My story

My days don't really follow one pattern. I have non-24-hour sleep-wake disorder, which means my body runs on roughly a twenty-seven-hour clock instead of twenty-four, so being awake or asleep drifts across mornings, afternoons and nights over time. School, appointments, modelling, family stuff and writing all have to fit around a body clock that couldn't care less about a normal timetable.

I live in Szczecin with my adoptive family. My parents have thirteen children, me included, so I count twelve siblings. My twin sister is one of them, in the same family as me. A house that full can be loving, loud, funny, tiring, and honestly none of those words on their own really cover it. I often need quiet, but that's not the same as wanting to disappear from everyone.

I'm in a relationship, and I'm keeping it private. Not because it's not real, and not because it's embarrassing, but because two teenagers shouldn't have to turn something personal into proof for a website. It's enough to say romance is just one more part of my life, next to family, friends, school and work.

People underestimate me pretty fast just by looking. I'm about 130 centimetres tall, because growth and puberty have been delayed by something called acquired partial hypopituitarism, so strangers often guess I'm nine or ten. I talk through a speech-generating tablet instead of using my own voice. Put those two things together and adults sometimes start using baby language, asking the person next to me instead of me, or reading my typing pauses as not understanding. They're wrong about what's going on in my head.

I've had testing that says my IQ is 142 and my EQ is 118. Those numbers are real, but I don't treat them as a prize. They don't make trauma easier, they don't cancel out autism, they don't get me into school more easily, and they don't turn every thought I have into something profound. What's actually more useful to know is that I notice patterns, I care a lot about getting things precisely right, I read people closely, and sometimes my brain generates so many possible outcomes at once that I get a bit stuck.

Stanisław is the proper, formal version of my name. Staś is the everyday short one I use most of the time, including here. It's just easier, and it fits better than making every page sound like an official form.

My biological parents are Polish and Japanese. My biological grandparents trace back to Poland, Japan, Iran and Iraq. That's part of my biological history, even though the family I actually live with day to day came through adoption. Neither side needs to be treated as less real to make room for the other.

One thing needs saying clearly: none of that heritage caused the abuse. My biological parents hurt me, including hitting me, and their being Polish and Japanese has nothing to do with why. The same goes for the Iranian and Iraqi side of the family. Culture isn't an excuse anyone gets to hide behind instead of taking responsibility.

Language is another part of who I am. Polish is the language around me every day, but I am interested in how other languages carry the same thought differently. That matters when writing is not merely something I do after speaking. Writing is one of the main ways I enter the conversation at all.

Being mixed like this sometimes makes strangers want a percentage breakdown, or a favourite side, or some kind of visual proof. I don't owe anyone that performance. My background is just a fact about me, and adoption added relationships and history on top of it rather than erasing the biological side.

I didn't lose a voice I used to have. As far as anyone can tell, there was no normal newborn cry, and bilateral vocal-fold agenesis was properly diagnosed when I was about three. It's an extremely rare condition. It isn't paralysis, it isn't selective mutism, it isn't shyness, and it isn't damage to tissue that once worked.

I can't speak, whisper, hum, sing or scream. I can make sounds that aren't voiced, like clicking my tongue or teeth, or moving air audibly, but no amount of effort turns that into actual phonation. My hearing is completely normal and I understand spoken language just fine. What's missing is a structure in my larynx, not anything to do with intelligence or language.

True vocal folds also help seal your airway when you swallow and help you build up pressure for a proper cough. Without them, I had serious problems with aspiration and clearing my airway. My cough is weak, and I still use a cough-assist machine every day. That's just part of my normal routine, not a sign I'm constantly in some kind of emergency.

I've had four operations that made swallowing and aspiration much less of a problem: partial epiglottopexy, cricopharyngeal myotomy, laryngeal suspension and aryepiglottic-fold plication. Roughly speaking, they reshaped and supported the structures above where my vocal folds should be, so food and drink find their way down more easily. None of that gave me a voice. I used to need thickened liquids, but the surgeries have mostly made that a thing of the past.

I get my words out through a mix of things: handwriting, typing, my speech-generating tablet, gestures, signs my family and I use between ourselves, and some Polish Sign Language. Out in public, the tablet gives strangers something they can actually hear and follow. At home, we can move faster using gestures, signs and writing all mixed together.

The voice my tablet uses came from a real donor, not just a generic computer setting. That makes it human in a specific way, but I'm still the one choosing what it says, when, and with what tone or joke. I haven't become the donor, and he hasn't become the author of my sentences. The tablet's just how my words get from my head into the room.

I remember being afraid, and I remember being hurt, in the home I was born into. There was physical violence, including being hit. Not being able to speak made it worse, because I couldn't shout, couldn't answer back, and couldn't quickly explain myself to anyone outside the house. Being autistic added its own sensory and regulation needs that some adults would misread or punish instead of just supporting.

The abuse is thought to be behind the injury that caused my acquired partial hypopituitarism. A blow to the head, or another injury like it, can damage the pituitary gland or the connections around it. In my case that led to growth-hormone and gonadotropin deficiencies, which is why my growth and puberty are still affected.

That medical fact means the past keeps showing up in my present, but I don't think it needs retelling every single time someone asks about my height. Whatever happened is on the adults who did it, not on me, and I shouldn't have to keep proving it just to get proper medical care or basic respect.

My twin sister was there for the early years and later went through the care system too. Her childhood isn't mine to use as backup evidence, and I'm not going to invent a role for her I can't actually confirm. Siblings can grow up in the same house and experience it completely differently, and neither of us was ever responsible for protecting the other from the adults involved.

Being taken away at five changed where I was, not everything my nervous system had already learned. For a child who's autistic and can't speak, even leaving danger can mean strange cars, strange rooms and strange adults making decisions with no way for me to properly follow along. Relief and terror can happen in the very same afternoon.

I entered Poland's foster-care system at five and was adopted at twelve. In between, I moved through several different placements. I'm not going to put an exact number here because I can't confirm it clearly enough to be sure it's right. What I can confirm is the pattern: moving around a lot, care that varied hugely in quality, and constantly having to adjust to new adults, new rooms, new rules, new expectations.

Some adults genuinely tried. Kindness could be as small as learning one sign, giving me paper to write on, respecting a sensory need, waiting for my answer, or realising a meltdown wasn't me being difficult. Those things mattered a lot at the time. They just didn't guarantee I'd get to stay, or fix the instability around them.

Other experiences hurt me. Foster care, for me, also meant mistreatment, being misunderstood, and adults who had no idea how to respond safely to trauma, autism or a child who couldn't speak. I'm not going to soften that to protect anyone's reputation. It also doesn't mean every foster family was cruel, because my own story includes people who genuinely helped.

I was separated from my twin sister during this time. That took away the one person who'd shared the start of my life with me, and turned our relationship into something decided by case workers instead of us. She's one of my siblings in my adoptive family now, but being reunited doesn't erase how much the separation hurt.

I'm still in touch with two former foster siblings. One of them once gave me a small stuffed toy, a sort of fantasy beaver, that ended up meaning a lot to me, one of the few things that survived every move from before I was adopted. That's not childish in a dismissive way; something that travels with you through every placement can hold you together when addresses and adults keep changing.

Moving around wrecked a lot of my schooling and friendships. Belonging takes time, and friendship needs you to stay put long enough for ordinary things to repeat. If you expect to be moved again, you learn to hold back from getting close, and then adults write that down as if it's some flaw in you.

Court and case meetings brought their own problem: communication. Adults can discuss what's 'best' for a child out loud, far too fast for anyone typing to keep up. Being in the room isn't the same as being heard. Proper advocacy means giving me things in writing beforehand, giving me time to reply, and actually treating what I say as evidence, not decoration.

I was diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder around six or seven. It's constant, hard-to-control worry that doesn't stay in one place. Foster care gave me plenty of real things to worry about, and the disorder took that and spread it into every other possibility, even once one worry had actually been sorted out.

I was recognised as autistic around the same age. Autism is neurodevelopmental. Abuse and foster care didn't cause it. It shapes how I take in sensory information, how I communicate, how much I need predictability, and how I experience social situations. Trauma can make some of that look more intense, but C-PTSD and autism are answering completely different questions about why my brain works the way it does.

C-PTSD and a depressive disorder were both diagnosed around ten or eleven, as best I remember. Complex trauma means re-living things, avoiding reminders, feeling under threat even when I'm safe, and ongoing trouble with regulating emotions, my sense of self and relationships. Depression changes mood, interest, energy, focus, hope, and how safe you feel. Neither label means every reaction I had to foster care was somehow unreasonable.

I survived a suicide attempt. I'm naming it because skipping straight from 'hard childhood' to 'adopted, happy ending' would be dishonest. I'm not describing the method. It was dangerous, it shouldn't ever be copied, and it doesn't become more real by adding detail. Surviving is what let the rest of my life happen, even the parts I couldn't have imagined from that lowest point.

Getting mental-health support also meant dealing with an access problem. A child who can't speak can't use a service built around quick verbal answers, tone of voice and blurting things out. Typing takes time and needs privacy. Asking about safety needs a written way in. And when a donated voice on a tablet says something frightening, it shouldn't be dismissed as emotionally flat just because it's synthetic.

What medication I'm on and the details of my treatment stay private. Knowing my diagnoses doesn't give anyone a ticket to ask about prescriptions, appointments or progress. You can understand and respect this without turning my care into something to watch.

I entered foster care in 2017 and was adopted in 2024. There are thirteen of us children, including my twin sister. In July 2026, after my adoptive mum remarried, I chose the surname Cichy.

I was adopted at twelve. My adoptive parents have thirteen children, including me, so I have twelve siblings. Eleven of those are adoptive siblings from where I sit, and the twelfth is my twin sister, who's also part of the same adoptive family. I say it that way on purpose, because it's easy to wrongly turn thirteen children into thirteen siblings.

Permanence is the biggest difference between foster care and adoption. It means I don't have to treat every argument like a review of whether I get to stay, or every need I have as a reason I might be moved. The legal side settled that fact, even if it took my body a while longer to actually believe it.

A family this size means constant variety. My siblings have different histories, ages, needs and personalities. Some of them are loud and full-on; I'm especially close to a quieter younger sister, whose company doesn't ask as much of my senses. Being close to one sibling doesn't mean I value the others less.

My twin relationship has its own story. Being separated in care meant we grew up differently and learned different ways of coping. Being siblings under one roof again doesn't rewind us to age five. It just makes room for a relationship now, one that includes where we came from without assuming we remember or feel everything the same way.

My family also helps me practically. The people who know me can read my familiar gestures, wait while I type, use our shared signs, spot when I'm overloaded, and help me communicate if something goes wrong. Support is meant to help me speak, not speak over me. The point is a circle wide enough to make things possible, while my own answer still comes first.

Home still has to be quiet sometimes. Thirteen children doesn't turn sensory overload into some charming family quirk. A closed door, headphones, a low-stimulation space I can count on, and permission to skip an activity, all of that protects my place in the family. It's not me pulling away from it.

Bilateral vocal-fold agenesis was noticed at birth and confirmed when I was three. It's the reason I can't speak, why my cough is weak, and why aspiration was such a risk early on. I still need daily airway-clearance support, and the swallowing surgeries still matter for day-to-day life.

Autism and generalised anxiety disorder were both diagnosed around six or seven. Autism shapes how I sense things, communicate and need predictability. GAD gives me broad worry and a lot of physical alarm. Around the same time, acquired partial hypopituitarism was diagnosed, after an injury believed to have come from the abuse.

That pituitary condition means growth-hormone and gonadotropin deficiencies. It has affected my growth, so at fourteen I am about 130 centimetres tall, and it has delayed puberty. I am slim and look about nine. That does not change my actual age or make my development public property.

C-PTSD and a depressive disorder were diagnosed during foster care, probably around ten or eleven. C-PTSD links my history of prolonged trauma to feeling under threat, struggling with regulation, my sense of self, and relationships. Depression affects mood, interest, energy, thinking and safety. They interact, but they're not interchangeable.

Non-24-hour sleep-wake disorder was diagnosed when I was thirteen. My internal clock runs at about twenty-seven hours, so my sleep and alertness slowly rotate around the normal twenty-four-hour day. Even a stretch of normal-looking nights is just part of that drift, not proof it's gone away.

How I talk about autism is my own preference, not some rule for everyone. I'm fine with 'autistic person', 'person with autism' and 'autist'. Plenty of autistic people prefer identity-first language, because autism isn't something separate from who they are; others prefer person-first. I don't take 'autist' as an insult when someone means it neutrally, and I'm not going to tell another autistic person how they should describe themselves.

I go to a private school. I hear spoken instructions normally and answer using my tablet, typing or writing.

I go to school with some accommodations sorted out. My favourite subjects are history, geography and literature. They're not just facts to memorise: history is basically people arguing about who gets to tell the story, geography is about how people and places actually connect, and literature says things a normal chat never quite manages.

The school itself isn't always easy for me though. Bells, packed corridors, group work, fast back-and-forth talk, sudden staff changes and PE all pile up sound, movement and confusing social stuff at once. Being autistic means all that unfiltered input can get overwhelming fast. My C-PTSD can make blocked exits or a teacher suddenly raising their voice feel genuinely scary, not just annoying. My anxiety adds a layer of dread before anything's even happened. And non-24 sometimes means my body thinks it's the middle of the night right in the middle of a lesson.

Using my tablet changes the timing of everything. By the time I've typed my sentence, a spoken discussion has usually moved on three turns already. So you can't judge how much I know by how fast I speak up or how many times you hear my voice. Getting questions in advance, a written way in, someone actually waiting for me, and classmates who don't talk over the device, that's what lets what I actually know reach the room.

My IQ of 142 and EQ of 118 are handy when someone tries to write me off, but I don't think accommodations should depend on having impressive numbers. Any child deserves access, whatever their profile. For me, being sharp can actually hide how much something cost me, because the homework still gets handed in even when anxiety, exhaustion and checking it fifteen times nearly wrecked me getting there.

Speaking up about school matters more to me because of foster care. Meetings where adults sit around discussing my needs can feel a bit too familiar from those years, unless I actually get information, time and a real say. A typed answer isn't a lesser answer. Honestly, it's often the most exact thing said in the whole meeting.

I might study law one day. I like the idea of working with language, evidence, rights and how institutions actually run, though I honestly don't know yet how doable that is with all the access barriers and my health thrown in. Saying that out loud isn't me giving up on the idea. It's just more honest planning than pretending sheer willpower fixes every obstacle in the world.

I launched my writing site in 2025. It is called A Boy In Letters now.

Writing gives me time that a normal conversation almost never does. I can pick the exact word, build a sentence properly, change my mind, and not have someone else's quicker summary just steamroll what I actually meant. Back in foster care, a notebook and a pen were something steady when everything and everyone else kept changing.

I write poems, personal pieces, thoughts on politics and society, stuff about foster care, disability, communication and my mental health, plus little observations that don't have to turn into some big statement. Not everything I've written is what I'd say now. I'm fourteen, I'm allowed to grow, contradict myself sometimes and have an old archive with facts that don't quite match where I'm at any more.

A Boy In Letters is where the less formal version of that writing lives. My own voice there can be sharper, messier, funnier or just more raw than a tidy profile like this one. Think of the blog as proof of how I actually sound, not some perfectly accurate database. If an old post says something different about a past relationship, routine or medical thing, trust whatever I'm saying now over it.

When I write for other people to read, I try to keep it direct, specific and sometimes a bit dry. I don't need flowery ‘look how strong I am’ language or some neat lesson tacked onto every hard thing. The pieces I'm proudest of just say what happened or what I think, and then trust you to be fine without me handing you a moral at the end.

Drawing and drawing sit right next to the writing because not every idea wants to start as a sentence. Sometimes a scribble sorts out my thoughts, calms my attention down, or is just fun. Photography's a different kind of choosing: where the frame starts, what's left out, and how ordinary light can completely change what a face or a place seems to mean.

I'd like writing to stay part of my future, maybe through getting published, maybe as work. That doesn't mean turning every private thing that happens to me into content, though. A writer's allowed to leave something unwritten and still be honest.

I started modelling in 2025. My management handles enquiries and a guardian is involved in every booking.

I model even though I'm young, and I want that called what it is: work. A booking can be fun and creatively interesting without turning into some charity favour for a disabled child. Both sides should know exactly what's expected, with age-appropriate conditions and responsible adults doing the negotiating.

My dad, or one of my agents or managers, deals with enquiries. That keeps strangers from approaching a minor directly, gives everyone a clear route for contracts and scheduling, and gives clients one place to sort out access. It shouldn't mean I get left out of decisions about my own image, clothes, being touched, timing or boundaries though.

My look suits editorial and androgynous work quite well. Because I'm very short for my age and puberty's delayed, my clothes might come from younger size ranges, but casting still has to go by my real age and how we've agreed I'll be shown. Looking younger isn't an excuse to baby me, and a fashion shoot isn't an excuse to sexualise a minor. Full stop, no exceptions.

On set, I need a written call sheet, someone specific to contact, a heads-up before schedule or location changes, being asked before anyone adjusts my clothes or posture, time for my tablet, and somewhere quiet to recover if it all gets too much. Non-24 means timing can make or break whether a shoot even works for me. A super early call time isn't some fair test of professionalism when my body thinks it's still the middle of the night.

Whatever health info I give a client should only be what actually matters for keeping me safe or able to work. My history of aspiration and weak cough can matter around food, illness or anything strenuous. My daily airway clearance routine can affect scheduling. Being small affects fit and equipment. Anxiety, being autistic and trauma affect the environment and what I consent to. Nobody needs my test results, therapy notes or private details about puberty just to run a safe shoot.

Modelling also messes with the idea that being shy means wanting to disappear. A camera's actually more structured than a random conversation, and expressing something doesn't need a voice. Being looked at because I agreed to it feels completely different from being stared at like some medical oddity. What matters is who's in control, why, and whether I said yes.

I babysit. People are often surprised, because they notice I've got no voice, I'm autistic, I'm small and I'm fourteen before they notice I'm patient and paying attention. Being surprised doesn't mean it's a bad idea, it just shows what adults assumed a capable person has to look and sound like.

My first babysitting job came through adults who already knew the family well. The child was safe and asleep by the time the parents got home, and that led to more trust after. The point isn't some sappy story about one perfect evening. It's that I got judged on how I actually did the job, not written off from a list of diagnoses before I'd even started.

Another relationship like this started through a psychologist who knew both of us separately and thought we'd get on. What began as childcare turned into something more like an unofficial brother. I've taken him to school, he's come home with me, and we spend time together well beyond any paid babysitting. Names, photos and anything identifying stay private.

Not having a voice actually works well with children. I can type, use gestures, use pictures, get right down on the floor with them, and just wait instead of filling every silence with talk. Children who are anxious, autistic, quiet, or used to not being believed, can respond really well to someone older who doesn't need a perfectly spoken explanation before taking them seriously.

It still needs proper safety behind it though. Responsible adults decide what arrangement makes sense, stay reachable, and think about my health, my sleep schedule and the child's needs. Since I've got no voice, emergency communication has to be planned in advance, not figured out in a panic. I don't want to pretend safeguards aren't needed just because I'm capable, and I don't want anyone pretending safeguards make me incapable either.

Babysitting is part of why I think about working with children later on. Caring for older people is another option, for similar reasons: patience, noticing things, dignity and communicating without needing speech all matter there too. I'm interested in work that's actually about people, and actually doable, not some one inspirational career someone else picked out for me because it sounds nice in a biography.

Writing and drawing are the obvious ones, but the list goes on well past that. I draw, dance, play violin, model, game, read, stargaze, hike, cycle, take photos and listen to music. Each one asks something different of my attention and my body, and each gives me a different way out of a day full of medical appointments and official language.

Violin is an interesting one next to not having a voice. It can hold a note and phrase a line in a way my throat never could, but I don't want it turned into some big metaphor every time I pick it up. Sometimes it's just technique, pleasure, frustration and sound, without having to stand in for the voice I don't have.

Dancing lets me express something through movement and timing. Modelling uses my body and stillness in a similar way. Hiking and cycling give me movement that's headed somewhere, through a landscape, rather than stuck in a loud competitive room. Photography lets me control what gets attention. Reading and gaming give me whole worlds to disappear into during the hours when non-24 has everyone else in the house asleep and me wide awake.

Stargazing fits a shifting sleep pattern almost too well, but I don't want to make the disorder sound romantic. Being awake at night means the stars are there, sure, but it can also be lonely. Finding a beautiful use for an inconvenient hour doesn't undo the daylight, school or family time I've missed because of it.

Foxes are my favourite animal now. They took over from wolves after a real fox came right up close to me once, memorable enough that it changed my answer for good. My favourite colour is viridian. Our family cats are just part of home. Little preferences like these matter, because a profile built only from hardship and achievements would read like a job application, not an actual life.

There's also my fantasy-beaver stuffed toy, a gift from a former foster sibling. At fourteen, still keeping a comfort object isn't a sign I'm immature. It matters because of who gave it to me and what it's been through with me, and my delayed puberty or short height shouldn't turn every soft thing I like into ‘proof’ that adults were right to treat me as younger than I am.

Some older writing of mine touches on an earlier chapter of teenage life, but don't mistake that for now. I keep my relationships private on this site.

My tablet makes texting a normal way to connect, not some lesser substitute for talking out loud. Written words let me joke, argue, reassure and just chat without the other person having to stand around waiting for my device. In person, patience and being okay with silence matter far more than keeping up constant chatter.

My C-PTSD and anxiety can make trust harder. A message that's slow to arrive can feel scary even when the reason for it is completely boring. Being reassured helps, but I don't think it's fair for my girlfriend to become the only person managing my fear, or the only one responsible for keeping me safe. A healthy relationship at my age still needs adults and professionals carrying the adult-sized worries.

Friendship's been shaped a lot by moving around, school access and just being shy. I'm not socially empty, though. I might say less in a group of strangers, watch for longer before joining in, and prefer relationships that don't need proving over and over. A few safe people matter far more to me than looking popular.

The way I connect with children shows another side of me: quiet attention, responsibility, making someone feel properly taken seriously. My relationships with my siblings are noisier, closer, full of differences, and just ordinary shared family life. No single person is stuck with the job of proving I'm loveable.

I notice who gets to control the words used about a situation. Foster-care files, school plans, medical summaries and contracts can all describe a person while shoving that person off to the side of the decisions being made about them. Writing is one way I put myself back into my own sentence.

Justice interests me both as a subject and because I've lived through systems that decide it. Law is basically words defining evidence, rights, responsibility and what's actually best for a child. I might become a lawyer one day, though I'm happy to admit out loud I'm not sure whether access, education and my health will let me get there.

Success isn't the only thing that matters for a future. Childcare, caring for older people, writing and other people-focused work appeal to me because kindness and patient attention are proper skills. A job can be worth doing because it fits who I am and helps someone, not because it's the most impressive answer to what a clever child is ‘supposed’ to become.

I care about people getting heard even when they don't use speech. That means people who use tablets like mine, autistic people, children in care, and people whose bodies don't grow the way everyone expects. Speaking up can be public writing, something said in a meeting, a boundary set on a shoot, or just quietly waiting for a child to finish their answer.

I'm also allowed not to turn every bit of my life into a cause. A disabled teenager doesn't owe anyone constant explanations, and a writer who's been through care doesn't owe every memory to a stranger. Getting to be ordinary, playful, or just not interested in explaining myself, is part of the dignity all this advocacy is meant to protect.

I think about law because language and institutions matter to me. I also know the road there could be tough and access could be poor. Being honest about that ambition means holding both the interest and the doubt at once. I'd rather adults didn't turn that into some fixed destiny, or use my IQ score to pretend the barriers don't exist.

Writing is probably staying with me for good, whether that's getting published, a job, or just how I make sense of everything else. Modelling might carry on when bookings are safe, suitable and work with my health. Childcare or caring for older people could turn into something more formal. Some other people-focused work might come along later and suit me even better than anything I've named here.

Being independent as an adult won't necessarily mean doing everything alone. It can mean choosing my own support, controlling what information gets shared, making decisions through accessible communication, and building a home where quiet and permanence are just normal. Medical care, non-24 and my tablet will shape the logistics, but they won't decide how worthwhile the life around them is.

Relationships might change, because teenage relationships and families are living things, not fixed ones. Interests might grow. Diagnoses might get managed differently. My height and puberty might change with time and care. Fourteen is just where I am right now, not a finished picture of who I'll be.

The smallest wishes I have for the future might say the most about me: enough books, somewhere to write, sound I can control, people who don't panic when I go quiet, work that respects my body, time with the people I love, and a room that's still mine after a hard day. None of that is smaller than a big impressive career, if it adds up to a life I can actually sustain.

My story doesn't come with a neat lesson at the end. I didn't need to be abused to become creative. Being disabled isn't here to teach strangers to be grateful. Foster care didn't somehow become worth it just because some good relationships came out of it. Right now matters because I'm here living it, not because suffering can be rearranged into something inspiring for someone else.