Wil’s 20th Buddy Walk
Editor’s note: From March 2020 to November 2021, we ran a weekly series called “Stories of Wil” documenting the author, Christie Taylor’s, experiences raising her son Wil. Taylor’s desire, in sharing these stories, was to promote an awareness, understanding, and appreciation of the amazing capabilities of individuals with Down syndrome. You can read all of these articles by typing “Stories of Wil” into the search bar at the top of this page or clicking here.
Photo: Wil enjoying the music and festivities at a Buddy Walk past. Photo courtesy of Christie Taylor.
by Christie Taylor
You may have read prior articles I used to write for the Manchester Mirror about my son, Wil, who has Down syndrome. He started Early On services in Manchester and continued through Manchester Community Schools until he graduated from Manchester High School. He was supported so very well by both his peers and the greater Manchester community. He is now in his second year at the Chelsea Young Adult program, thriving in this setting.
By the time you read this, Wil will have attended his 20th Buddy Walk! The Buddy Walk is an annual event that serves as the largest fundraiser for our Down Syndrome Support Team (DSST). Held every year on the last Sunday of September at Buhr Park in Ann Arbor, the festivities—including a silent auction, raffle, and live music—kick off at 1:30pm, followed by the 1-mile walk at 3pm
Wil has made lifelong friendships through this group. We joined DSST when Wil was just over a month old, and he has grown up alongside his friends with Down syndrome, who now enjoy teen and young adult events together.
To this day, many of our Manchester friends attend the Buddy Walk and have been at Wil’s side for these 20 years! Families such as the Harveys, Herrons, Stommens, Helquists, Bobos, Rileys, Gregorys, and so many more have been regular supporters and walkers through the years. We always call the Buddy Walk day a happy day.
And it’s really not just about the day. It’s about the growth and friendships that have been formed through this bond of an extra chromosome. I have found that sometimes life needs to feel hard—like it’s not going the way you planned—so that people can come out to support you, to show you that you are not alone. Those bonds run deep.
Looking back across these two decades, my mind naturally drifts all the way back to the night we first discovered the Down Syndrome Support Team. Here’s a piece I wrote not long after that very first meeting:
I remember walking down the hallway of a church years ago where a parent support meeting was being held. My husband, Matt, held the baby carrier, swaying slightly with the gait of his walk. It was somewhat dim in the hallway, Matt’s and my footfalls echoing off the walls.
It was evening, and the congregation had long returned home from the morning’s service. Though this was the first time we had set foot inside this church, I imagined the vibration of the organ’s music under my feet, the choir in white robes—a bright satin sash of solid color draped diagonally across their chests. White candles being lit, the rise of the preacher behind the pulpit, singing along heartily with his choir—his flock forgiving his tone deafness for his heart for his Lord.
The sound of voices ahead broke the reverie of the imaginary church service in my mind. The mind is a master of distraction, and for that brief moment of choir-filled distraction, I was thankful. My mind had been a swirl of unanswered questions since our son was born just over a month ago. I felt I was living in some kind of surreal dream. Thoughts swirling like Picasso clouds above my head. A cloud is a cloud, and yet, different.
Matt and I followed the sound of voices and found ourselves in a very typical church classroom. Spacious, rectangular, utilitarian. An oblong table had been constructed with two or three long tables pushed next to each other on each side of the room, with one long table connecting the ends of both sides. The tables were lined with chairs, but no one was sitting. Women stood around the outskirts of the table, along with a few men (whom I was relieved to see for Matt). They were clustered in small groups of four or five, but they didn’t stay put. They would mingle and move around from group to group. There was a sense of ease about them—they all knew one another.
To the far right of the room was an open area. About ten children ran around laughing and playing. Tears started streaming down my face. I couldn’t even place emotions to what I was feeling; it was all jumbled up inside of me. If I had to scoop it all up in my arms and label it, I’d call it “overwhelm.” I was overwhelmed.
There were a few adults in this area too, chatting with one another, playing with the kids, or redirecting a child from taking off toward a door. It all seemed so normal, but it wasn’t.
“Hi, have we met before?” A woman was standing in front of me.
“Oh! Um, I’m sorry, I just…um, we are the Taylors. I’m Christie. This is my husband, Matt, and um, this is our little guy, Wil. He’s just over a month old now. We have twin girls too. They are home with my mother-in-law right now.”
“Very nice to meet you, I’m so glad you came,” she said, placing her arm on my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to some parents.” When things don’t feel normal inside, the simplest normal responses are breathed in deep like the fresh air they are.
I don’t remember all of the people Matt and I met, but we met almost everyone in that room. The common theme, over and over, was: “Yes, this is a challenging journey, but a very joyful and gratifying one. Though you may not see it now, you will. I promise, I promise.”
I didn’t see as far into the journey as they did, but their promises were my beacon. Though I didn’t grasp the full meaning of their statements, I could now see beyond the blurry, surreal clouds I was living in, heavy with question marks.
Soon, the meeting began and we all sat down in the chairs lining the oblong table. The majority of the meeting was about learning styles for our kids. Before Wil had even reached two months old, I discovered that day that our kids with Down syndrome are mainly visual learners, and that math tended to be the most challenging subject. I don’t remember many other details about the sit-down portion of that meeting.
However, I did take home one key element: questions are good, but you can also get too far ahead of yourself. I wanted to know everything right then. I wanted those funky, surreal clouds to disappear and the answers to make themselves known. And they would, in time. In time I would learn about Wil’s math skills. In time I would learn about Wil’s visual learning.
But right then, I realized that what I most needed was having my feelings validated. For someone to say, “You know what? I was there too.” For someone to say, “Yes, you have a beautiful baby, but it’s also okay to feel sad, to feel scared, to feel like you don’t know what is happening.” For someone to say, “We have tried to decipher the same Picasso clouds, too, and we have walked through them. We promise, and promise again, the sun is shining on the other side. It may be a Picasso sun, and you will appreciate this type of sun more for having known the Picasso clouds.”
Time is hugely discomforting as you wait for answers. And that is exactly why time is also a healer. Some things must happen with time. With experience. With day-to-day learning. Living in the unknown is an unsettling place to be. I thought knowing the answers would heal my pain, but it was the time with my son, and the experiences with my son, that opened my eyes to the beauty of our new landscape.
On the last Sunday of September each year, I walk into a big park. Some years there is sunshine. Some years there are clouds. And some years there is rain. But every year, you will find multiple volunteers assembling long rows of tables lined with chairs. A big truck will pull up and unpack banners, balloons, t-shirts, and food trays. Another big truck will arrive with a stage and band equipment. Once the stage, instruments, and speakers are set up, the music begins to play. There are many spare instruments laid out for anyone who would like to play with the band. It doesn’t take long before a huge group of kids and adults—with and without Down syndrome—are dancing and playing with the band.
There are multiple families and friends clustered around the stage. They mingle and move around and talk with one another. There is a sense of ease about them—even if they don’t know one another, they all have a common bond that brings them together.
This is a surreal dream. One that I now can’t imagine not living in. Those funky Picasso clouds and sun I once wondered at are our normal. The promises I held so tightly to those years ago did come true. Time, experience, and support truly are healers. If I had to scoop it all up in my arms and label it today, I’d still call it “overwhelm.” An overwhelm of joy, gratitude, fortitude, and community.
Here’s to 20 years of walking, to the community that walks beside us, and to Wil—happy 20th Buddy Walk! If you missed us this year, we hope to see you on the trail with us next September—it’s a happy day you won’t want to miss.
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