Educating with Grace: Why I’m Choosing Curiosity Over Outrage When People Stare at My Special Needs Daughter

Trying not to be a “Karen” about my special needs daughter when people stare or ask honest questions is… a journey. And not the kind of journey you post aesthetic Instagram updates about.

Because let’s be real: it’s complicated. I get it. When people stare, when they cock their heads or whisper behind hands, when they ask questions that come out clumsy—I feel it all. The heat. The urge to clap back. The quiet rage that bubbles under the surface. But I also feel something else: a deep, gut-level need to change what happens next.

So I breathe. And I try to remember: I’m not here to cancel people.

My Daughter Isn’t a Teaching Tool—But She Is a Reason to Open Up

Let me introduce you to my why: my daughter Bean. She’s six. She has Pitt Hopkins Syndrome. She’s nonverbal, joyful, wild, and full of surprises. She also flaps her hands, has frequent stimming, and sometimes shrieks with glee at totally random moments.

She is the most radiant person I’ve ever met. And yes—she turns heads. Sometimes because she’s adorable, and sometimes because people don’t know what to make of her.

I used to react with defensiveness. I’d tense up every time someone lingered too long with a look I didn’t like. I’d feel this overwhelming need to shield her from the world. But what I’ve learned is this: shielding her isn’t always protecting her. Sometimes, shielding her means hiding what makes her so amazing.

So now, when people ask, “Why doesn’t she talk?” or “Is she okay?” I take a beat. And then I answer. Kindly. Honestly. Because how else are people supposed to understand and accept?

Choosing Communication Over Ego

It’s easy to be mad. I mean, scroll social media and you’ll see it—video after video of moms snapping back at strangers who stared too long or asked “inappropriate” questions. And trust me, I get it. There are days when I want to scream too.

But here’s the thing: not everyone is trying to be rude.

Sometimes people are just curious. Sometimes they’ve never met a child like mine. Sometimes they’re trying to figure out what they’re seeing in real time—and yeah, sometimes that looks weird. Many times, I actually find others are drawn to her, and her parents, because they have a nephew, cousin, friend’s child, great aunt with a disability as well, and they – like all of us – connect through shared experiences. Yes, it can come out clumsy because there can be cultural or even language differences in how disability is spoken about and what words are used.  But the interaction can strive for similarity and common ground instead of building a barrier and wall around my child.

So what if, instead of meeting that curiosity with shame, I met it with kindness? What if I chose interaction and engagement over ego?

That doesn’t mean letting people walk all over you. Boundaries matter. But so does tone. And so does intent.

Showing People That Are Different Isn’t Scary

There’s a weird expectation in the special needs world that we all respond the same way to public reactions. But we don’t. Some parents prefer privacy. Some want full-on advocacy mode. Me? I’m somewhere in the middle with the intention for love and acceptance. On and FOR both sides.

I want people to know about Pitt Hopkins Syndrome. I want them to understand why my daughter flaps her hands or uses an AAC device or melts down when a light is too bright. I want people to know that kids like her are not broken—they’re just different. And loveable. SO loveable.

And different isn’t scary. It’s beautiful. It’s interesting. It’s worth exploring.

So yes, I talk. I explain. I sometimes over-share. I use those moments as a chance to plant a seed. Will it bloom into awareness or allyship? Who knows. But I’m not wasting the moment.

When Curiosity Becomes Cruelty, I Pivot

Let’s be clear: there’s a difference between someone being curious and someone being a jerk.

You know the difference.

• The person who asks, “Is she okay?” because they’re worried vs. the one who says, “What’s wrong with her?”
• The child who stares with wide eyes vs. the adult who rolls theirs
• The cashier who quietly asks what Pitt Hopkins is vs. the parent who pulls their kid away like my daughter is contagious

When curiosity crosses the line into cruelty, I don’t engage. I walk away. I shield. I protect. Not because Bean can’t handle it, but because I don’t owe anyone an explanation when their intent is laced with ignorance or mockery.

But most of the time? People just need a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Modeling Grace for My Daughter (and the World)

I’m not just educating strangers. I’m educating my daughter, too.

Even though she’s nonverbal, she understands energy. She watches how I react. She feels my tension. And I don’t want her to grow up thinking the world is full of enemies.

I want her to see that we can face the world with softness. That we can meet ignorance with strength. That we can teach—not to get applause, but because change starts in moments, not movements.

If I want the world to be kinder to her, I have to help the world understand her.

Why the “Karen” Fear Is Real—But Needs Reframing

I know a lot of moms who stay silent because they don’t want to be “that mom.” The one who corrects people. The one who speaks up. The one who “makes it a thing.”

But there’s a difference between advocating and attacking. Between educating and shaming.

Being assertive doesn’t make you a Karen. It makes you a mother. A protector. A voice.

The key is in how we do it. If we lead with connection instead of correction, we shift the energy. We make people feel safe asking better questions next time.

Final Thoughts: Normalize Curiosity, Humanize Disability

If I had a dollar for every time someone stared at my daughter, I’d have enough for a lifetime supply of compression vests and gluten-free snacks. But every stare, every awkward moment, every “Is she okay?” is an opportunity.

An opportunity to:

• Normalize curiosity
• Humanize disability
• Share what makes our kids incredible
• Help someone grow their awareness

And isn’t that the goal? Not just to protect our children—but to pave a better world for them?

So the next time someone stares, I’ll take a breath. I’ll check my gut. And if I can, I’ll educate with grace.

Because I want the world to know how wonderful these little humans are.

And that starts with me.