Her guest was an athlete whose name was somewhat familiar to me but never actually heard speak: Alana Nichols. Nichols is an insane Paralympic athlete who has earned medals in both wheelchair basketball and alpine skiing. For those of you who didn’t catch that – she played in both the summer and winter Paralympics. Oh ya, she not only competed in both – she also struck gold in both…and silver and bronze. Spain spoke to her about her journey – what it took for her to recover from a devastating spinal cord injury that left her paralyzed from the waist down, how her life has changed for the better, and the ways in which she has become a role model for all athletes. In college, I was a big fan of the highlighter – but often I found myself going overboard. Afraid that every detail I was studying was important, the pages of my books took on a florescent yellow glow. As I was listening to the podcast, I got the same feeling that every sentence, every word needed to be highlighted.

I could write about each idea they covered – it was all gold. I want to, but I won’t because you should listen and experience it yourself. There was one concept discussed though which especially stood out for me – understanding the power of limitations. In the course of their conversation, Spain wonders if limitations can facilitate success. She asks Nichols if she thinks she would have accomplished all these great feats – not just as an athlete but as an advocate – if she was still able-bodied. Nichols answers candidly – It is hard to say. She explains that her will and determination have always been a part of her. Before the accident, she was a highly recruited softball player. Her plan was to play in college and then the Olympics. The drive had been there forever. The difference after the injury was that her limitations allowed her to focus. Suddenly all the choices weren’t there anymore and that was oddly empowering. Her vision wasn’t clouded or distracted by options. When your choices are taken away – you can clearly see what it is what you really want. The injury didn’t erase possibility -it crystallized her goals. What you want is right in front of you. Go get it.  

I heard this and stopped mid stride up the hill. Pause. I began to think about my own approach to Amichai and the messages that I try to impart. Amichai knows he has CP. I am never shy in explaining to him – and to others for that matter – what that means, but I am always careful and deliberate in the words I use. I believe in my kid. I need to make that clear to everyone and anyone – especially him. The words I choose reflect my optimism and conviction that he can do anything. I use words like challenge and potential because they represent that optimism. I use them so that Amichai will understand he is capable and strong. I use them so that other people will learn disabilities are not disabling. Conversely, I specifically avoid the word limitation because it is negative, pessimistic, and defeatist. I don’t want Amichai to have any part in that. I believe in this approach. I believe in surrounding Amichai with positivity and encouragement. But if I dig a little deeper, I must admit there is a part of me that is also protecting Amichai from my own fears. I am afraid of succumbing to limitations.

If you read this post, you will know that as an athlete, coaches taught me to bulldoze through limits at any cost. They don’t exist. I built my reality around this idea – that nothing can stop me, that nothing is too hard. Its easy to believe this at sixteen, seventeen, even twenty – when the greatest barrier you face is running endless wind sprints. Life hasn’t shown you hard yet. But rest assured, it will. Life will show you adversities, it will show you limits. Life will show you CP. And even with all your optimism and all your belief in the child you love deeply and profoundly – you will understand that you can’t just power through it. Hard work will get you far, but the limitation will always be there. The limitations are real and tangible.   And that will scare you. What happens if you accept that there are limits? Does that break your will? I fear that if I would even dare to use the word, to admit to it – I would somehow weaken my resolve, his resolve to take on the challenges that lie ahead. I fear it so much so that there is a voice in the back of my head screaming at me to take it back. There are no limits. Don’t give in. Don’t let it win.

The thing is though, it only wins if I continue to define limitation in that very limited scope. Nichols has opened my eyes to the intricate architecture of limitations. A limitation doesn’t have to be a negative force in your life. A limitation doesn’t have to be a barrier, but rather a door that unlocks an unlimited world of possibility. With less choice comes more power. A limitation can be a tool to sharpen your will, to sharpen your capabilities, to sharpen your drive in making bold moves because you know exactly what you want. A limitation can ultimately release you from the harnesses that were holding you back. I breathe deeply as I read this over. I feel more settled. I am no longer at war with a word that has haunted me, a word that I feared would haunt Amichai too. My perception has changed. I’ll embrace the limitations and I’ll teach Amichai to do the same – knowing that it will not weaken our resolve but set it free.

My grandfather passed away last year on Chanukah – one month shy of his 90^th birthday. He had been struggling for weeks and I was prepared, or as prepared as I could be. I had one last conversation with him and said goodbye – whatever that may mean. Still like my grandmother, the news of his death left me breathless and then left me empty. As I sat waiting for my flight back to the states, I read some thoughts on Chanukah to distract me from the emptiness. My grandfather was always up for a laugh and the last thing he would want was me sitting broken, staring out into space and letting the nothingness consume me. I came upon an article that resonated deeply and has stuck with me since.

The author of the article explores the concept of miracles –what constitutes such an event and how we assign meaning to it in our lives. He relies on the philosophies of Rav Soloveitchik to define the essence of a miracle. Rav Soloveitchik taught that, “it is not always necessary for an event to be miraculous in order to be great, and not every miraculous event is a great event.” A miracle doesn’t have to be supernatural or awe inspiring. A miracle simply needs to be seen. When you see something – peer down deep below the surface and recognize the significance of it, that you have no choice but to change because of it – than that event is a miracle. The author explains that the real miracle of Chanukah wasn’t the victory of the few over the many, the weak over the strong or even a days’ worth of oil lasting eight – the miracle was that the Jews saw it, they internalized it and were changed because of it.

As I read this, I thought about my own relationship with my grandfather. While not miraculous, it certainly was a gift that I know was unique.Some of my most vivid and happiest memories are with him and my grandmother. I had to acknowledge that gift – be thankful for the impact it had on my life and how I was changed because of it. I thought about how many people we meet in our lives, how many events we witness, how many experiences we amass. Were they all miracles? I thought that if the actual event of a miracle is somewhat inconsequential, then the awe inspiring or supernatural component must really be up to us – are we capable of seeing it, are we willing to see it. And conversely, how much are we missing?

I know before Amichai was born, I missed almost everything.When I was pregnant, I thought I got it – I mean there was a life growing inside of me, you would think it’s kind of hard to miss – but I did. Doctor appointments would come and go – everything was good, everything was standard.I didn’t see that everything being standard was actually a miracle. And I think most parents-to-be are like this. Technology and modern medicine have tricked us into believing that the creation of life is quite ordinary – even mundane.Millions of women are pregnant each year. No big deal. It was only after the fact, when I found myself in the NICU – watching Amichai fight, watching other babies fight – and sometimes lose – that I started to see, that I started to appreciate the complexity of it all, that I started to understand the miracle.

And I started to see even more when the doctors told me Amichai had suffered a stroke. Come again? They said this was not standard.Thanks. But the thing is, even as they kept saying the injury was significant,that he has CP, that most statistics point toward a life of disability, that it would be hard, that they could understand feelings of disappointment and even failure– the whole time the one constant thought in my head was – but he survived. The doctors themselves kept hounding on the fact that adults would not have survived such a dramatic injury; yet, here was my kid – alive,breathing on his own, kicking, eating, and gripping my fingers tightly –holding me up as much as I was holding him. The challenges ahead were scary,unknown, and daunting – so much so that in the days and weeks to follow I experienced anxieties I never knew existed – but in that moment – why couldn’t the obvious be seen? He survived. From that point forward, I simply refused to shut my eyes, and there was a clarity of vision within the darkness.

I would not wish any parent to go through the trauma which we experienced, but oddly I feel fortunate precisely because of it. The miracle in the trauma was that it forced me to take notice, it forced me to see that there is greatness in the mundane, and it forced me to see extraordinary effort in every day accomplishments.  Amichai is hemiplegic which means that he has high muscle tone that runs down his right side. His most challenging aspect is the use of his right arm and hand. At three months, he started physical therapy. One of the first exercises I worked with him on was having him lie on his back and reach for a toy with his right arm. I would do victory laps when he would reach up and tap the ball. Pure happiness. I have thousands (literally) of videos and pictures just of Amichai reaching up. And a thousand more when he started to grip objects with his right hand. And yet still more when he started weight bearing on his right arm. When he started crawling. When he stood up for the first time on his own. I don’t even need the video – I can close my eyes and see him slowly getting up, a little wobbly, a little unsure about what it is he’s actually doing – and then he’s up – laughing uncontrollably, smiling with pride. All parents I imagine experience this same excitement, but it was so momentous for me because I had come to understand that these milestones aren’t a given, that sometimes they are anything but standard… I can hear myself laughing with him. Celebrating with him.

And still today, every time Amichai opens a draw with his right hand or walks down the stairs consecutively – even jumping off the last step – these are major moments of celebration. We dance, we give each other high fives, we do a victory lap together. I hope our enthusiasm never wanes. My database of pictures continues to grow. Every day moments that have been elevated. And if I don’t always notice at first, Amichai is certain to point it out. We will invariably always be rushing around in the morning, trying desperately to get out the door. He will stand there in front of me – holding a shoe in each hand. Come on, I say – we are late. And he still stands there, not moving. Finally, I figure it out – Two hands! Yes, you did it! And then he starts laughing uncontrollably, smiling with pride because he knows – he knows these aren’t givens. These are miracles.

Amichai taught me how to see them.

Fast forward four months later and I am sitting in a meeting with three doctors who are explaining to me – to me – that my son would never be an athlete, or at least a good one. Or an artist. Or a musician. Or anything that required a set of normal motor skills – that wasn’t for him. One doctor, in an attempt to be encouraging said there was child in his own son’s boy scout troop that has CP. He said not to worry, all the children clap when he is able to jump over a stick. Intentions were pure, execution poor and patronizing. My child is not a pity party. I don’t think the doctors were trying to be intentionally negative, they simply were presenting statistics and their own professional experiences based off hundreds of CP cases they had diagnosed or treated. They weren’t consciously saying to set the bar low, but perhaps they were simply trying to manage expectations. I did find it perplexing though that of all the questions they couldn’t answer – somehow, they could definitively tell me what Amichai wouldn’t be able to do.

This angered me.

And still, I continued to hear this sentiment over and over again. At his six-week check-up with the neurologist, at his three-month check-up…he’s doing good – making progress, he won’t be a good athlete but…It’s as though they didn’t see the mother decked out in Nike clothing in front of them. The thing is, I didn’t need Amichai to play sports. Even though friends and family had (jokingly?) pegged me for one of those over-zealous and crazed parents on the sidelines, I always knew there was a chance that my kid would not be drawn to sports in the same way I had, and I would be ok with that. His interests won’t be the same as mine. That being said, I certainly didn’t need anyone telling me that he can’t play sports, that he wouldn’t excel in something he hadn’t even tried yet. How can someone else – even if that someone else is a doctor – define what you can or can’t do? Even crazier, how can they define what a little baby can or cannot do so early on in his life?

This wasn’t the first time in history that doctors or medical professionals expressed some archaic idea about who can and can’t play sports. My own gender was subject to their inaccurate beliefs. Women were often targeted as being too weak and ill equipped for physical activity.  Doctors warned of young girls and women over-exerting themselves in sport. When women first started playing basketball, medical professionals were concerned they would collapse in “nervous fatigue”. Apparently, a woman has enough strength to push out a baby but it’s too dangerous to have her run the full length of a basketball court. Luckily, I grew up an era where those beliefs and myths had long been laid to rest, and I was given every opportunity to play sport. And that is what I want to give Amichai. I want him to know that if he wants to play sports, the opportunity exists equally for him. I also want him to know that if he finds a sport that speaks to him, its ok for his execution of it to look differently than a “typical” athlete. The way his body works is different, but still very capable.

Like any five-year-old, Amichai will always choose running over walking. He runs down supermarket aisles, he runs to grab a toy from his room, he runs to water the plants outside on the porch, he runs to get a snack from the drawer, he runs to the park, he runs at the park…the only thing he doesn’t do is run to bed, somehow then his pace slows to a procrastinating crawl. Someone once remarked to me that Amichai would have his own Forest Gump moment one day, running so fast he breaks free of the braces. I smiled because I knew this person was trying to convey something positive, but I’m not sure that’s how it works. People with CP don’t magically break free from their braces. They work harder for their steps than the average person, training their body to work in a certain way, demanding tasks of it that do not always come with ease. Amichai runs with a slight degree of asymmetry, the right hip always a bit behind the left, the right arm moving with less freedom than the left – but there is a lightness to his step, and a rhythm to his pace. He runs with confidence. And for me, that is the actual magic.

I saw this magic too in another runner last week when every platform I use for messaging suddenly became clogged with the Nike video of Justin Gallegos. No one does it like Nike – they can capture a story and convert the masses to believers in less than two minutes. They manufacture magic. But this time – the magic was all in the kid. I recognized the uneven stride immediately, but I also recognized the gracefulness in his determination. He may run differently but who cares because he runs with confidence. It’s not about running the same way everyone else does, it’s about taking ownership of your way and saying it will take me to where I want to go. This wasn’t some fictional movie character breaking free from the braces, this was a kid who put in the work and simply said I am capable, I can do it. Take that Forest Gump. I promise you, this is not some Nike marketing ploy – this is as real as it gets. It was real for me, and it was real for Amichai. He smiled excitedly when he saw it, no doubt seeing himself in Justin. A capable person in a capable body. Just do it, right?

I loved everything about this interaction. I loved that she was staring at his brace for a while. Staring isn’t always bad – kids should take notice of something out of the ordinary. I’m assuming she had never seen a brace or maybe not close-up like that, and she was just glancing with curiosity. I am not saying to gawk or point, but it is ok to be aware of the people surrounding you…and if something looks different – ask. And she did just that. A genuine inquiry, a request for information. We can sometimes fear what we don’t know, but if we don’t ask, that fear can just fester and grow irrationally. She just wanted to know and understand. I also loved that her Mom gave her the freedom to ask. Parents are often on edge that their children will somehow offend with inappropriate questions or comments.  She was not shushed, quieted, or told its none of her business. And lastly, I loved her reaction – cool. She didn’t see disability or difficulty. She just saw the brace for what it is, thought it was pretty rockin and then said goodbye to her new friend Amichai.

It was a scene straight out of a Mr. Rogers episode. Real warm and fuzzy. But is this reality? Can I expect that all interactions will be pleasant teaching moments? And what happens if they’re not – how do I prepare Amichai?

My belief that Amichai is child with immense capabilities is not just hyperbole. I know – I know, he can do anything. He has shown time and time again that a physical limitation will not stop him. I know this, I feel it, I live it with everything I am. But as much as I can instill this belief in Amichai, to continue developing and cultivating it within him – I also know that I cannot control how other people react, what other people will say. I remember sitting in the lounge area outside the NICU after Amichai was diagnosed. It was all very tranquil – the sunlight poured in through the rounded glass windows overlooking the Jerusalem forest. I wanted to scream into the forest. My parents – ever the cheerleaders, were pumping me up. You can do this – you were trained for this moment. He can do this. He will do this. Nothing will stop him – you know this. I did. I didn’t even know Amichai yet, but I knew this. Still, I found myself suddenly blurting out – yes but kids are cruel! I was expressing a dark fear I hadn’t even wanted to say out loud because I didn’t want to give it credence: What if kids make fun of him because he’s different? My parents looked at me with shock. It’s a look I recognized from my teenage years when my sisters and I would purposely say something which would gravely disappoint and set them off…my younger sister seemed to have real knack for this, still does. Oh Gd. I’m in trouble. Where is this coming from?! Who told you that?! Why would you even say something like that? Who taught you to think like that? We didn’t teach you to think like that.

I think my parents’ reaction was based on a few different factors. First, my parents taught us to be understanding and accepting people. Cruel behavior toward others and making disparaging remarks about anyone is simply wrong. Any upstanding parent teaches his child the same. Second, they taught us to know who you are and stand tall. If someone would ever make disparaging remarks toward us – well, that’s their problem. Don’t let the words or behavior of others bring you down. Third, I think my parents were trying to slow me down. Amichai was just a few days old. Let’s not jump to any crazy conclusions or imagine unwritten scenarios. And lastly, I think they were probably activating their own parental instincts to protect their child and tell me bad things won’t happen. If I wanted to protect Amichai from all the evils in the world, they were doing the same.

But they know the reality. My parents raised four children and while they wouldn’t categorically define kids as cruel (I wouldn’t either!), they know sometimes there is at least one kid who says one stupid and thoughtless thing. Even if you have raised the most confidant of children, that can still be scary for a parent because you know it will hurt. Your child will hurt.  I’ve been there as a kid. I’ve even been there as an adult, and I don’t think it was easier for my parents to watch regardless of my age. But there can be something elevating in that moment. It’s not that I would ever want Amichai to be in a situation where he is Gd forbid bullied or made to feel less than what he is. That is categorically wrong and intolerable. But an inevitable encounter with some jerk at some point in time? It will happen. Instead of fearing these moments, what if we embraced them? What if we used them to learn about who we really are? Do I really believe in me? Everything that I was taught, everything that my parents tried to instill in me about who I am, my infinite strength, my infinite worth – do I believe it? Am I going to truly stand tall or am I going to let this jerk get to me? You must make a conscious choice to rely on your own truths and filter out the noise. These might be unpleasant situations, and I hope that one does not need to face them again and again, but they are breeding ground for character building.

Protecting your child comes in so many different forms. I will never put Amichai in a situation that is harmful or dangerous – be that physically or emotionally. But protection also comes in the form of giving your children the right tools to face the world. So, in the same way my parents taught me, I will continue to cultivate his confidence and belief in himself. I will continue to instill him with the knowledge that his strength comes from within and that is priceless. I won’t pray for the day Amichai encounters a jerk, but if he ever does – I’ll pray he has the proper perspective and uses it as stepping stool for greatness…and equally important, I’ll also pray that society continues to evolve – that differences are seen, understood, and appreciated. I will pray that more little kids stop, stare, ask, and then see Amichai for what he is – another friend.

In the past month, two parents have approached me for advice. They are in the process of applying for state aid and recognition of disability for their young children. Once approved, they will eligible be for services like admission into special needs schools, provision of therapies, and financial stipends to help curb costs. While gearing up for their meetings with social services and the National Insurance Institution, they called me to ask about my experiences. What should I expect? How should I present my child’s case – Should I exaggerate the issues? Should I emphasize delay? Are there topics to avoid? Is it true that I should make sure my child is exhausted, so she won’t participate during the evaluation?

The sad part is – their questions were all valid. When I was going through the process, I was indeed told to schedule the meetings specifically at Amichai’s nap time. Make sure he’s cranky – really cranky. Don’t feed him. I was repeatedly told not to talk about Amichai’s progress. In fact, Amichai’s therapists told me to say as little as possible because I was too positive. They were fearful that my optimism would influence the government clerk assigned to the case and that Amichai would be deemed ineligible. Amichai’s OT and PT had to provide letters describing his condition. Experts in understanding the system, they told me the letters would be grossly exaggerated. They handed me their reports in a sealed envelope. I never read them – I simply handed them over with the rest of the paperwork.

I was so perplexed and deeply troubled by the instructions we were given. I know all the advice we received came from the purest of places – they wanted to ensure that Amichai would indeed get what he needed. Yet for me – to be told to exaggerate and emphasize what he can’t do goes well against everything I believe in. Every day – every, single, day – I tell Amichai that he can do anything he wants to do. I can and I will. Now I should say he won’t be able to reach his goals? That he is below an arbitrary line of potential? It’s a game they told – just play the game. I guess people assume that once they mention the word game to me, I’m all in – that somehow, I’ll suit up and jump in. But not this time. How is this a game? Its his life. I can accept that I will need to jump through hoops to get an appointment, but shouldn’t we take a hard look at the system if parents again must jump through more hoops so that their child will be awarded the services she is duly entitled too?

Ya, I know – bureaucracies are bureaucracies. The people working in these institutions are professionally trained to remain stone-faced and exert minimal effort. I think the idea behind exaggerating the facts is to just make sure you do the work for them. Make it obvious so they don’t have to strain themselves. Get in, get approved, and keep the line moving. But here’s the deal: Any parent of a child with special needs will tell you – If I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t.  I would urge every employee to think about this before calling the next parent in the assembly line. I’ll go out on a limb and assume that you briefly reviewed the medical records and files, that you glanced at the letters and at the very least you have seen the diagnosis repeated over and again in big bold letters. Instead of forcing parents to mire in negativity, let this be a positive experience. Let them speak freely about their child. Let them brag. Let them be proud. I promise it won’t take up that much time.

Rachel Callander, a rockstar in the world of parent advocacy – speaks about shifting the ways health care professionals communicate with parents and patients. After her daughter was diagnosed with a rare chromosome condition, she took notice of the language used:

“…the language I was using about her and the language that the doctors were using was very different. And I liked my language better. Because it highlighted ability and it highlighted humanity – whereas theirs was very negative, deficit language. And it took all of her ability and potential away. The healthcare professionals would use these cold, horrible phrases – like she was ‘incompatible with life’” (Dumbofeather, March 15 2018)

Healthcare professionals aren’t evil, and these bureaucratic workers aren’t heartless. Its just that it can become routine for them. Case after case, file after to file. Rachel points out that in her experience most doctors and other professionals are receptive to hearing her thoughts about the manner in which they speak, and are serious about making a change. The way a diagnosis is presented sets a tone for the patient and family. Positivity breeds positivity. We can be empowered and encouraged by the words that surround us. And, especially in a situation where the parent must now present that diagnosis – they should have the freedom to be as positive and optimistic as they want. There are irrefutable facts on the ground, but that doesn’t mean we shut the door on optimism. Quite the opposite – there is a little life in front of you fighting and working and breaking expectations every day. Celebrate that.

Amichai was eventually recognized and awarded the services he needs. On the day of the meeting, I took the advice of the people who seemed to know better and I simply remained as quiet as I could to hide my enthusiasm for my child. (Reading that back now sounds utterly ridiculous.) I don’t know if it actually made a difference, and I kinda hope it didn’t. I am grateful for the services Amichai receives, but in retrospect – I should have just been honest. I know that breaking down a bureaucrat is hard, but I should have told them that I am certain Amichai is stronger than I will ever be. I should have told them that the child sitting in front of you is nothing short of inspiring. I should have told them that the services you have the power to provide will only continue to enhance and develop an already expanding potential. I should have told them they can be a partner to extraordinary, and it doesn’t even require that much effort on their part…I bet they would have cracked a smile.

Last week, Donald Trump hosted the U.S 2018 Winter Olympic and Paralympic team at the White House. He acknowledged their hard work and great accomplishments. He gave specific praise to the Paralympians and referred to their athletic performances as “inspiring.” He almost had it. He almost pulled it off. And then he said it…“its a little too tough to watch too much” of the Paralympics. Oh man.

In the interest of being fair, Trump’s team has said the comment was referencing his busy schedule. As much as he wanted, he found it “tough” to find the time to watch all of the Paralympic events. Ok. Even if this is true, most people were shocked, outraged, stunned, appalled, offended…pick whatever adjective you want. When I saw this, I drew upon the always reliable WTF…Amichai was obviously not in my presence…If he had been, I would have busted out my mom’s preferred way to curse without cursing in front of the kids – SUCKER!

The thing is – if we put aside the alarming insensitive nature of his comments, if we casually put aside the fact that he’s the leader of the free world and should have enough awareness to use some sort of internal filter, if we put aside the dark and disturbing fact that he has made fun of  a disabled reporter  – maybe Trump is inadvertently helping? Maybe he is providing a platform to confront our own feelings and perceptions about disability and how that makes us feel. Perhaps in his supremely oblivious ignorance, he opened a window and it is upon us – the rightfully shocked, outraged, stunned…etc. – to honestly climb through it.

I’ll go first.

I’ve referenced my athletic past. My childhood, adolescence, adulthood – fine my entire life – revolved and continues to revolve around sport. I have always been surrounded by teammates who were able-bodied like myself. But I won’t place the blame squarely on sports, because even off the court or field, when I think about the spectrum of people who have come in and out of my life – there is basically no one whom I was in steady contact with that had any type of disability – cognitive or physical. I can remember only one boy from camp who wore a leg brace and walked with a limp…hindsight is 20/20 and I wish I would have known him better.

I simply wasn’t exposed to very many disabled people. When I would see someone who was paralyzed, or someone missing a limb (or limbs), or someone walking with a limp, or a someone who had a physical deformity – it wasn’t in my norm. Let’s put the cards on the table – for me, that was tough to see… and I tended to look away. I don’t think that made me a bad person – uninformed, uneducated, naïve – absolutely, but bad? Don’t know. And while I’d like to hope that people are more informed than I was…I have a feeling most have similar reactions – because it can look scary, it can look uncomfortable, it can look…tough. And we often don’t like to see tough things in life. I think that’s ok to admit.

While I’m not scared to admit these things, what is scary for me is that if Amichai had never had a stroke, had never been diagnosed with CP – I would have just carried on – never ever gaining a deeper understanding of disability. That is scary because this understadning has enriched my life. I am not saying that I am happy he had a stroke. That was traumatic. I am not saying that this is what I wished for him. It certainly was not. Maybe I’m just saying that there are blessings in the dark, and lessons to be learned. And maybe Amichai was given specifically to me so that I could learn…and hopefully teach him a thing or two.

Amichai exposed me to a world I never imagined I would be a part of. Through him, through other children and adults that I have been exposed to -its all changed. Its not tough to see because that’s not all there is to see. There is innovation and determination. There is excellence and precision. There is passion and energy. There is humility and pride. There is intelligence and perspective. There is beauty and kindness. There is understanding and inclusivity. There is capability and strength.

We aren’t all privileged to be exposed to this daily or even semi-daily. Learn from my mistakes. Expose yourself to disability (I really don’t like that word – I’m open to suggestions). Confront it. Make yourself uncomfortable for one moment and then see that that moment is fleeting and shallow. We can all do better. Here’s an easy way to start – watch the Paralympics. You will not be disappointed. They provide an opportunity for exposure. They provide an opportunity to look past a missing limb, look past paralysis, look past deformity, look past a limp, look past blindness or any other impairment – and see the real deal.

Hey Mr. President, if the Paralympics were tough to watch – my advice – keep watching.