Today I took my child to the splash pad. I didn’t check the weather, but we managed to get in about 30 minutes of play before the skies opened up. It was enough time for fun… and for a quiet reminder of why I fight so hard for inclusion.
My child is young—5 years old. Full of joy, energy, and love. Neurodivergent. She was excited to see other kids already playing when we arrived. Naturally, she wanted to join them.
But I overheard one of the older girls say, “No, she can play by herself. Let’s go.”
It stung. Deeply. But I didn’t react. I simply encouraged my child to play, to be herself, while I kept watch from under the pavilion.
Soon after, a younger girl came along—nervous, hesitant about the water. My child approached her, gently encouraged her, showed her that it was safe. She helped this little girl feel brave enough to play.
That’s who my child is. Inclusive. Kind. Brave in ways many adults aren’t.
But then, two more girls entered the picture—older, louder. My child thought they were playing a game of chase and followed them. I watched closely. The girls put their hands out toward her in a “stop” motion. They weren’t playing. They were excluding her.
My child paused. Looked at me. I smiled, encouraging her from a distance.
She tried again. And again.
Eventually, the girls walked off to the nearby playground, whispering. My child followed. One of them walked up, hand outstretched, and told her she couldn’t play there.
That’s when I stood up and said—clearly, and loudly enough for every adult to hear—
“You can play wherever you want.”
Suddenly, the laughter and conversation under the pavilion stopped. Everyone looked at me. I didn’t care. Because that playground doesn’t belong to anyone. And no child should ever feel like they don’t.
But what struck me most wasn’t the behavior of the children—it was the silence of the adults. Not one parent intervened. Not one noticed. Or worse—they noticed and said nothing.
I’ve lived through this kind of rejection before. And I will not stand by and let my child grow up believing she’s less than, unworthy, or unwelcome.
This is the world we live in.
It can be beautiful, yes. But it can also be cruel to kids who are different—kids who see the world through a different lens, who speak or move or think in ways others don’t understand.
As parents, we can’t always shield them from that cruelty. But we can teach them how to stand in it.
And we can teach other parents to do better.
So here’s my message to you:
- Pay attention to your kids. Not just if they’re safe—but how they treat others.
- Teach them empathy. Teach them that kindness isn’t optional.
- Normalize inclusion. Different doesn’t mean dangerous. It doesn’t mean weird. It doesn’t mean less.
- Be the adult who notices. And be the one who speaks up when another child is being mistreated.
Our kids are watching us. They learn more from what we do than what we say.
Today I watched my child try again and again to be included. I watched her stay kind. Stay open. Stay resilient. And I knew: I’m raising someone strong. Someone good.
And I will always speak up for her—until she learns to speak up for herself.
