the Special Olympics Ireland the real story
Special Olympics Ireland holds its National Collection Day once a year—a cheerful public event with volunteers in brightly coloured bibs, shaking buckets outside shops and supermarkets. Passersby drop coins in with a smile, reassured that they’ve “done their part.”
But behind that single day of visibility lies a hidden truth: our athletes are paying out nearly every month. Monthly fees, travel expenses, kit contributions—and then there's the yearly membership fee of around €100, just to walk through the club’s doors.
For someone like Josephine, that wasn’t just a number. That was dinners skipped, snacks rationed, coins counted.
I still remember the day she quietly told me, “I didn’t eat yesterday so I could pay Friday’s training fee.” She said it like it was nothing—like it was normal. And for her, by then, it was.
She never complained. Not to the coaches, not to her teammates, and certainly not to the club officials. The pride she felt about being part of the club was stronger than the hunger in her stomach. But I saw it. I saw what it cost her—not just in euros, but in dignity. In choices no one should have to make just to belong somewhere.
And it wasn’t just the athletes. Volunteers too—many of whom gave up evenings and weekends—were often expected to cover their own travel, training, and meals, sometimes even buying uniforms out of pocket. The message was unspoken but clear: if you wanted to be part of the Special Olympics family, you paid your way in.
After major events like the World Games or the All-Ireland Games, things got even harder. Budgets would tighten, fees would quietly go up, and promises of future support would fade into silence. The photos would be posted online. The medals counted. But back home, athletes and volunteers were left rationing meals, scraping by just to stay involved in the thing that once gave them purpose.