen, I don’t know, but being around you as toddlers has given me hope that I might not be a bad mom. 

     Babysitting has given me self-confidence that I never knew I could have. My experiences with little kids growing up haven’t always been positive. Even coming from kids who I’m sure didn’t know any better, their little comments about my physical differences hurt. But you just want a playmate, and you can find that in me. That being said, if I continue to babysit you, when you are older, you will notice that I’m different. There is a part of me that dreads for that day to come. As far as you know, we are on an equal playing field right now, even if that isn’t entirely true. But someday that illusion will be shattered. 

     If I were you, I would be confused. When I was younger, I viewed older kids as physically capable of anything and superior to any ability that I might possess. You might think that way, too, and I have to tell you that that way of thinking is not accurate. I am not physically capable of everything. I may be older than you, but you are probably close to physically overpowering me. Even at your young age, you are faster than me and more flexible. You probably don’t understand why, if you have noticed these things about me, so I’ll try to explain it to you: I have a physical disability called spastic diplegia cerebral palsy. I bet that sounds like gibberish to you, because at first I had no idea what those big words meant and what they had to do with me. Having cerebral palsy (CP) impacts me because it means I have physical limitations, or things that I can’t do with my legs.

     When you’re older, you probably won’t remember that my mom had to come with me to your house to babysit. You probably won’t remember how I stumbled after a long time sitting on the floor, or when you hugged me tightly and I lost my balance. Your parents had to tell you to let go.

     I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t style your hair. I’m sorry I can’t pick you up when you want me to. I’m sorry I can’t cut your food for you. I’m sorry I can’t put your clothes on. I’m sorry I flinched when you leaned into me. Touch hurts me sometimes, and I try to hide that fact as much as I can. I want you to trust me. Maybe that means not hiding part of myself. I’m sorry I can’t keep up with you when we play and I’m sorry I can’t always lift the heaviest of your toys. 

     Reading this, I’m sure you’re wondering how on Earth I’m qualified to be a babysitter, let alone a babysitter for young, toddler-age kids. Believe me, I question my own competence level and qualifications. The answer to how I am qualified is (mostly) that my mom comes with me. However, being a babysitter isn’t only about the physical things. What I can’t tell you in a letter is how passionate I am. I love seeing you smile when I walk in the door. I like the things I get to do with you independently. I like when you ask me to play with you because it means, for now, that you haven’t noticed I can’t keep up with you. I love connecting with little kids. I’m so happy that my disability hasn’t impaired my connection with you, and when you realize that I’m different, I don’t want our connection to fade. 

     When your parents come home and you cry because it’s time for me to leave, my self-confidence gets a much-needed boost. Your unhappiness at my leaving means that I’m doing something “right”. It means that, for now, my disability doesn’t impact you. Of course, my CP still exists when I’m with you, but you’re blind to it. That will change someday, I know. Eventually, as you accomplish milestones that I still don’t quite have a grasp on, you’ll realize my differences. Eventually, when you run to your room or want to play tag, you’ll notice that I’m not right behind you. You’ll realize that you’ve physically surpassed your babysitter, the person who is supposed to be your role model, the person who is supposed to have accomplished everything before you do.

     You are already faster than me. As you grow up, your physical abilities will continue to be superior to mine. That might be hard for me to watch, if I’m being honest. I know I can do things—I can walk and talk. I can run when necessary. Other than that, though, I feel physically stuck. As I watch you chase and accomplish your milestones, I will be so glad that your challenges are not physical. I hope that though you will physically outpace me, I can still teach you. I can teach you how to be kind and how to accept differences. Right now, you seem to be good at that anyway.

     So yes, my mom comes with me to babysit you because there are some things that I can’t do. It is hard for me to step back as she carries you, as she cuts your food perfectly for you. I am beyond grateful for her help, but I want so badly to be one of your caretakers. I know there is grace in accepting limitations. Maybe one day I will be the kind of babysitter, the kind of mom that I badly want to be. Right now, I can’t meet those expectations.

     I am so grateful to be a small part of your lives, to see you play and grow. I love that I am trusted to take (partial) care of you. Really, that’s all I can ask for. Your smile as I walk in the room—no matter how slowly I walk—sustains me. Even if I don’t feel as competent to be your babysitter, I am thankful for the opportunity. No, I’m not the usual babysitter. But I don’t need to be. Someday, you’ll discover what my challenges are, and that we all have challenges. I want to be viewed as normal in your eyes, but hopefully the view you’ll have of me is that I am your babysitter, and I will be there for you regardless of my abilities. 

 

Love,

Your Babysitter

The Power I Never Meant To Give

 She enters (invades) my space and immediately I know that she’s there. It’s as if someone whispered a warning in my ear, but they didn’t.

My body tenses up when she walks into the room. She doesn’t know that, of course. But I know she hasn’t forgotten what she did.

Sixth grade was the first time I’d say that I ever got bullied. A boy in kindergarten was mean-spirited, but he left me alone after about two times. Plus, the kid was in kindergarten. I hate this cliché, but it’s probably true that he didn’t know any better.

By the time sixth grade comes, kids should know better than to bully others. And in the past, I’ve gotten stares and comments. I’ve heard some things that I should have never had to hear about my legs. But nothing was said or done repeatedly by the same person. 

That changed in sixth-grade PE. PE was a nightmare for me. I learned that we had to change clothes in the locker room. As a shy and modest person, that made me extremely nervous. Also, I can’t get dressed standing up because of my lack of balance. At first, it was okay because I sat on my spot on the bench to change clothes. 

Then one day, a girl put her backpack on the other side of the bench. Now, she needed more room (according to her) because her backpack took up more space. For several days, she complained that I took up too much space, so I tried to curl my legs in and cooperate. I couldn’t get dressed that way, though, so I decided to explain to her that I needed the bench for balance purposes.

I thought that would be the end of the conflict. It wasn’t. She said, “Okay, but can you take up less room?” with a mean smirk on her face. I tried; I really did. I really didn’t want to make an enemy, especially not in PE. I’m vulnerable in PE class. People see me at my weakest. 

I was trying to keep the peace while still being able to sit on the bench, but one day I felt her shove me. I tried to plant my feet firmly on the ground, but it’s really easy for people to push me. Before I knew it, I was on the dirty locker room floor.

I was upset, but I second-guessed that she really shoved me. Maybe I just fell off. Also, I didn’t have any proof.

Maybe I didn’t have any proof, but I stopped doubting myself after a few days as she continued to subtly knock me off the bench. It was taking me longer and longer to get dressed because I had to secure a position on a stupid bench that no one else even really needed. She got dressed just fine standing up.

“Please!” I said one day, embarrassingly near tears. “I need to sit here! I can’t get dressed standing up like you can, I’m sorry.”

The subtle shoving didn’t stop. People noticed I tended to end up on the floor pretty much every class period, but they attributed it to me being clumsy (which, at first, was what I thought too). 

The bullying got worse when we were put on the same volleyball team in PE class. She signaled for everyone on the team not to pass to me, and I overheard her telling another girl that I was useless at volleyball. I admit, I wasn’t and still am not good at volleyball, but the comment was hurtful. 

After a couple of days in the volleyball unit, I told my adaptive PE teacher that I was being bullied, but because he wasn’t my “official” PE teacher, there wasn’t much he could do. 

Finally, I asked my PE teacher for a different spot in the locker room. When she asked why, I told her that I was being bullied. Prior to the conversation, I had tried to establish a good student-teacher relationship with my PE teacher for several reasons: PE teachers in the past had given me an F because of what I couldn’t do and I am most vulnerable in PE. But there was a glass wall in the locker room, and my PE teacher said that she hadn’t seen anything through her glass wall. She told me that I could get dressed in her office, which I did not want to do at all. It was punishing the victim for something I had no control over. That would have embarrassed me so much. Pretty much immediately, I regretted reporting that I was bullied because I lost all credibility with my PE teacher. On the rare occasion that my adaptive PE teacher wasn’t there, I was on my own. It was quite obvious that my PE teacher strongly disliked me.

Worse, the bullying intensified. Whenever I took my shoes off to get dressed, she would step on my bare feet with her shoes on. In choir (which unfortunately we took together) she would kick the back of my chair incessantly. I asked my choir director to change seats, and luckily he was understanding. In the locker room, I told my friends what was happening and how helpless I felt, and my friend let me take her spot on the bench so I didn’t get shoved off anymore.

I tried to understand why she was bullying me. Maybe something really difficult was going on in her home life, I don’t know. And I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her at all; I just felt that I needed to understand why. Why did she shove me off when she knew I needed help? Why did she hurt me so badly? The only conclusion I came to was that she hated me because I had a disability. That thought deeply saddened me. The thought that someone could hate me because of a condition I was born with was devastating. Also, it kind of made me sad for her. There are so many awesome people with disabilities, and if your worldview is limited enough to hate all of those people…. I don’t even know what to say. 

I was so scared throughout my sixth-grade year that I was miserable. She would glare at me fiercely and I couldn’t look her in the eye. I couldn’t believe that I was so scared of a person and she reduced me to a mess. My parents say that no one can make you feel a certain way, but in my opinion she made me feel helpless. I never meant to give her so much power. I want that power back.

The summer before seventh grade, I was at a glasses store with my mom getting my glasses fixed. Then she walked in, and my hackles rose. I literally hid behind my mom and barely said a word until she left. I was scared—of a person! It was crazy. I felt so cowardly. As I peeked at her face, all those helpless, angry emotions came flooding back. She shoved me and she said awful things about me and she kicked and she stepped on my feet and I could do nothing. I was too physically helpless to do anything. 

Now it’s three years later. Unfortunately, she is in my health-science class, and we were assigned seats next to each other. Luckily, I know the subject very well (ironically, because of my health struggles), so when she was snarky with me I was confident enough in myself not to break down. I still resent having to sit next to her. It’s really hard for a past that you wish you could forget to glare you in the face every day. 

A few weeks ago, she came into the high-school theater—my safe space—and I could hardly look at her without feeling insecure. I have such amazing, accepting friends in theatre who were with me, and all it took was her presence for me to become an insecure blob of a person. 

I’d like to say I have forgiven her by now, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Thinking of what she did is one of the only things that makes me angry. I’m not an angry person, and I wish I could hide that dark side of myself who is as angry and scared as I was in sixth grade. I don’t want to be that person. I want to forgive, and I don’t want her to hold that much power over me. I never meant to give her that much power, and I want to get it back. I will—eventually.

The Reflection In The Water

Water

No one tells it what to be, how to be

Water flows continuously, 

water keeps going, 

Content with what it is.

Made up of many molecules, all vital for the element

I, too,

Am composed of so many things

All essential to make me who I am

Though it is not always

Viewed that way.

And when the moon is risen

Darkness has fallen on the world,

there is light, reflection, in the lakes and rivers,

Reflection in ourselves.

Reflected in the water, I am

Crooked

Light refracted

Simply the girl who has the

Awkward smile,

thoughts she doesn’t

Say,

Emotions in her eyes,

and legs that are her chains—but only if

That girl allows

Her legs to define her.

I make a choice

When I look at my

Reflection

One foot on the water

The reflection ripples, is

Gone,

Unreliable.

Unreliable like my legs can be

Unreliable as my steps, legs shaky,

One foot drags behind me,

Binding me, holding me

Down

But I am not the way I walk

When I look into the water, there is so much

And so little

I can see

I can see how I hold myself

I can see my legs,

I can see all the little things

The tells—

Fingers digging into my skin;

Arms tight with anxiety;

Head tilted downward;

Eyes meeting the floor—

That make me

How I don’t want to be seen.

The way 

I don’t want others 

To view me.

When I look into my reflection,

I wonder

Is my reflection all that other people see?

There is so much more

Beneath the surface of the water

So much more

Beneath my surface

If only people are brave enough 

To dive beneath the water

God put my cerebral palsy

On my surface

God put my

Crossed eyes

Hesitant smile 

Crooked legs

on my surface

But what a blessing it is

My reflection isn’t all of me

Through my reflection

I teach others to see

Not everything is as it seems

Not everything can easily be defined

Not everything can fit into a label

I am not made up of labels.

For those that choose to see

My inside

Hopefully you see

The happiness 

in my awkward smile

The emotions 

in my crossed eyes

The effort

 in my gait

And all that my reflection can’t

Show you,

Or tell you.

My reflection can’t tell you

How grateful I am for kindness

My reflection can't tell you

My passions

My goals

All I have gone through,

All I have done.

My reflection is limited,

Is so flawed

Not just because 

my legs are flawed

But because

The reflexion shows my physical struggles

Only

My outward appearance

Only

My reflection is accurate to those who see 

With their eyes,

Not with their heart.

Water goes with the flow

Is content with the way it is

Water offers so much to the world

Is seemingly simple,

But made up of so many complex

Parts, so many

Molecules.

As I step through the water,

The next challenge

In my life,

My left knee bent toward

My right leg,

My arms tight

Against my sides,

My eyes crossed, yet seeing so much;

My left foot, turned inward though it is;

Strikes the water

Shatters my reflection

And I smile

The watery reflection never represented me,

Truly,

anyway. 

I am like water.

Content with who

I am,

Made up of

So many things,

Seemingly simple,

I can offer so much 

To the world—

If only people see

Past my reflection.

My Inner Demons Connected to My Upcoming Cerebral Palsy Surgery

 I’m having surgery this summer, and I’m scared. Actually, I’m terrified. 

I know—so many people have surgery. And I have, too. I have had about eight surgeries in total, including one when I was a day old that saved my life. 

But this surgery is different. It will be my first orthopedic-related surgery helping to treat my cerebral palsy. 

Tomorrow I have my pre-operation appointment with my orthopedist. I am very anxious and don’t really know what to expect.

About a year ago, when my physical rehabilitation doctor said that surgery might be a good option for me, I was in denial. I didn’t want surgery. To me, that meant that my legs were deeply flawed. 

Maybe they are, and maybe it’s time for me to accept it. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have had chronic pain for five, almost six years, and I am tired. Physically tired, emotionally tired. I’m tired of fighting my own body. I’m tired of always trying to find solutions to this seemingly endless pain. I’m tired of my parents stressing out because of me. Chronic pain is an exhausting cycle. 

And yes, recovery from surgery will be grueling, but my hope is that it will be worth it.

I am nervous, though. I am undergoing a procedure called a derotational femoral osteotomy. My femur will be rotated outward and my hamstrings and adductors will be lengthened. 

As children who have CP grow, our bones rotate. This can cause intraversion. In my case, because my tibia and femur are misaligned, my left foot turns in, which often causes me to trip. My derotational femoral osteotomy has two goals: to stop, or at the very least, lessen my chronic pain; and to improve my mobility, including lessening my chances of falling down.

I really hope the surgery will be successful. I have tried therapies and dry needling to stop the pain. I have tried Botox to lessen the falls. My parents have taken me to countless doctors. We have left no stone unturned—except for the biggest boulder still left in our path, so to speak. Surgery. 

To be very honest, I’m unsure because I don’t know how my relationship with my legs will change. Although there are times when I hate my legs, I truly don’t. My CP has given me a perspective on life that I am truly blessed to have, and I know that. Also, I skirt the line between appearing “normal” (as much as I despise that word) and looking like I have a disability already. My fear is that if my gait improves, I will be discriminated against because I will not look as though I have a disability. 

My surgery will take place over the summer. I will have about eight weeks to recover and undergo intensive therapy before my sophomore year. 

This surgery has arisen several complicated feelings for me. I feel flawed. I’m anxious. If the surgery is successful—which I really hope it is—I might struggle with my identity more. And after five years, I don’t really know how to live without chronic pain. 

I am looking forward to the possibility of living with less hip pain. But the freedom will be overwhelming. I won’t quite know what to do with myself. 

I will be grateful to be free of my pain, and I really hope the surgery will work. However, I am only human, and I am scared.

Whatever happens, though, my surgery will tell a story of what I’ve gone through. I’m up for the challenge. I am thankful for my blessings and with God, I am ready to see how this next chapter will unfold. 

My Enemy Is the Helplessness I Feel; Not My CP

 “One of the worst feelings is feeling helplessness. To realize that in certain situations you’re totally and completely powerless. That you gotta roll with the hard punches life will throw.” —Amitesh Kumar

Someone backs up and bumps into me in the hallway. I teeter sideways.

I’m walking in PE and I’m on my knees on the gym floor before I can even register what happened. 

I try to step off the curb but fall to my knees on the sidewalk. 

I attempt to run and play with my classmates at recess and end up on the grassy ground instead.

What do all of these have in common? I fall down, yes, and the tripping and falling is due to my cerebral palsy, yes—but more than that is the engulfing feeling of helplessness that overwhelms me in each scenario.

At some point I realized that I wasn’t “normal”—or like most other kids. There were rare occasions when a kid would bump into something and fall down, or trip over an obstacle in their way. But there weren’t many times where people tripped over what seemed like air.

I thought that as I got older, the falling would stop. My knees were pretty much always cut and scraped. When I was little, I feel like my falling didn’t matter so much because all little kids get into accidents. Also when I was little, I was shorter, so I didn’t fall from very high. 

But the falling hasn’t stopped. And falling has almost become more emotionally draining than physically draining for me. 

Most of the time, I fall frequently when my legs have the most spasticity—or basically, when my hamstrings are more tight. My muscles have more spasticity when I have a growth spurt. I can’t really predict when I’m going to fall. It takes me completely by surprise, which is why I feel so helpless when it happens.

I don’t have a lot of confidence. I tend to look down at the ground a lot. (For some reason I feel like if I make eye contact with people while passing them in a hallway, it’s like I’m challenging them.) I’ve tried to look up more lately because my posture had been causing problems with the nerves in my neck and arms. Looking up means that I don’t watch my feet, and that means I trip and fall frequently.

One of the worst falls I can remember is when I tripped going off the curb on the way to my mom’s car. I felt so helpless because the teacher on duty had to help me up and carry my bag to the car. I felt like a five-year-old who can’t carry her own stuff.

More recently, I fell during theatre rehearsal, which interrupted the scene. Interrupting the scene turned out not to be that big of a deal, but I still felt really bad about it. After a minute, I was able to stand up by myself, but I limped backstage and had to sit down.

Falls are really embarrassing. Not many fourteen-year-olds fall down frequently. At some point, I thought I would get used to the feeling, but I never have. There’s a brief moment in time when I don’t yet realize that I’m about to fall. I don’t really feel the weight of the tightness of my legs, or the drag of my feet. It is actually a freeing feeling, but in the millisecond after that, I realize that I’m going to fall down.

There is barely time for me to think before my body (usually my knees or occasionally a hip) slams into the ground. The impact usually takes my breath away. The pain is what I react to first. Unfortunately, I make a noise most of the time because it hurts so badly. When I fell during theatre rehearsal, I clutched my knee, in the middle of the stage, while trying to scoot out of the way.

Then the embarrassment hits. I usually think to myself, I hate my legs, as I force myself to my feet. I usually want to pretend that I’m someone else—someone who doesn’t fall constantly.

The pain isn’t really a big deal for me in the grand scheme of things. I am in pain every day. It’s the helplessness that sweeps me up, the self-hatred that chokes me. I’ll never get used to the impact or the feelings that come with the fall. I don’t want to be viewed as fragile—by myself or by others. I don’t have control over that, though.

All I can really do when I fall is make sure I get up and keep trying. CP might knock me down, but it won’t triumph over me for long. 

Learning To Trust Others and Act Like Myself in Theatre

 “Acting is not about being someone different. It's finding the similarity in what is apparently different, then finding yourself in there.”—Meryl Streep

Theatre has always been a somewhat complicated hobby for me. I’ve always loved it—but most of the time I let people hold me back from truly embracing myself and my role as an actress. Having cerebral palsy does make doing theatre more complicated. Generally, I am used to modifying things, making things work with my challenges, but there was and is an emotional aspect between my CP and the roles I have been given. I always want to do my best in everything, no matter what. But sometimes I feel as though I can’t give the character the full personality, the movements and gestures, that it deserves because of the lack of ability in my legs. Other times, I feel like other people’s perceptions of cerebral palsy prevent them from giving me a chance as an actress.

My first production was about pirates. I was young and maybe—probably—naïve, which isn’t always bad. The drama teacher told us that the pirate characters were going to be based on personalities. I was the youngest in the class and unbelievably excited. Even at a young age, I liked exploring characters’ personalities and what made them tick. 

That’s when another girl in the class said, “Ainsley’s character should be clumsy and off-balance ‘cause she trips and falls a lot.”

 I was dejected. I didn’t completely understand what I was feeling at the time, but I did understand that my disability, though it is a part of me, was and is not my personality. My parents expressed that to me all the time. Everyone else in the class laughed and emphatically agreed, while I stared at my shoes. 

I was trying to act and do my best and transform myself into someone else temporarily—maybe for once I didn’t have to be the girl who needed help with everything, the girl who walked funny and didn’t have any friends. I didn’t always want to be that person. 

As much as I try to embrace who I am, it’s hard dealing with the fact that I have a permanent disability that causes me emotional and physical pain. Sometimes I hate my legs. I don’t like falling down all the time. All of my classmates thought that my CP summed up all I could be—the girl who was clumsy.

I told myself that not everyone was like that. I told myself that there were people who would give me a chance to show what I could do, would give me a chance to do what all theatre lovers want to do—act.

Determined, I auditioned for my school’s Talented Theatre program. I was thrilled that I made it. Theatre class was not what I had hoped. The environment was cliquish. The other girls in the class giggled and whispered when the teacher was talking, and they never spoke to me. It was like they sensed, somehow, that I was different.

When I was in fourth grade, the Talented Theatre program decided to put on a play called Happily Ever After. I was excited because I loved fairytales. I was cast as Doc, the lovable elderly dwarf from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I was happy about it at first—until a girl in my class said, “Ainsley’s perfect for the role! She already walks like an old person.” 

I didn’t know what to think. Was I just picked for roles because I had cerebral palsy? That wasn’t what I wanted at all. I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter, because I had fun playing Doc. But it did matter. I wanted to portray different imperfections. I didn’t want to always play people who were old and clumsy. I am a young person, and I want the opportunity to portray characters from all walks of life.

From that point on, I decided (subconsciously, because I didn’t even realize I was doing it) to hide my CP, at least while doing theatre. I wasn’t trying to be dishonest; hiding cerebral palsy seemed to be the only way I could try to make friends in theatre and be seen onstage for something other than my limitations.

Although my cerebral palsy generally is considered mild—I can speak and walk—hiding CP quickly proved to be more difficult than I thought it would be. Choreography (the movements and blocking of the characters onstage) is a big part of theatre and usually requires a series of quick, often complex movements. I couldn’t and still can’t quite move fast enough to blend in with the rest of the ensemble. I stick out onstage because my movements are too slow, or a beat too late. 

Often, I got trampled because I didn’t respond to my onstage cue quickly enough, and everyone else rushed through the backstage curtain. I decided that for the time being, moving quickly was more important than my safety. 

And that brings me to ninth grade, where my hopes of hiding CP during theatre to be accepted and not underestimated as an actress ended with a resounding thud—namely, my knees slamming into the stage floor.

In hindsight, my castmates probably realized I was different long before that moment. A staircase leads to the stage, and I need help on the stairs. I have falling anxiety, which means that I have a fear of falling down. (That is a little ironic, because there was a time in eighth grade where I would fall twice a week, on average.) But I’ve never gotten used to falling down, and it’s always been an embarrassing experience for me. For the first few week of ninth grade, my theater teacher would help me up the stairs. It was fairly awkward—as much as I appreciated her help, I hated the fact that I had to bother her to ask for help. There was and is a part of me that believes that I should be able to climb the stairs by myself. Because my feet rotate inwards as I climb the stairs, though, I’m very likely to trip, so doing the stairs by myself is not always an option. 

And then my classmates started to help me. I was incredibly grateful. None of my classmates in past years had ever really tried to help me before. I was pleasantly surprised that my classmates were being so nice and accepting. They were all older than me, so I guess I thought that they would be mean. (I have not had the best experiences with some people.) However, I started to make friends in theatre! Everyone was extremely kind. I was hesitant, waiting to see if there was a catch. I knew I would do something weird, and then that would be the end of my friendships. I’m so happy to say I was wrong. 

Then came a potential obstacle—I was cast in a scene in which I had to run. I loved the play we were going to perform—called Peter and the Starcatcher, the show is the prequel to Peter Pan. The first time we rehearsed the scene, I attempted to speed-walk. I wasn’t quite fast enough, though. So I decided to just get onstage as quickly as I possibly could. 

That decision resulted in me face-planting onstage. I was really embarrassed, but all my classmates were asking me if I was okay. I apologized for messing up the scene, but everyone was very reassuring. No one seemed to think it was funny that I had fallen, but no one thought that I wasn’t capable, either. I was happily surprised. I was pretty sure that I’d hurt the ligaments inside of my knee as I limped offstage, but then I realized that the fall hadn’t been all bad. Not even close.

Because of my fall, I realized that what I had were true friends—who didn’t want me to fall, but would be there to help me and comfort me if I did. Yes, we were all actors, but when it came down to it, they cared more about my well-being than if I messed up the scene. My theatre friends were somewhat aware that I was different, and it was okay with them. They never acted like I was a burden, just their friend.

In the end, I wanted what all actors and actresses want—a chance to act. I’m able to act now. I don’t have to hide a part of myself in order to do that anymore. Maybe I never did—I just needed the right people in theatre and in my life. 

In theatre, I am accepted for who I am. I have amazing friends who are so helpful and see past my CP, which is a big part of me but a part that in no way defines me. I don’t have to act like someone I’m not in order to be accepted. I can just be myself, no matter if I struggle sometimes. Because even if I struggle, I have friends who will support me, and the show will go on.