Last year I took my daughter to see the live action Snow White after it had been in theaters for a while, hoping the smaller crowd would make it easier. I checked the seat map ahead of time, and no one had bought tickets yet, perfect! By the time we arrived, a few others were there, but it was still quiet enough to feel manageable. I came prepared with all our essentials: her blanket, lovey, water bottle, and of course theater popcorn.
For the first half hour, things went better than I expected. She was singing along, clapping, laughing! But then she was ready. Ready to move, to stim, to have the freedom her body was asking for. She tried to run out at first, but instead settled near the bottom of the theater, happily stimming where she wasn’t blocking anyone’s view. I left our things at our seats and sat nearby, just grateful she was still there.
Then an employee walked by and angrily whispered for her to sit down.
I felt that instant wave of embarrassment creep in but then I realized something important: he didn’t know.
He didn’t know she has special needs.
He didn’t know what a huge accomplishment it was that she had already stayed this long.
He didn’t know this was my first solo movie attempt with her after multiple failed tries.
He saw a child standing in a theater. I saw my daughter doing her best.
She sat down for a while, but eventually she needed to get back up and stim again, and this time, I let her. Fully. Without shame. And we made it until the last five minutes!
When we left, I felt both deflated and proud. Deflated because those moments of judgment can feel so heavy. Proud because we did it! We stayed longer than we ever had before. We stretched her comfort zone. We created progress!!
It may not have looked like success to anyone else, but for us, it absolutely was.
Sometimes progress doesn’t look like sitting still through the whole movie. Sometimes it looks like small victories, extra minutes, and learning to celebrate what others may never notice. And for us, that’s enough.