Dorothy Lemmey
THE 2026 STORIED STUFF WRITING CONTEST WINNER!
My daughter Dawn taught me more about love than I ever imagined possible. From the beginning, I saw the challenges that shaped her life: she could not speak, walk, feed herself, or easily make eye contact. As her mother, I sometimes looked so closely at what she could not do that I missed the beautiful spirit she carried within her.
But there was one thing that brought Dawn pure, unmistakable joy: Mr. Rogers. Whenever she heard, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” she would become completely alive. As a small child, she would bunny-hop across the room to sit in front of the television. She laughed heartily, smiled broadly, waved her stiff arms with excitement, and focused on every word and expression of this gentle man. Even after her body became too large for her to move on her own, the sound of that familiar song still brought light into her face.
When Dawn lived in a home for people with profound developmental disabilities, her caregivers understood how meaningful Mr. Rogers was to her. They made sure her wheelchair was placed in front of the television when his program came on. The whole unit would pause to watch Dawn’s response. When Mr. Rogers ended each program with, “It’s such a good feeling,” everyone waited quietly. Dawn would lower her head, tears would stream down her face, her brow would tighten, and her body would shake as she cried. Her response was deep, honest, and full of feeling. She understood something in him that touched her soul.
I am grateful to the caregivers who saw Dawn not only through the lens of her limitations, but through the joy she was capable of feeling. I am grateful to the people who helped me care for her: those who found diapers that fit, helped with feeding, built her special chair, and created a safe and familiar space for her.
One caregiver was so moved by Dawn’s love for Mr. Rogers that she wrote to him in Pittsburgh. In return, Dawn received a package containing a letter addressed to her, a Neighborhood T-shirt, his photograph, and his book, Won’t You Be My Neighbor? That act of kindness honored Dawn as a person worthy of being seen, remembered, and loved.
Mr. Rogers died on February 27, 2003. Dawn died two months later, on April 27, at the age of thirty-one. I like to believe she found the peace and understanding her soul was seeking.
Dawn’s life continues to teach me that love is not always easy, comfortable, or returned in familiar ways. It is, as Mr. Rogers said, an active noun—a striving to accept someone exactly as they are, right here and now. For Dawn, for Mr. Rogers, and for all who helped us along the way, I am deeply grateful.