My older sister, Maria, has an intellectual disability, though it wasn’t always immediately obvious. When we were kids, she talked to herself long after imaginary play was supposed to end. She got overwhelmed by things that seemed small to everyone else. School was hard for her.
I grew up loving my sister, before I learned that the rest of the world saw her as “different.” When you’re a kid, “different” doesn’t feel like a compliment. All I wanted was to fit in, but it was hard with an older sister who stood out.
And whenever I was invited somewhere, there was usually one condition: “Take your sister.”
As a child, I hated hearing those words. Once, as if middle school wasn’t awkward enough, my parents made me take Maria to the movies when me and my friends were meeting up with some boys. I pulled her aside before we walked in.
“Don’t talk,” I told her. “Just stand over there.”
The memory still stings. But here’s the incredible part: Maria loved me anyway. She was always at my sports games. She proudly took pictures with me before every homecoming dance and prom. Eventually, she stood beside me as my maid of honor on my wedding day. Today, she’s the godmother to my three boys.
She wasn’t just my older sister. She was my biggest fan, long before I learned how to be hers.
Somewhere along the way, my embarrassment turned into fierce protectiveness. It hurt when people called my sister names like “the r-word” or stupid or slow, but at the time, I didn’t know what to do with that hurt. Looking back, I think my heart was beginning to quietly turn that pain into purpose.
I also remember the people who loved Maria exactly as she was. My high school friends didn’t just accept Maria, they included her. At one of our themed parties while my parents were out of town, she was right there dancing on the counter with the rest of us, with a cowboy hat on her head. (She also ratted us out the second my parents walked through the door. So much for keeping that little party “between us.”)
My college friends welcomed Maria whenever she came to visit me at Villanova. One night, her winter coat somehow disappeared from behind the bar where everyone had left them. Unexpected situations are incredibly hard for Maria; she can’t always process it when things don’t go according to plan. Within seconds, she was in a full meltdown.
A few of the football players stayed with her, keeping her safe and gently talking her through it while the rest of us searched for her coat. Eventually, she calmed down. Years earlier, I probably would have been mortified. Instead, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude.
My parents never let Maria’s disability become the reason she couldn’t dream big. When she was 26, she met a charming man who also had special needs at the Publix where she works. They immediately became a pair, participating together in bowling and track and field in Special Olympics. Before long, they began talking about marriage.
My siblings and I couldn’t wrap our heads around it. Maria already struggled with independent living and making everyday decisions. How could she also navigate a marriage, especially to a partner who faced challenges of his own? But my parents were supportive.
At the time, I thought they were absolutely crazy. Now I get it. That marriage didn’t last, but Maria deserved the chance to fall in love, get married, make mistakes, learn lessons and experience life just like the rest of us.
I stood beside her as her maid of honour. In my speech, I joked that she had never taught me the typical older sister things — like advice on fashion, putting on makeup or how to French kiss. Instead, she taught me the things that mattered far more. Patience. Kindness. Empathy.
Source: Read the original article on www.huffingtonpost.co.uk
