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I continue my series on the 55 people who have impacted my life. Mandy, if you’re still around, thank you.

I’ve been a picky eater for as long as I can remember. There’s even a photo of me, sitting at a small kid-sized table with the saddest face imaginable, refusing to eat my eggs. And vegetables? Not a chance.

When I was around 8 or 9, we lived in a single-family home in Queens. Not the crowded city streets, but the quieter residential parts — a row of houses, a patch of green, neighbors who waved hello. One of those neighbors was Mandy. He lived next door with his wife, Ana. They were older, always kind. But Mandy? He was special.

He had a garden. Cucumbers and tomatoes lined the side of his house — the side I could see from mine. One day, he handed me the garden hose and asked me to help. And just like that, I had a job.

I’d sit in my small manual wheelchair, sometimes needing both hands to manage the hose, and I’d water his garden. I had brittle bone disease, but that wasn’t part of the conversation. There was no “can you?” or “should you?” Just the unspoken trust that I could. That I would.

I don’t remember what we talked about. I don’t remember a single sentence. But I remember laughing. I remember feeling capable. I remember the routine of showing up and helping something grow.

My First Communion happened while we lived in that house. And Mandy and Ana came. At the time, it didn’t register how meaningful that was — that a Jewish neighbor would show up for a Catholic child’s ceremony. But now, looking back, I understand what it meant: a quiet kind of support, the kind that crosses lines without making a fuss.

Eventually, we moved back to Long Island, and things started to shift. My parents were separating. My dad didn’t come with us. It was a lot to take in, even if I couldn’t fully process it at the time. And maybe that’s part of why Mandy stands out so much in my memory now. When I left Queens, I wasn’t just leaving my father behind — I was also saying goodbye to another male presence in my life.

Before we moved to Miami in 1981, my mom took us upstate to visit Mandy and Ana one last time. They had moved there too, and we went to say goodbye. I was eleven. I don’t remember what we said, just like before. But I do remember how I felt: happy to see him.

That was the last time I saw him.

But it wasn’t the last time I thought of him. Even now, whenever I bite into a fresh cucumber, I think about that garden in Queens. I think about a little girl holding a hose with all her might, and the neighbor who gave her something to care for. A neighbor who didn’t ask questions, didn’t make a big deal — he just included her.

I may not remember what was said.

But I’ll always remember how it felt.

Thank you, Mandy.

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The 54th person on my list of 55 people who have impacted my life is someone very special—Mrs. Van Eck, my junior high school librarian. Unlike the first person in this series, who didn’t even have a name, Mrs. Van Eck’s presence in my life was undeniable.

As a teenager, I loved her for her personality and knowledge. She was savvy and snarky, with a sharp wit that made interactions with her both interesting and fun. She didn’t engage in unnecessary small talk or, worse, that condescending baby talk that many educators use when speaking to teens or someone with a disability. She treated me like anyone else, which, ironically, was a rare and precious thing.

I also respected her as an educator. She was a unique librarian who truly understood what kids were interested in, and she ran a well-organized, engaging library. She had a way of knowing exactly what I liked to read. Somehow, she just knew. As a wheelchair user, I never had a problem asking for help when I needed to reach something, and even at a young age, I understood that it was okay to ask. But with Mrs. Van Eck, she made sure I never had to ask. Instead, she placed books where she knew I would see them, making it feel like I had discovered them on my own.

I still remember the day my friend asked, “How did you find that book? I was looking for it in that section!” I just smiled, thinking I had stumbled upon a hidden gem. But deep down, I knew—Mrs. Van Eck had subtly placed it there, making sure I’d find it. She had that kind of magic.

Of course, her influence wasn’t just about what I should read, but also about what I maybe shouldn’t be reading. When I picked up Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews, she simply gave me a disapproving tsk tsk look. That was all. And I didn’t mind. Because I also knew that if she had really thought it was that inappropriate, she would have done more than just tsk tsk. Her quiet guidance shaped my reading habits in a way that I only fully appreciated later in life.

She also had the key to the elevator. Every time I needed to go downstairs, I had to ask her. But what stood out was how she never made me feel like I was asking for a favor. It was just part of our routine, another moment of unspoken understanding.

I always thought of her when I moved on to high school. There, I was flying solo in the library, and unfortunately, I didn’t spend much time there. Later, when I became a teacher, I found myself comparing school librarians to Mrs. Van Eck. Only one ever came close to measuring up.

Now, as an adult and educator, I love and appreciate her for the many ways she made reading enjoyable and accessible to me. That’s her magic. She made sure books weren’t just within reach physically but also emotionally and intellectually. She knew what I needed before I did, and she created an environment where reading felt like an adventure rather than an assignment.

One book she “placed” for me was P.S. I Love You: The P.S. is Paul Strobe. I “discovered” it during my well-known teen romance with SS, and looking back, I can see how Mrs. Van Eck worked her magic.

Lucky for me, I found her on Facebook! And guess what? Even now, she still sends me sarcastic memes and book articles. We still discuss books, just like we did back then. Without even realizing it, we’ve joined similar groups dedicated to British shows, novels, and dry humor. It’s like she’s still guiding me, just in a different way.

I credit a huge part of my love for reading to her.

I’m a better person for having been under her spell.

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While living in New York, my family and I often took road trips during winter vacation, making the long drive to Miami. One of our favorite stops was South of the Border in South Carolina, a quirky tourist spot that remains a treasure to this day. I have so many memories from those trips, but one stands out—etched into my heart by the kindness of a stranger.

I was 9 or 10 years old, bubbling with excitement as we stopped at South of the Border. The arcade was my favorite place. The flashing lights, the sounds of the machines, and most importantly, the prizes! On this particular day, I had my heart set on a plastic brown horse with a black mane, one of the prizes displayed behind the counter.

I pleaded with my mom for another quarter to play the games that rewarded us with prize tickets. She held firm to her “no” because she didn’t like us pushing our luck, and I reluctantly accepted that I wouldn’t have enough tickets for the horse. Disappointed, I pushed to the counter with my mom, searching for a consolation prize with the tickets I had.

I wasn’t exactly happy—when I set my sights on something, I’m always determined to get it! But then, something unexpected happened. A man, whose face I can’t recall after all these decades, approached us. He spoke to my mom, and she must have nodded her approval because he then turned to me and said, “Close your eyes and open your hands.”

I hesitated, looking up at my mom for permission. After she gave me the go-ahead, I did as he asked. When I opened my hands, I felt the weight of countless South of the Border tokens pouring into my palms. My eyes widened with delight—I had so many tokens that I needed a cup to hold them all!

I was thrilled. I pushed back to the arcade, determination fueling every turn of my wheels. In the 1970s, not every arcade game was accessible to me, so I carefully chose ones I could reach and play. I don’t remember what game I played that day, but I do remember the joy of hearing the clink of tickets spilling out of the machine as I worked toward my goal.

Eventually, I returned to the counter, hopeful that I had enough tickets for the horse. The guy at the counter, now familiar with my quest, smiled as he counted. Unfortunately, I still didn’t have enough. Disappointed but grateful for the man’s kindness, I selected another prize. My mom reassured me that maybe, on our return trip, I could try again.

We went to the diner to eat before continuing our journey to Disney. As we were leaving, the same man appeared again. He asked me once more, “Close your eyes and open your hands.” This time, I didn’t hesitate. Maybe I’ve always been a hopeful person, even as a child.

When I opened my hands, I didn’t feel the familiar weight of tokens. Instead, I opened my eyes to see it—the brown horse with the black mane. My heart leapt with joy! I thanked him with a huge smile and looked to my mom for approval. She smiled and nodded, and I thanked him again before holding onto that horse like it was the most precious thing in the world.

I don’t know what happened to that horse or to the kind stranger, but his generosity has stayed with me my entire life. To this day, when I see a child with their eyes glued to something they truly want, I channel his kindness.

So, to the kind stranger from South of the Border: thank you. Your simple act of generosity became a lifelong memory.

This is the first of 55 stories I’m sharing to celebrate my 55th year of life. If you enjoyed this story and feel it’s worth a cup of coffee, here’s the link to support my work.

Thank you for reading,
Nathasha

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Today was my day to recharge: cleaning, tossing things out, and making space for a fresh start. For me, the new year doesn’t begin on January 1st; it starts on my birthday, January 9th. 🎉 This annual ritual of decluttering feels like hitting a personal reset button, preparing me for whatever’s next.

But this time, it was different.

While sorting through old notebooks, I stumbled into what felt like a personal time capsule—a review of the last 10 to 15 years of my life. Out of nowhere, the tears came. Not the dramatic, shoulder-shaking kind, but those slow, deliberate tears that catch you off guard. Were they happy tears? Sad tears? Honestly, I couldn’t tell.

As I flipped through the pages, memories of Deb and Jamie washed over me—two of my Capricorn diva sisters, two of my closest friends with osteogenesis imperfecta (OI) who are no longer here. Deb and Jamie weren’t just friends; they were kindred spirits, women who understood the peculiar alchemy of living with OI. We shared more than a birthday month or a condition—we shared a vow to live audaciously, to defy the limits the world tried to place on us.

And now, they’re gone.

Here I am, on the cusp of turning 55, missing them fiercely and thinking about where I stand.

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For a long time, I’ve wondered: Am I an outlier? Back in the 1970s, my level of OI—what I believe is Type 3—was considered one of the most severe. And yet, I’ve lived a life many people, even those without OI, would call independent. I work full time, drive my own car, go out, and run a nonprofit I’m incredibly proud of. By most measures, I’m thriving.

But when I visit OI support groups, I see something different. Most people my age, for reasons that vary, aren’t living like this. They struggle with their health, rely on others for help, or are forced to step back from their careers and passions as their bodies hit their limits.

That’s when the question creeps in: Am I really alone in this journey?

Surely, there must be others like me—people with severe OI who have found ways to live independently, to keep going, to push boundaries. Maybe they’re out there, too busy living their lives to spend much time on social media. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m walking a path no one else is on.

And if that’s true, what does it mean?

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As my birthday approaches, the questions have only grown louder: What do I need to do before my body gives out on me?

It’s not an easy question to ask, but it feels unavoidable now. I know I’m lucky—remarkably lucky—to have gotten this far. But my bones remind me every day that I don’t have forever.

I’ve accomplished so much that I’m proud of. I run AudacityMagazine.com, a nonprofit that amplifies disabled voices. I write for my blog, where I share my thoughts and experiences. I’m working on a mystery novel. I teach. I live.

But even with all of that, I can’t shake the nagging thought: Am I living my purpose? Have I done enough?

These thoughts play in my mind like a favorite (or maybe not-so-favorite) song stuck on repeat. I think about Deb and Jamie, how they lived with passion and purpose despite the odds. I think about the vow we made to live audaciously. Am I doing enough to keep that promise?

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Maybe I’ll never have all the answers. Maybe these questions will always linger, chasing me into every new chapter of my life. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I’ll keep asking. I’ll keep pushing forward. I’ll keep living loudly, fiercely, and unapologetically—just like Deb and Jamie taught me.

So here’s to 55. Here’s to the next chapter. Here’s to whatever comes next. 💜

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