A Quiet Fight, Still Burning (2025)
Chapter: A Quiet Fight, Still Burning (2025)
In December, I will turn 55.
There are mornings now when I wake with aches I never noticed before, and evenings when the quiet feels heavier than it used to. Time has moved on — the house fire in Bray feels like another lifetime, and so does the shared grief that once tied me, Josephine, and William together. The visits are long gone, the friendship with William a memory boxed away since 2006. Even Josephine, once so present in my daily rhythm, has become more distant — not by choice, but by the slow, suffocating pull of a system that promised inclusion but often demanded obedience.
The Special Olympics club gave Josephine belonging, yes, but also claimed a price: rising fees, endless commitments, and, over time, control. By 2016 or so, I noticed the shift. Her visits stopped. Conversations became brief. The club asked for more and more — not just of her time, but of her independence. Eventually, she was skipping meals to afford the fees. I sent care packages. At first, they were occasional. Now, they are a ritual — boxes packed with simple things: food, essentials, sometimes a note. A small rebellion wrapped in brown paper.
I ask myself sometimes if I’ll still be able to keep this going. Will I always be able to send these boxes? Will I still have the strength to fight for those who have no one left to fight for them?
But here’s what I’ve learned: the fight doesn’t end just because you age. It changes shape. It becomes quieter, perhaps, but no less fierce. There’s a wisdom in persistence, in loyalty that refuses to let go. Care packages may seem like small gestures, but they say what institutions often forget: I see you. I haven’t forgotten you. You still matter.
And so, at 55, I will continue. For Josephine. For anyone whose voice is drowned out by rules and systems. For those who need someone, anyone, to show up when no one else will.
This isn’t the end of the story. Just a softer chapter. The fight goes on.