Mindsets change when going down untraveled roads. You think you know where you’re going, but then end up in a completely different spot. The wind blows and things change even more.
I was quiet as a kid. I never wanted special treatment, or to put the weight of my disability on anyone else’s shoulders. I was always very independent in that sense and didn’t want it to be taken away. I was at the point where everything revolved around my wheelchair. I thought the cycle of those wheels turning in my head would never end, when I realized I needed to see for myself that I was wrong to think that way.
Going to school was my wake-up call. Most teachers weren’t quite sure how to react to me, which I expected. I had to show them I was worthy of being in “regular” classes. I had to prove why I didn’t need to stay in the special inclusion class I was put in. I wasn’t forced to do this. I wanted to do this. I wanted my teachers to look at me the way they looked at every other student. The weight of my responsibility suddenly had a new meaning.
A life-changing choice sparked this mindset. In second grade, my parents found out I wasn’t doing my best in class. I had shut down during the day and refused to participate in activities or answer any questions. My mom became very curious and got permission to quietly sit in the back of class without me knowing she was there. What she saw immediately made her blood boil: me sitting at my desk, silently watching the world pass by.
She slowly walked to me after about five minutes and asked, “Are you doing your best?” I shook my head no and before I could blink, we were in the car headed home. I was in tears at this point. I knew I was wrong—and nothing could smooth things over until I tried to explain.
Hours later, after the tears had dried, Mom asked me again if I was doing my best. I sat on the couch and cried until two simple words came out of my mouth: “No challenge.”
I was confronted by my teacher the very next day. Why was I so quiet and dismissive in class? At that moment, the stage was set for everything I’d do from that point on:
Do you want to stay in the inclusion class for half a day, or repeat second grade and be mainstreamed into regular classes?
I chose the latter without hesitation. I wasn’t thinking about the tremendous impact it would end up having on my life. Or that it might help others see me as something more than “the girl in a wheelchair”. I wanted to prove to myself there was something beyond my disability—a wall I didn’t have to bust through to be comfortable with myself.
The decision to repeat the second grade was a huge step in that process. It was my decision, and it was the best one I would ever make. But just when I thought I was on a somewhat steady path, life threw a major curveball my way.
In elementary school—about fourth grade—I had a second surgery on my legs and had to be homeschooled during my recovery. I had a double cast, one on each leg, with a big bar between that made it extremely difficult to move or do anything. I had to get comfortable with pain and not going to school.
I said goodbye to the friends I’d made and assured them I’d be back. My teacher was willing to come to our house every day to go over what he’d taught in class, and it turned out to be one of the best things for me.
He would stay until he had gone over everything and gave me the materials to complete the work I had missed. That kind of support is always welcome. He knew I’d had major surgery and went out of his way to help lighten my load.
My teacher did all of this on his own time making it even more meaningful. It wasn’t the first encounter I’d have with a true teacher. In fact, this set the stage for the enriching exchanges I had with teachers over the years. Major life exchanges are always easier said than done, especially when the weight is all on your own shoulders because others rarely know how capable we are.
At the end of the day, I learned it truly takes a village to raise a child. Many teachers were the cornerstone of my village—and still are. I’m beyond grateful to have such bright, intelligent minds willing to guide my choices as a writer and a human being.
These teachers have shown me it doesn’t matter how you start. It’s how you finish that counts—and I’m not even close to my finishing line.
My wheels are still rolling, forward or backward, but they don’t define me or my abilities. Only my goals do, my finishing lines. So, what are you willing to do to get to your goal, what do you want at the end of your finishing line?
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Photo Credit: Pixabay
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