Shadows Behind the Medals
Chapter 1: The Torch and the Silence
I remember the first time I saw Josephine in her Special Olympics uniform. There was pride in her posture, a quiet confidence in her smile. It was 2008, and she had finally joined the club after years of hesitation. She looked like she belonged—on the outside, at least.
What no one saw, not even the coaches beaming at her from the sidelines, was the journey that led her there. The late nights spent crying in silence. The days she skipped meals to afford transport. The way she clung to the promise that this club would be her fresh start. What I saw that day wasn’t just a uniform. It was armor.
The story of Special Olympics is often told in slogans—unity, courage, celebration. But there’s another side that rarely makes the pamphlets. It lives in the quiet corners of gym halls, behind the scenes of world games, in whispered conversations and unanswered letters. It’s the side I came to know over the course of a decade, as a friend, a witness, and eventually, a critic.
This is not a book about medals. It’s about what happens in the shadows behind
She joined on a Tuesday.
That morning, we packed her bag together. A change of clothes, a half-eaten cereal bar, and a borrowed bus fare tucked into her coat sleeve. She had been nervous for weeks, wavering between excitement and dread. I told her she didn’t have to prove anything, but deep down we both knew this day had been coming for years. Josephine needed something — a routine, a community, a distraction from everything we’d lived through since the fire in Bray.
Back then, it was William’s house that burned, but it changed all three of our lives. His father died in that fire. William lost his home. Josephine lost sleep and structure, shuttling between my place and his in a strange triangle of survival. And me? I became the anchor, the quiet one with the kettle always boiling and the lights left on.
By the time 2008 rolled around, William had long since drifted from our lives. The keys to his new home came with a goodbye none of us ever said out loud. But Josephine stayed. And now she was stepping into a new world — the world of Special Olympics Ireland. We both hoped it would give her purpose. Maybe even joy.
What we didn’t know then was that she wasn’t joining a club. She was entering a system — one with rules, expectations, and a grip that would only tighten with time. What began with tracksuits and hugs would, in the years to come, become something else entirely.
I remember that first day as clearly as I remember the fire. It marked a beginning. It also marked the start of the silence between us.
The sports hall smelled like old sweat and polished floors. Josephine stood at the edge of the basketball court, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes darting from one corner to the other. The coaches were friendly — almost too friendly — with wide smiles and sing-song voices that felt more rehearsed than real.
“First time?” one of them asked me.
“No,” I said, even though it was hers. “But I’m just here to see her off.”
That was the beginning of the line they would draw. I was welcome… but only at the edge. I wasn’t her family, so my presence would slowly be deemed unnecessary. And yet, in every way that mattered — emotionally, practically, financially — I was her family. At least, I had been. Until the club took over.
Josephine was quiet during the drills. She followed directions, ran laps, and shot hoops, nodding when told to nod, smiling when smiled at. But her eyes kept flicking toward me on the sidelines. We both felt it: something performative, something watched. The club had a language of its own — praise that felt conditional, friendships built around attendance, and a sense that once you were in, you belonged more to the group than to yourself.
When the session ended, they handed her a list of “voluntary commitments”: fundraising events, uniform costs, optional weekend trips that didn’t feel optional at all. I caught the way she swallowed hard. Her disability allowance was barely enough to keep her fed, but she signed the paper anyway. She wanted to be part of something. She wanted to feel normal.
That night, over beans on toast, she folded the list neatly and tucked it behind the microwave. Out of sight. Out of reach. But I knew it was already shaping her days, and in time, it would start shaping our friendship too.
It started with a missed visit.
“Sorry, I can’t come Thursday,” she said, eyes on her trainers. “There’s a meeting. They said everyone has to be there.”
I didn’t argue. I knew how much it meant to her. But it wasn’t just Thursday. The following week it was Saturday. Then Tuesday. Soon, our quiet dinners and late-night chats were squeezed into fragments, borrowed time between club duties. She was always apologetic. Always tired.
One night, I offered to walk her to the bus stop after a long training session. She hesitated.
“They said it’s best if family members wait outside. Less distraction.”
Less distraction. As if I was noise. As if the years we’d spent supporting each other — through grief, through homelessness, through shared meals and birthdays and silence — could be replaced by a laminated badge and a clipboard.
Still, I respected her space. I didn’t want to be the reason she felt torn.
But slowly, I began to see how the club didn’t just fill her time. It redefined it. They praised obedience, not independence. Attendance, not balance. And as the events piled up — fun runs, flag days, training camps — the fees began to rise. Five euro here. Ten there. A weekend away suddenly costing more than her week’s grocery budget.
She never complained. Not once. But I saw the way she stopped buying coffee. The way she said “I already ate” when she clearly hadn’t. Pride kept her silent. The club kept her busy. And I kept watching the girl who once found refuge in my kitchen now bowing to something she didn’t fully understand.
It started with a missed visit.
“Sorry, I can’t come Thursday,” she said, eyes on her trainers. “There’s a meeting. They said everyone has to be there.”
I didn’t argue. I knew how much it meant to her. But it wasn’t just Thursday. The following week it was Saturday. Then Tuesday. Soon, our quiet dinners and late-night chats were squeezed into fragments, borrowed time between club duties. She was always apologetic. Always tired.
One night, I offered to walk her to the bus stop after a long training session. She hesitated.
“They said it’s best if family members wait outside. Less distraction.”
Less distraction. As if I was noise. As if the years we’d spent supporting each other — through grief, through homelessness, through shared meals and birthdays and silence — could be replaced by a laminated badge and a clipboard.
Still, I respected her space. I didn’t want to be the reason she felt torn.
But slowly, I began to see how the club didn’t just fill her time. It redefined it. They praised obedience, not independence. Attendance, not balance. And as the events piled up — fun runs, flag days, training camps — the fees began to rise. Five euro here. Ten there. A weekend away suddenly costing more than her week’s grocery budget.
She never complained. Not once. But I saw the way she stopped buying coffee. The way she said “I already ate” when she clearly hadn’t. Pride kept her silent. The club kept her busy. And I kept watching the girl who once found refuge in my kitchen now bowing to something she didn’t fully understand.
I started leaving the porch light on again.
It was a small thing — habit, really — from the old days when she’d come by after sessions, worn out but full of stories. Back when we’d talk until midnight about anything but the fire. The light was my way of saying you’re still welcome here. Even when her visits stopped. Even when weeks stretched into months.
She never said she was leaving me behind. But the absence grew louder. Not a fight. Not a betrayal. Just a slow, sanctioned drift — one meeting at a time. One skipped dinner at a time.
And when the club called her “family,” I bit my tongue. Because real family doesn’t charge you for belonging. Real family doesn’t take you away from the ones who stood beside you in the ashes.
That was the last winter she visited regularly. By spring, she was theirs.