The Price of Silence: What They Don’t Want You to Know About Special Olympics Ireland
In 2010, I convinced someone I cared deeply about to finally join their local Special Olympics club. After two years of encouragement, they signed up—and I couldn’t have been prouder. That athlete, my friend, became my lifeline after my mum died. Supporting them gave me a reason to keep going.
But that joy quickly turned into something much darker.
Before the 2010 All-Ireland Games, they were told they had to pay club fees or stay home. No support. No compassion. Just pay—or be left behind.
In desperation, they took out a loan. One with 170% interest. They were living on welfare, and suddenly had to make €45 weekly repayments just to chase a dream they were promised was “inclusive.” That dream turned into a debt trap.
When they couldn’t keep up, I stepped in. I repaid the loan. Over €500 by the time the interest was done eating through what little they had. All so they could compete—for four days.
Meanwhile, the same person who gave that ultimatum to “pay or stay home” was being celebrated on national television the next year. Winning a National Volunteer Award, praised as “humble.” That moment made my stomach turn.
Let me be clear: Special Olympics Ireland is not truly free.
Clubs often have annual membership fees. Athletes are expected to cover travel, food, gear, and accommodations for events and Games. Some clubs try to help with fundraising. Many don’t. And when they don’t? Athletes and families suffer in silence.
And if you think that was just one bad experience, think again.
From 2010 to 2013, I helped run National Collection Day at HQ. We had real community involvement. Buckets on streets. Visibility. Heart.
But in 2014, it was outsourced to a private company. Since then, the number of collection buckets has decreased, not increased. The energy? The transparency? Gone.
It’s all become more corporate, less human.
And I still support that same athlete to this day. Every Christmas, I send a care package to her home. A food parcel. Something small to remind her she’s not forgotten.
Meanwhile, I live alone.
No support network.
My friend was my anchor—and when the system failed her, it pulled me under too.
These days, I sleep during the day and stay awake at night. I only leave the house to do my shopping. That’s what’s left when silence replaces support.
People say “just move on” or “don’t be bitter.” But they weren’t there.
They didn’t see someone go into debt for a place they were told would be safe.
They didn’t hear the silence that followed.
They didn’t see the heartbreak. Or the loneliness that came after.
This post isn’t about revenge.
It’s about truth.
It’s about holding people accountable—even the ones who hide behind awards, TV smiles, and empty slogans.
We can’t stay quiet anymore.
Not when lives are still being shaped by what was done.
Not when people are still hurting in the shadows.
So if you're reading this:
Share it.
Talk about it.
Ask the hard questions.
Because we deserve better.
And silence is no longer an option.