Beyond the Secret Doors at Special Olympics Ireland
There’s a public face to every organization — the one full of smiles, medals, and televised hugs. Special Olympics Ireland had that face mastered. Athletes beamed with pride. Coaches clapped. Politicians shook hands. But behind the podiums and confetti, beyond the warm press releases and choreographed PR moments, there was a door. A real one in some offices, symbolic in others — marked “Staff Only” or “Authorised Personnel.” Behind those doors, another world quietly ticked on.
It started with whispers — not from enemies, but from within. Volunteers who had given a decade of weekends. Parents who asked one too many questions. Athletes who aged out and began to see patterns they hadn’t noticed before.
Behind those doors, the mission wasn’t always about inclusion. Sometimes, it was about optics. There were spreadsheets showing who got selected for games based on quota, not merit. Athletes trained hard, some never missing a single session for years — only to be passed over because a more “media-friendly” face fit better into the fundraising brochure. One coach joked, bitterly, “It’s like Eurovision — all about the story, not the skill.”
Expenses piled up, too. Athletes had to fundraise hundreds — sometimes thousands — just to compete. Some skipped meals. Others stayed quiet, afraid to complain, knowing their place on the team could disappear like fog. Behind the doors, decisions were made about who would go and who would stay. But the reasoning was never shared. “Too complicated,” they’d say. “Internal criteria.”
Volunteers? They came and went. Those who asked why fees kept rising, or why the same inner circle made all the calls, found their hours quietly cut. One woman, who had mentored athletes for 12 years, was told her services were no longer needed after she questioned the use of funds. “A restructuring,” they said.
And then there was Josephine — small, quiet, consistent. She trained hard, rarely spoke up. But she had a friend on the outside who noticed when things changed. Around 2016, her visits stopped. The club said it was her choice. But in letters, she hinted at pressure — at being told it wasn’t “a good idea” to spend time with people who “weren’t part of the club family.” That word — family — began to feel more like a collar than comfort.
One athlete, who had once stood on the world stage with the Irish flag draped over her shoulders, said later: “I thought I belonged. But once the lights went out, I was just another name on the list.” Her hips gave out from years of hard training. The health service gave her a pamphlet. The club gave her silence.
The medals shone bright, yes. But behind the secret doors, where loyalty was demanded but never returned, the real stories sat in inboxes never answered, in applications rejected without reason, in friendships quietly dissolved under the weight of control.
Because behind the secret doors of Special Olympics Ireland, the rules were simple: shine on stage, stay quiet off it — and never, ever ask why.