Your Presence Is Enough

When I first began volunteering with Best Buddies several years ago in their adult program, I thought I was showing up to lend a hand—offering care, support, and friendship. What I couldn't foresee was the incredible gift this experience would give me: a lesson you can’t learn through reading, theory, or good intentions.

Being with these individuals helps you discover the beauty of simply being present and sharing moments together.

Many of the adults in the program have cognitive disabilities, which means their brains work a bit differently. This can mean a more open and honest way of communicating. They may not have a filter, an ego to defend, shame to hide, or hesitation before doing or sharing something vulnerable or impulsive. Some might forget details quickly or even forget who I am each time we meet. Some may never hold traditional jobs, live alone, or drive. However, we all share the same fundamental truth: we are all equally worthy of love and care.

They live authentically, without the masks many of us feel we must wear to be loved. They laugh, speak, and reach out with genuine openness and joy. Even if they don’t remember me, I can still bring a smile to their face and brighten their day. They don’t need to achieve anything to prove their worth—they are worthy simply because they are alive.

Their value is inherent; their humanity is not up for debate. Their presence is the gift. And if that’s true for them, it’s true for all of us.

What They Showed Me

They aren’t defined by what they do, not by their career, productivity, children, identity, or ambitions. They’re simply... alive. And I realized something: maybe what we’re most afraid of isn’t failure; maybe it’s presence. Because if presence is enough, then maybe we’ve handed our worth over to the highest bidder.

If worth doesn’t come from what we create, our bank accounts, or our experiences, then the system we’ve built—where care must be earned, love is conditional, where “value” is variable—starts to look hollow. Maybe we rush to define ourselves through our job titles, children's achievements, and salaries and possessions because the idea of being loved without doing anything can feel so terrifying, it almost doesn’t feel real. But it is.

The Other Truth

There’s a truth I have to name, one often shied away from, whether out of kindness, guilt, or fear of judgment. Caring for someone with a severe disability is incredibly challenging, no matter how it happens. It’s a commitment you shouldn’t be pushed or pressured into. There’s a beauty in it, but also a relentless reality. It doesn’t necessarily get easier; it just becomes part of your life. And if the system doesn’t support that life, it can become overwhelming and unsustainable.

Your child may need you throughout your entire life, and your financial planning might focus on ensuring their well-being even after you’re gone. Their future could depend on where you live, the services available to you, and the support system you have in place.

It affects everyone in the family when the responsibility of care falls solely on the family’s ability to provide it all; other members’ needs—spouses, siblings, caregivers—begin to fade. That’s not cruelty or a lack of love; it’s logistics. But it doesn't have to be this way; it’s what happens when we rely on personal sacrifice instead of collective care.

It Doesn’t Get Easier; It Gets Communal

The only path to sustainable love is through a shared system built to distribute care. Not just community in the social sense, but real, institutional, policy-level care.

• Publicly funded adult programming
  
• Long-term housing and support
  
• Respite services for caregivers
  
• Therapists trained in family ecosystem impact
  
• Cultural stories that don’t romanticize personal burnout as noble suffering

Because love isn’t enough when you’re doing it alone, and presence can only be offered when survival isn’t on the line.

What They Taught Me

You don’t need to remember someone to matter to them—but we do need to remember what makes mattering possible.

It’s love made tangible: in the way we design our systems, fund our care, and shape a culture that leaves no one to carry it all alone. It’s all of us choosing, together, to build a world where no one has to earn their place—a world that says, repeatedly and without conditions: you are here, you matter, and your presence is enough.