She Taught them to Love

Last week, the impact of navigating life with a sibling with a disability came into sharp focus in a way I hadn’t quite experienced before. My middle child was chosen to speak at the opening ceremony of her high school’s spring Special Olympics. It was an honor, of course—but more than that, it was a moment that quietly carried years of our family’s story within it.

When she asked me to read her speech ahead of time, I found myself pausing after just a few lines. Not because it needed editing, but because it stirred something deeper in me.

Years ago, I wrestled with fears I didn’t often say out loud. When her sister joined our family, my concerns were never about who she was or her diagnosis—but about how her needs would shape the lives of my other four children. I worried about what they might lose, what they might have to carry, and whether the weight would be too much.

And the truth is, our journey hasn’t been easy.

Accessing services was complicated and exhausting. Our family rhythms changed in ways none of us could have anticipated. My children had to adjust nearly every part of their world—school routines, friendships, social activities. They witnessed moments no child is ever really prepared to see. They learned to retreat quietly behind closed doors during meltdowns. They absorbed the unspoken anxiety that filled the house when their sister eloped.

There were sacrifices, too—ones that were rarely voiced but deeply felt. School events, performances, milestones where they wished—sometimes silently—that both parents could be present. But often, one of us needed to stay home.

These are the parts of the story people don’t always see.

As the years have gone on, each of my children has developed their own unique relationship with their sister. Some are naturally more nurturing, stepping in with patience and care. Others bring lightness and laughter, meeting her where she is with joy. And yes, one of them holds the role of the “enforcer”—loving her fiercely but expecting the same accountability they would from anyone else, even while understanding her autism shapes her daily life.

I will never pretend that autism didn’t change their childhoods. It did. It limited certain experiences and reshaped others entirely.

But what I didn’t fully understand back then—what I couldn’t see through the fear—is the beauty that would grow alongside the hardship.

My children are more understanding because of their sister. Their compassion runs deeper. They don’t get lost in the small things, because they’ve seen what real challenges look and feel like. They know the difference between a momentary frustration and a true mountain—and that perspective is something you can’t teach in words alone.

I won’t pretend to know exactly what it feels like to be a sibling in this journey. That’s a story only they can truly tell.

But as I stood there, reading my daughter’s speech, one line settled into my heart:

“Inclusion isn’t a today thing—it’s an everyday thing.”

In that moment, something shifted for me. I realized that the impact their sister has had on them isn’t something to mourn. It’s something to honor.

Because perhaps, in ways I never expected, she didn’t just change their lives—she taught them how to love.