My eyes snapped open as the fervor of anticipation swept over my semi-conscious mind: Paris. Today was the day. Just last year, if you had told me that I would be flying overseas to watch the Paralympic Games, I would've enjoyed a prolonged cackle. I'm in the farthest galaxy away from athleticism you could fathom. My spastic cerebral palsy means that every sentence that I speak feels like a marathon. A one-hour Zoom meeting counts as my daily cardio. And because of a lack of adapted physical education, my childhood gym classes consisted of my being relegated to "referee," or worse, assigned some hapless soul to listlessly bat around a balloon or a hockey puck with. However, cultivating a s
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