There’s a term I heard a few years ago—glass kid. It refers to the siblings of children with disabilities: the ones people look right through because all the focus is (rightfully) on their brother or sister. They’re expected to be strong, to be understanding, to be flexible, to never need too much. And while the world may forget about them sometimes, they see everything.
Riley has always seen everything.
She was five the first time one of her friends came over to play and noticed one of Seton’s therapists in the house. Without skipping a beat, Riley told her, “That’s Seton’s helper. He has autism. That just means his brain works differently.” There was no shame. No hesitation. Just this matter-of-fact pride and protectiveness that honestly blew me away.
That was our first real glimpse of the kind of sister she would be.
When Riley and Seton were in elementary school together, we had a very specific family policy: if she ever saw Seton being bullied, teased, or excluded, she had full permission to fight back—with no consequences at home. Because in this family, we don’t stand by and watch. We speak up. We protect our own.
And while she carried that fierceness with her, she also carried so much more—things we didn’t always see. The quiet frustrations of being asked to “understand” more than most kids her age. The grief of plans changing suddenly because of a meltdown or sensory overload. The weight of knowing that sometimes her needs would come second—not because she wasn’t loved, but because life with an autistic sibling can be unpredictable, and hard, and exhausting.
Middle school was a tough time for her. Like so many kids that age, she wrestled with her own identity, anxiety, friendships, and pressure. But even through all that, the seeds of who she was becoming were still growing underneath.
And then came high school—and Unified Sports.
From the moment Riley stepped into Unified, something clicked. It was like all the pieces of her experience finally had a place to land. She didn’t just join the Unified Cheer program—she led it. For the last two seasons, she’s been the heartbeat of that team. Teaching cheers. Encouraging every single participant. Making sure every athlete felt included, valued, and celebrated. And she did it all with zero expectation of credit—because it was never about her.
But that’s just the beginning.
She was so inspired by what Unified stood for that she applied to the State Youth Activation Committee with Special Olympics Washington—and was selected. In February, she flew to Washington D.C. to speak with lawmakers and advocate for continued and expanded funding for Unified programs across the state. She walked the halls of Congress with purpose. At fifteen. Representing kids like her brother, and teammates she loves like family.
This year, she joined Unified soccer and Unified track. And watching her on those fields? It’s been incredible. Not because she’s out there to win—but because she’s out there to make sure others get to play. To create space. To be the partner someone else needs.
Just last weekend, we were celebrating her 16th birthday. She had played her first game and had every reason to leave—family and friends were waiting to celebrate her. But she found out another team didn’t have enough partners to play, so she stayed. She played for a second team, so those athletes could have their chance. No fanfare. No announcement. She just did it. I was left wondering how this kid of ours had turned out so freaking epically.
And the truth is, I didn’t make Riley this way.
She made herself this way. She took all the messiness, the beauty, the heartbreak, the love, and the lessons that come with being the sibling of a child with disabilities—and she turned it into purpose.
She has flipped the narrative on what it means to be a “glass kid.” She’s not breakable. She’s not see-through. She’s not fading into the background.
She’s shining. Leading. Changing lives- because Unified has changed hers.
And she’s doing it with heart, humility, and the kind of fierce love that this world desperately needs more of.
What a freaking beautiful thing it is to witness.
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