He noticed someone who resembled him, and all of a sudden, he stopped being shy.
He began by hiding behind my leg.
Luca has never spoken to strangers. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, curls up inside, and becomes anxious around large groups. People stare when you are born missing a portion of your arm, so I don’t blame him. A few whisper. Some inquiries make me cringe, let alone a little child.
She noticed us at the game while we were simply getting some snacks.
Wearing a yellow sweater, she was speaking with some fans while kneeling in the lounge’s corner. However, her entire expression changed when she turned to face Luca.
She got to her feet, moved gently over, and knelt down once more, exactly at his level.
Then she held up her arm without a word.
It had his exact appearance.
Luca stopped. His eyes widened. He then gave me a “is this real?” look before carefully raising his arm to meet hers as if it were the holiest thing in the world.
Their elbows collided.
Then he grinned. genuinely grinned. Only when he feels bold, noticed, and not so different after all do I see his kind, proud smile.
She was a professional athlete, it turns out. He was born like him. “You can do anything you want,” she said to him. superior to most.
I don’t believe he comprehended everything she said.
However, the method he thereafter stood a bit taller? The way his arm was up and his chest was out as he moved through the remainder of the stadium?
Yes. The message reached him.
And before we went, she told me… I will always remember that.
She brushed back her short hair and looked from Luca to me. “You know,” she started, “kids like him—they need moments like this.” The world makes a great effort to tell people they are, not because they are flawed or lacking anything.
Although she spoke in a calm, almost matter-of-fact tone, each word had weight. She wasn’t merely talking; she was sharing bits of herself and knowledge gathered over years of residing in a body that didn’t conform to social norms.
She went on to say, “He doesn’t see himself as less now,” pointing to Luca, who was contentedly examining one of the foam fingers that had been given to him. Because, for once, he sees someone who resembles him succeeding. We underestimate the importance of representation.
I nodded while gripping my coffee cup more tightly than I should have. I wasn’t prepared for how hard her remarks affected me. She seemed to have tapped into my own childhood anxieties and uncertainties and exposed them, so it wasn’t just about Luca anymore.
She continued, “Keep letting him dream big,” before I could reply. Don’t let anyone, not even yourself, tell him no.
She then smiled warmly at us both, tousled Luca’s hair, and turned back to the group she had been speaking to before. I was left standing there with tears stinging the corners of my eyes as she vanished into the crowd.
It was unusually quiet on the way home. Still holding on to the foam finger as if it were a trophy, Luca gazed out the window. I didn’t strive to fill the void for once. Whatever magic had occurred back at the stadium, I gave him time to process it.
However, life has a humorous way of putting lessons into practice immediately after they are learned.
A few weeks later, Luca was sad when he got home from preschool. Tracing hands on construction paper was the craft project his teacher had planned. Easy enough, unless you’re a child with a crippled arm. The question, “Why does your hand look weird?” was yelled out loud enough for everyone to hear when Luca hesitated. If memory serves me correctly, this was Ethan.
My heart fell. I wanted to barge into that classroom and demand explanations, repercussions, and an apology. Instead, though, I sat Luca down and inquired about his feelings over the incident.
He picked at the edge of the table and muttered, “I don’t know.” “Everyone gave me a look.”
He remained silent about it for days. Reassurance didn’t appear to help at all. My thoughts kept returning to the stadium woman. How would she have responded? What would she have done about it?
Then it came to me.
I inquired about any programs they offered for children with disabilities over the phone at the neighborhood community center where Luca occasionally attended swimming lessons. They did—a monthly gathering for kids with limb differences and their families—which surprised me. I quickly signed us up.
For both of us, the initial meeting was nerve-racking. Luca held on to me as we entered, looking around the room suspiciously. But a few minutes later, he saw a youngster his age constructing a LEGO structure with just his feet. Another girl in the area was using a brush between her teeth to paint pictures. Fear gradually gave way to curiosity, and Luca strayed to join them.
He was playing and smiling like I hadn’t seen him in weeks by the end of the afternoon. I was reminded of that day at the stadium as I saw him engage with these children, each of whom had their own special struggles yet exuded confidence. These were lifelines, not merely playdates.
During snack time, a mother named Clara came up to me and introduced herself. The LEGO builder was Mateo, her son. Many of my own concerns were echoed by her stories about how difficult it was for her to obtain acceptance for Mateo in mainstream situations. We agreed to keep in contact and swapped phone numbers.
As the months went by, Luca flourished. He gained new talents, made friends, and instead of dwelling on his shortcomings, he became proud of his abilities. I still felt as though something was lacking, though. Something larger.
Then, one evening, I happened onto a video of the stadium woman while perusing social media. She was presenting a TED Talk on identity, embracing imperfection, and perseverance. Marisol Rivera was a gold medallist at the Paralympic Games.
I immediately sent her a message. I thanked her for the unintentional influence she had on our lives and gave a brief explanation of how her advice had influenced me ever since that fortuitous meeting. She responded in a matter of hours, which surprised me.
Marisol proposed setting up a Q&A session virtually for the children in our support group. She volunteered to tell them her story, respond to their inquiries, and offer support. I was both excited and frightened by the thought. Would Luca divulge? Would she be liked by the other children?
Nerves were buzzing on the day of the call. However, the anxiety vanished as soon as Marisol popped up on TV, greeting everyone with a lovely smile. The children questioned each other one at a time: “How fast can you run?” “Which sport is your favorite?” “Has your arm ever made you feel depressed?”
I was taken aback by Luca when it was his turn. He said quietly, “Do you ever get scared?” rather than about sports or medals.
Marisol hesitated, her face contemplative. “At all times,” she acknowledged. The problem is that fear does not cause one to give up. It indicates that you continue regardless. Being courageous is pursuing your goals despite your fears, not denying them.
As Luca nodded attentively, taking in her words as if they were gold, tears filled my eyes.
After a year, Luca has changed completely from the bashful youngster who used to hide behind my leg. He began kindergarten with renewed self-assurance, joined a junior adapted sports team, and even read a poem on being “different but awesome” during a school assembly.
For my part, I came to the crucial realization that representation is about feeling like you belong, not just about seeing someone who looks like you. having faith in your own abilities. thinking you’re sufficient.
The surprise is that Marisol recently invited Luca to attend a tournament in which she would be competing. Who do you think got VIP tickets? Yes, we will be in the front row supporting her.
Doesn’t life have a lovely way of coming full circle?
Message: Sometimes, one individual can let us know we’re not alone. Connection transforms everything, whether it’s with a buddy, a role model, or a complete stranger wearing a yellow sweatshirt. Please tell others about this story if you thought it was meaningful. Let’s remind people that everyone has the right to feel empowered, appreciated, and seen. 
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