My name was Hallie Mercer, and I was six years old when I learned that people often decide who you are before you even have a chance to introduce yourself. On a sunny Saturday morning, I dressed in my lilac dress and held my stuffed hound dog named Barnaby while waiting at the adoption fair for St Jude Hope Haven in Columbus Ohio. The other
children ran through the halls with nervous excitement, but I sat quietly at a small wooden table with a bright blue folder filled with twelve colored drawings of my ultimate dream. My drawings showed a little girl in a wheelchair sharing a pancake breakfast with two smiling parents. By noon, three different couples had approached my table, but every single one of them walked away after noticing my wheelchair and expressing concerns about my medical needs. I desperately wanted them to know that I could read chapter books and draw beautifully, but they left me behind in a quiet corner. Eventually, I rolled my chair beneath the wide branches of an old maple tree in the garden, feeling utterly defeated as our kind caregiver Mrs Albright tried to comfort my broken heart.
