When the Silence Speaks Louder Than the Cheers

For years, I stood quietly beside a friend and athlete—someone I encouraged to join her local Special Olympics club. After two years of gentle encouragement, she finally took that step in 2008. What followed changed both our lives, and not always in the ways we expected.

In 2010, she was preparing to attend the Special Olympics Ireland Games in Limerick. But just weeks before the event, we were told by the club that unless she paid her outstanding membership fees, she wouldn’t be allowed to compete. The message was clear: pay or stay home.

That ultimatum led to a devastating decision—she took out a personal loan to cover the costs. The loan came with a horrifying 170% interest rate. Weekly repayments of €45 were coming straight out of her disability welfare payment. It didn’t take long before she couldn’t keep up. By October 2010, I stepped in and cleared the debt myself. The amount? Nearly €500. That meant the original loan was likely close to €1,000. All this for just four days at the Games.

The emotional toll it took on her—and on me—never fully went away.

A Quiet Lifeline

After the Games, our bond deepened. I would regularly bring groceries from Dublin to her home in Wicklow. On weekends, she would visit my place. We’d have full meals—lunch and dinner—and spend the time unwinding, watching TV. If there wasn’t a Special Olympics event happening, we just enjoyed the peace.

And I didn’t just support from a distance. I went to her events. I’m a photographer by passion, and since 2008 I’ve captured thousands of her moments. Her home holds seven full photo albums of memories I’ve documented—all at no cost to her.

Even when the club asked to use some of my photos, I gave them freely. No invoice. No watermark. Just love and pride.

When Visibility Was Controlled, Not Celebrated

Yet, the club rarely shared these moments publicly. Unlike most groups, they didn’t use Facebook. Instead, they opted for a private platform on ning.com. Updates were sparse. Photos were minimal. Access was limited. There was no effort to highlight the athletes in a way that truly celebrated their achievements.

Worse still, a number of athletes—including Team Ireland representatives at two World Games and a European Games—eventually left the club due to bullying.

This isn’t just a personal reflection—it’s a pattern. A culture that drove out talent, courage, and joy.

A Life Shrinking in Silence

Since those years, everything has changed. I now live alone, with zero support network. That athlete—my friend—was my lifeline after my mum passed away. She brought meaning, connection, and warmth. But now, I only leave the house to buy groceries. Most of my time is spent in silence—sitting, sleeping through the day, and staying awake at night.

Every Christmas, I still send her a care package. A food parcel. A quiet reminder that I haven’t forgotten. That someone still cares.

The Cost of Silence

I supported the National Collection Day at Special Olympics HQ until 2013. In 2014, it was outsourced to a private company. Since then, the number of volunteers and collection buckets has declined. Public visibility and community connection have suffered.

And yet, we’re told it’s free to join. That athletes don’t pay. But here’s the truth: many do pay. They pay in more ways than one.

They pay in fees. In travel costs. In emotional debt. In silence.

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We need to talk about this.

Not just because of what happened in 2010 or 2011—but because it’s still happening in different ways.

We owe it to every athlete and every silent supporter to do better. To see them. To hear them. And to act.

Because inclusion isn’t real if it’s conditional.

And kindness means nothing if it’s only part-time.