Running has never been my strong suit. I enjoyed it during my soccer days when the focus was on the game rather than the act of running itself. But when it’s just me and the pavement, I’d rather belt out show tunes than pick up the pace. My college roommate used to encourage me, “Just to the mailbox, Mia. You can do it!” But I often suggested a pit stop for ice cream instead.
So, it was a surprise one sunny afternoon when I announced to my husband, “I’ll be right back, I need to go outside.” I slipped on some sneakers and stepped out, feeling an impulsive need to escape the adult responsibilities at home. I started walking down the street, arms outstretched like a clumsy Edward Scissorhands. But soon, my thoughts took over, and I found myself running—without a care in the world.
Later, I realized I had covered over two miles, including a hill. I tried to replicate that effort a few days later, but instead ended up walking back home, singing “Climb Every Mountain” at the top of my lungs.
When I returned home, I faced what I had been subconsciously avoiding—the walker. The bright red device I had purchased to help my daughter learn to walk. She had been diagnosed with cri-du-chat syndrome, a rare condition affecting 1 in 50,000 births. The uncertainty of whether she would ever walk or talk loomed large over us.
Initially, I was optimistic about the walker; it seemed like a tool that could help my daughter prove the doctors wrong. Her knee-height orthotics were allowing her to pull up, but maintaining her weight was a struggle. The walker was supposed to be the answer, yet every time she saw it, she cried. I felt torn between pushing her to use it and cherishing our joyful kitchen dance parties. My husband had a natural way of engaging with her, while I found myself consumed with rearranging her therapy schedule.
As I watched other neighborhood kids run and play, I measured our kitchen to see if it could accommodate a wheelchair. The thought of this milestone was overwhelming. Our dedicated therapists tried various techniques to help her, questioning whether her hypotonia affected her ability to walk or if her tears stemmed from frustration or fatigue.
One challenging afternoon, our family trainer visited with her dog, Benny. Recognizing my daughter’s fascination with him, they decided to use Benny as motivation. The moment she reached out to pet him, Jordan began to move.
Her first supported steps felt monumental, reminiscent of a cherished film moment that brings tears to my eyes. I’ll never forget the day my little girl, who wasn’t expected to walk, took those incredible steps.
A few weeks later, I found myself in a reflective mood. “I’ll be right back, I need to go outside,” I told my husband again. As I walked down the sidewalk, pride swelled within me. Jordan had defied expectations and crossed off a significant milestone. Inspired, I quickened my pace. If my daughter could learn to walk, surely I could make it to the mailbox.
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In summary, witnessing my daughter’s progress toward walking was not just a personal milestone; it was a journey filled with emotional highs and lows. It reminded me that with determination and the right support, we can overcome the odds—whether it’s learning to walk or tackling everyday challenges.
Keyphrase: daughter learning to walk
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