The Sunflower Lanyard
Max had been seen. He had been capable. He had been useful and ...just simply included.
The Hidden Disabilities Sunflower lanyard scheme first began in 2016. It was created by staff at Gatwick Airport in England to help passengers with non-obvious disabilities identify that they may need extra time, patience, or support. What began as an airport initiative slowly spread, across the railways by 2020, and then beyond, until it became globally recognised, adopted by thousands of businesses in almost every sector imaginable.
I can’t remember exactly when I first became aware of it. What I do remember is my hesitation to use it anywhere other than an airport.
Which, when I think about it now, is odd.
I have never felt stigma about my son’s autism. Yet somewhere in me sat a small resistance, a misplaced fear that the lanyard might feel like a label, even though its entire purpose was to remove friction, not add to it. It took me a while to see that my reluctance said more about my own conditioning than about him.
Huh.
Eventually, that thinking shifted and Max began to wear it. Since then, it has been unexpectedly a study in human behaviour. Reactions have ranged from people literally giving us a wide berth, tripping over themselves to help, or body language that implies being suddenly unsure, as if they been asked a trick question that has no answer.
I thought this story was fitting for my “Be Kind, Rewind” series on this publication which are moments from the past where kindness, through sacrifice or small acts are seen or received from friends, carers, or strangers.
Journal entry: 22nd April 2022
On an entirely unremarkable Saturday afternoon, this happened.
We were in the supermarket, hovering near the top of the dairy aisle. Ahead of me stood a small woman, compact, and in hindsight, purposeful. I noticed her looking at me, then at Max. Then back at me again. There was calculation in her eyes.
As we approached, she stopped me.
“Do you mind if your son helps me reach the yoghurt pots at the back there? It’s too far back for me.”
I blinked.
Before my brain had time to process the request, my body automatically stretched forward to reach them myself.
“No, no, not you,” she said briskly. “You are not tall enough. You’ll never get them.”
I froze mid-stretch.
Not tall enough.
The nerve. A size-based assessment delivered with the confidence of a woman who has measured shelves her entire life.
“Him,” she nodded towards Max.
I looked at her, mildly stunned. “Umm… my son’s autistic and..”
“Oh, so is mine,” she replied, waving a hand as though we were discussing the weather. “I thought I would engage him.”
There are moments in motherhood where your brain splits into several departments at once.
One part of me was protective.
One part was confused.
One part was deeply offended on behalf of my height.
And one part, a small, outraged part was thinking… well dang, this is bold.
Before I could assemble a coherent response, Max had been gently coaxed forward and ten seconds of cajoling followed. He reached into the cold shelf, yes….further than I could, and with remarkable dexterity used the tips of his fingers to drag the box forward. He extracted a yoghurt pot and, without any prompting, handed it to her.
Bloody hell.
“Marvellous!” she declared. “Thanks so much.”
And with that, she pivoted and trotted off down the aisle. Mission accomplished.
I looked at Max, his face a mirror of my own thoughts.
What the actual frig just happened?
Both of us not moving, processing how to feel about the trajectory of inclusivity, pseudo-ableism, and the size-ism diss I was subjected to ..all in the last five minutes.
Was that empowerment?
Was that opportunism?
Was that community? or….
Was I just publicly measured and found lacking?
I mean just…what?!
In the car, I caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and he burst out laughing.
It was a moment where all was well in the world.
Whatever that woman’s intention had been, clumsy, courageous, pragmatic, or audacious, what we were left with was this:
Max had been seen.
He had been capable.
He had been useful.
He had been engaged.
Not pitied. Not avoided. Not over-managed.
Simply… included.
“Well, Max,” I said, pulling out of the car park, “whatever you decide to be in life, if that doesn’t work out, shelf-filling can always be an option.”
And we laughed all the way home.
What a moment! Thank you for sharing!
🫶