The Cosmic Secret
In less than a month I’m “sending” my last daughter off to kindergarten. Because I only have two children and because there’ll be no sending this year, it feels a little anticlimactic. But six years ago, I couldn’t envision this month arriving. It felt impossibly far away with too many months and weeks and days between Kiran’s birth and Kiran boarding the bus (or opening her Chromebook as it shall be) for kindergarten.
Like all births, Kiran’s was magical. But it was also complicated with a variety of emotions. My husband, Kris, had terminal cancer. Shortly after her birth Kiran was diagnosed with Down syndrome. And Kris died 2 weeks later.
Recently as Kiran was writing her name while playing school with her big sister, I remembered a time when I questioned whether or not she’d ever be able to say her own name. I remember thinking, “Maybe I should change her name to something easier to pronounce, more common.” In my mind I recalled too many “maybe she’ll nevers.” Some will stand for eternity. Just as I have my own “I’ll nevers.” And some she’s already accomplished. How could I have predicted Kiran’s potential at 6 months or 4 years? How could I know her potential now?
More importantly as Kiran grows older and I dive deeper into this life of parenting a little one with a disability, I wonder if I’ve been using the wrong tools for measurement my whole life. Maybe I’ve been overly committed to valuing intelligence, strength, speed and earning potential when there are likely more human ways to see and assess children. Possibly I’ve been committed to cultural norms and values that need reevaluating for the benefit of Kiran but also for the benefit of all of us.
As I write this I’m reminded of a powerful essay by Amy Julia Becker, Missing Out on Beautiful. In the essay, Becker writes about her seven year-old daughter with Down syndrome. She explains how the world can’t quite seem to see Penny and their family clearly. Because Penny has Down syndrome not everyone can fully understand the “infinite and immeasurable value of Penny’s life." They seem to miss out on seeing all of her, the diagnosis obscuring their vision.
Initially, I too couldn’t see all of Kiran. Most days I assume I still can’t quite grasp the entirety of my daughter with a cognitive disability. However, I’m forever grateful for what I’ve learned and unlearned while raising Kiran. I’m grateful to see the world from a new perspective. I’m grateful for noticing how well Kiran forgives, prioritizes others, connects with complete strangers and gives love (full, unconditional, sing it from the rooftop love) when my older daughter and I might hesitate.
Amy Julia calls this the cosmic secret that our daughters have let us in on. With Kiran I now see the beauty in others more easily, allowing me greater connection to my own humanity.
As Kiran sets off (or simply logs in) to kindergarten in September, she’ll be joined by thousands of other little ones taking a step away from the unconditional love of home and into the bigger world of school. My hope for my daughter and for her peers is that the rest of us can learn to see each of them fully, acknowledge their potential and most importantly appreciate their beauty.
Katie Kishore is the founder of Kindness Cafe + Play, a mission-driven coffee shop that employs adults with cognitive disabilities. Kindness is open for curbside takeout at the Brooks Family YMCA. To learn more or to place an order, check out the website or follow Kindness Cville on social media.
Amy Julia Becker’s essay, Missing Out on Beautiful is powerful, touching and beautifully written. It’ll take you about 2 minutes and 37 seconds and is worth your time. If you’re like Katie, you’ll read it more than once.