Thirty Minutes of Encouragement

My husband and I went to our community’s Pride event in June. I had not attended one of these activities since my car accident. That puts it at eight plus years. I was pushed into going by one of their advertisements.

It was a registration for a 5K/1K run or walk. Intrigued by the ‘1K’ option, I followed the link. “Do the 5K at your own pace. Or do whatever amount of mileage you are comfortable with.”

That was interesting. Had they, unknowingly, created a run/walk for traumatic brain injury survivors?

I followed up with an e-mail. I explained that I was disabled and more comfortable completing my mileage the day before. They answered positively. “You can certainly do your mileage the night before,” it said. “But we only have 25 people showing up so you will probably be fine at the actual race.”

Okay, so not a walk designed for TBI survivors. But I was further encouraged by the schedule. For the first two hours of the day, there was no music and no speakers, keeping the environment quiet and low key. What message did I receive? “Neurally divergent visitors come early!”

There were positive intentions all over this event. I registered my husband and I for the walk.

The day before we hustled over to the area, which was new to us. We were delighted to find an ADA trail running through the park. Happily, we set out to walk the trail instead of venturing out onto the sidewalks.

Mileage done and venue scouted, we headed home.

On event day, I registered at the race booth. When the volunteer handed me paper numbers to pin to our shirts, I politely handed them back. I started to explain that we did our mileage yesterday, but all I got was a smile and a wave. He had already moved on to the next person. I had made that interaction a lot bigger in my head by stressing out about it.

Finding coffee was next, and then onto the mini doughnuts food truck. I had started the timer on my watch at thirty minutes when we exited our truck. My goal was not to spend the rest of the weekend in bed with fatigue. With this thought in mind, I rummaged through my bag and inserted my Loop ear plugs. Quiet time or not, my Spiderman senses could already hear the murmur of people's voices.

We wandered around the booths using the same trail we had scouted the night before. It was a lot of eye input as people, dogs, and strollers passed us. We popped into a couple of booths, my husband taking the lead on most conversations.

The timer on my watch went off way too soon. I have learned to respect the timer. On a good day thirty minutes can go fast, but I was happy to have it. All I had to do was point to my watch and my husband nodded knowingly. Slowly, we wove our way through the crowd towards the entrance.

“Thanks for taking the lead on the chatting,” I told him when he got into the truck. “I forgot how much talking there is at these things. I had a really good time.”

“I was nervous,” he admitted as we pulled out onto the road. “I'm not sure which labels I'm supposed to be using now. Sometimes, not engaging in conversation seems like the best route. I wish it wasn't like that.”

I thought about his remarks as we drove home. “I know this isn't the same thing,” I said as we pulled into the driveway. “But think of how we feel when people don't talk to us once they find out that I am disabled. They just stand there awkwardly until they can slip away. They are not even willing to try and get to know me. It’s so hurtful. We would be nice to anyone who would talk to us.” My husband nodded at this. We had both been on the receiving end of this for many years.

“I’m not comparing the two groups,” I continued. “But maybe the volunteers at the festival want the same. Like us, they want less awkwardness and confusion. Maybe they're trying to do the same thing we're trying to do.”

Surviving in a world which can be cruel to anyone is tough. It’s hard on a daily basis if you don’t exist within your society’s norm. Giving thirty minutes of encouragement seems like a drop in the bucket. But I know getting even five minutes of support on days I am stuck in bed is a huge blessing. Each act of kindness, even if it is one encouraging word, makes a difference. 

  -Sara Scott