When People Stare at Your Child with a Disability: A Mother’s Perspective

When I first got my daughter’s diagnosis, I wasn’t thinking about how the world would see her.

I was only trying to process my own reaction—my own emotions. There wasn’t space to think about what I would need to prepare for.

The first time I took Paige out with her ventilator, the cashier looked at us with open curiosity. Thankfully, she asked, “What is that?” and I was able to explain that it was a ventilator. A lot of people don’t realize that children can be on ventilators at home.

Later, when Paige came off the ventilator, it was the sound of her trach that drew attention. People would look around, trying to find the person who needed to blow their nose. Sometimes when she coughed, people would jump—it startled them. I found myself wanting to apologize for the noise my daughter made just to breathe.

Then we got her medical stroller.

Apparently, that looked different too.

I would take her into a store and people would look once, then look again. Like they were searching for the reason. Trying to identify what made her different.

For a long time, I assumed that was what people noticed first—the equipment.

The ventilator.

The trach.

The stroller.

And then, for the first time the other day, none of that was visible.

You couldn’t hear her breathing. You couldn’t see her trach, her G-tube, or her stroller.

And still, people stared.

I know it’s not intentional. Most people don’t mean to look longer than a few seconds. But I also know they notice something is different, and for one reason or another, they don’t ask.

What has been harder for me to process is this:

Paige now looks different just by being herself.

The way she moves isn’t like other children. The way her legs curve instead of staying straight. The way her head droops when she’s tired. The way she can’t point or clap, or make the small intentional movements that come so naturally to most children.

People notice.

And as a mom, you go from living in your own little world—where Paige is just Paige—to stepping into a world where she is seen as different.

I’ve seen the phrase lately that the world isn’t built for disability. And that’s true. It takes extra time, effort, and energy to help my girl thrive.

Yet that extra effort has created something deeper.

A sacrificial kind of love.

The kind that teaches you what truly matters and what doesn’t.

The kind that reminds you that what strangers think of your child carries far less weight than you once imagined.

Because no one can understand the depth of my daughter from a passing glance.

No one can see her determination, her sense of humor, her preferences, her stubbornness, her joy, or the countless ways she communicates without words.

And I get the privilege—the honor—of seeing that depth every single day.

So if you ever catch yourself looking a little longer at one child than another, pause for a moment.

And if you have the opportunity, say hello.

Look beyond the equipment. Look beyond the disability. Look beyond the first impression.

You might just catch a glimpse of the person underneath.

And it might change you.