williamhyland

Chapter: The Silent Departures In the years following the height of the club’s activity, a quiet exodus unfolded. Parents who once cheered on the sidelines, volunteers who gave up their evenings and weekends — they began to disappear. Not with protest. Not with drama. Just silence. One by one, they walked away without a word. And their silence left a deeper wound than many realised. At the time, it felt like abandonment. It was easy to wonder: did they just stop caring? How could they turn their backs without saying anything? Did the friendships, the shared bus journeys, the cold sideline coffees mean nothing? But over time, it became clear: their silence didn’t always mean they didn’t care. It often meant they were hurt too. Some were afraid. The atmosphere inside the club had grown controlling — and many feared retaliation. Speaking up might have meant being pushed out, not just for themselves but for their loved ones. Some had already tried raising concerns and were ignored. Eventua...

Near-End Chapter: A Public Plea for Change As the years passed, our story — once personal and quiet — became something larger. The silence from Special Olympics Ireland HQ lingered, stretching from unanswered emails to ignored testimonies. Yet we kept going, documenting, gathering support, and finding voices brave enough to speak. And then, near the turning point of our journey, we wrote what we hoped would become a catalyst: --- 📣 An Open Message to Minister Patrick O’Donovan and Minister of State Charlie McConalogue Dear Ministers, We are reaching out from the Friends of Special Olympics Ireland group — made up of athletes, former volunteers, family members, and concerned supporters — to ask for your help in addressing serious behind-the-scenes challenges impacting athletes with intellectual disabilities across Ireland. Many of us have witnessed: 💸 Athletes skipping meals just to pay rising club fees 😓 Personal loans being taken out to attend Games 🚫 Isolation from family and sup...

And you’ll never see them — not the club, not HQ — knocking on a door down the street, checking if someone has enough bread or milk. You won’t see them sending birthday cards. Or checking in after a member quietly leaves. You won’t find care packages on doorsteps, or kind words handwritten in a Christmas card. No, that kind of care doesn’t live in policy folders or press releases. But I still send mine. Every year. To Josephine. Because I know she’s still out there — still putting her last euro toward fees, still going without meals some weeks, still under a system that talks about inclusion but forgets about individuals. The club might have taken away her key. But they never took her place in my life. Because support should never come with control. And kindness should never need permission.

Permission to Visit There was a time when Josephine didn’t need to ask. She had a key to my home. A key to William’s home. She came and went without question, trusted and welcomed. Her visits were part of our rhythm — Monday in Bray, Tuesday in Dublin, and so on. She was reliable, confident, and familiar. She didn’t need instructions or reminders. She just... arrived. That all changed after she joined the club in 2008. Suddenly, she was texting first. “Is it okay if I come up today?” At first, it seemed thoughtful. Polite. But then it became the rule. If I didn’t reply, she wouldn’t come. Not because she didn’t want to — but because someone had told her not to. Even more than that, she started asking me to meet her off the 133 bus in town. Josephine, who used to make that journey without a second thought, now wouldn’t travel unless she had someone waiting on the other end. She never asked for that before the club. It was subtle at first. Easy to miss. But when I look back, it was the s...

I didn’t notice it right away. The change was slow. At first, it was just a text. “I’m thinking of coming over — is that okay?” It seemed polite, maybe even thoughtful. But before long, it wasn’t a choice anymore. Josephine used to have a key. She used to just come. That was our rhythm — no need to ask, no need to check. But now, there were rules. Invisible ones. Ones I never agreed to. If I didn’t reply in time, she’d say she had to stay at the club. Or worse, that they told her not to come if I hadn’t answered. I realised then — the club had taken something from her. Her independence. Her confidence. Her right to decide where she wanted to be. I thought I’d given her a space to grow. But they rewrote the rules behind my back. --- This could be one of the most powerful scenes in your story — not just about the end of visits, but how the power to visit was taken from her.

 In 2022, I made a decision that might seem unusual in today’s digital age: I cancelled every single streaming service I had — Sky, Netflix, the lot — and I haven’t looked back since. At the time, I was living alone. Originally, I’d set up the Sky box and various streaming subscriptions for Josephine, so she'd have her favourite shows when she visited. Josephine’s own home didn’t have any pay TV at all — just the local Irish channels and stations from the Wales regional UK broadcasts. It made sense then to provide something extra when she was here, to help her feel at home and entertained. But once Josephine stopped coming — thanks in large part to the influence and control of the Special Olympics club — the entire setup felt unnecessary. There was no reason to keep paying for services that served no purpose anymore. So I pulled the plug. I went back to basics: the free TV channels, and my trusty old video/DVD player. It didn’t take long to realise how much peace came from that sma...