For the past several years, I have coached youth recreational cheerleading. What started as a way to ensure my child with epilepsy (and cerebral palsy) could participate has morphed into my renewed love for cheerleading and sharing it with my daughter, who I feared would never be able to dance or cheer.
Cheerleading is hard for Reagan due to her limited mobility, slow processing speed, and awareness of her abilities compared to her peers. Yet, she loves it. Coaching is hard. Coaching your child is hard. Coaching your child with disabilities among neurotypical peers is hard. Coaching fifth and sixth-grade girls as they all try to navigate life is hard.Yet, I love it.
We rarely get a front-row seat to how our kids interact with their peers during school or at practices. I have that seat as a coach and a Mom, and I will tell you it’s a fine line. You can’t favor your own kid, and you can’t favor your kid’s best friend on the squad, and for that, I unintentionally excluded my kid (and her friend(s)).
I have watched her struggle socially, emotionally, and physically. I’ve watched her sit on the outskirts, never fully being included. I’ve watched her try to make conversations only to be met with silence. I have witnessed her frustration and self-doubt turn into shutting down. I have listened to her say things like “What if I disappoint them?”, “I’m not as good as XYZ,” “This is too fast for me; I should just cheer them on.”
I have watched and listened but never spoke up for her because of that thin line between coach and Mom. In a sense, I was sidelining my own kid, my own kid who already struggles, my kid who deserves the same opportunities as her peers. I was actively contributing to the problem by not saying anything, putting her in the back, and not making parts of the routine more accessible.
My heart breaks for her while running through a laundry list of questions that echo her pain. Should I pull her? Is this fair to Reagan? Is this fair to the other girls? What if we lose? Will they blame her? What if I pull her, and we do win? Will the girls still view her as a part of the squad even though she didn’t compete? Should I, the parent of a neurodiverse, medically complex kid, be coaching neurotypical kids?
You become hyper-sensitive and innately aware of everything when your child is viewed as “different.” I have watched the divide grow greater over the years. She sits between neurotypical and neurodiverse, desperately wanting to fit in with her peers. You learn there is no place for your kid who sits in that place, as hard as you try to make a place for her. You learn the difference between sympathy and empathy. You learn the price of winning often comes with the cost of exclusion.
This coming Saturday, we will compete; I do not know if we will walk away with a trophy or advance to regionals. What I do know is that sometimes winning comes in the form of a lesson you need to learn all along.
Rea of Hope 
I hear you, Erin. It’s exhausting straddling the line between mom and coach/leader. E is on the spectrum and serving as our Girl Scout troop leader has always been a challenge in terms of accommodating her needs, knowing when to step back, when to push, etc. Tough enough as a parent but then surround them with maybe 20 other kids, some of whom may be neurodiverse themselves, that you are responsible for at the same time. There have been numerous times where E has had a meltdown in the troop setting and I am trying to keep the train rolling. When I get home I feel as if I’ve been hit by the train literally. But we keep showing up for them, that’s what we do. ❤️
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