Vachon Imagined

There were many things I could not do.

Now, before the positivity chorus arrives with its inspirational quotes, bright smiles, and enough sunshine to burn the flesh, hear me out.

I know the message.

You can do anything you put your mind to.

There are no limits.

Anything is possible if you just believe.

And while there is beauty in encouragement, we often take a beautiful truth and turn it into something rigid. We make people feel as if admitting a limitation is a failure of character, as if saying I can’t is somehow a betrayal of ambition, courage, or faith.

But “I can’t” is the truth of a moment.

I could not do geometry in high school.

I could not hoop on the basketball court.

Now, technically, could I have learned? Sure. Could I have practiced and improved? Absolutely.

But let’s be clear: I was no Einstein in mathematics, and I was certainly no Caitlin Clark on the basketball court.

And the bigger truth is—I did not want to.

I had no desire to spend hours practicing geometry proofs or shooting baskets. It was not my path. It was not where my attention, my energy, or my passion wanted to go.

Every time one of those subjects came up, I could feel the blood rush to my face. That familiar feeling of Oh God, not this again.

My son now says the words, “I can’t,” and I believe him.

Because children often understand something adults forget: the difference between impossibility and unreadiness.

My son, who is on the autism spectrum, could not walk at six months old. It was not possible. Babies generally do not walk that early, and that was simply where he was in his development.

He also could not open doors.

Not because he lacked intelligence.

Not because he lacked determination.

Not because he was incapable.

His brain simply had not yet built the pathways needed to communicate the sequence: hand, reach, grasp, turn, open.

The connection was not there yet.

So he worked with occupational therapy for years.

Through repetition, patience, and support, he strengthened his hands. He developed coordination. He created new pathways. What once seemed impossible became something his body and brain could accomplish.

That is the part we often miss.

Growth is not magic.

Growth is not pretending the obstacle does not exist.

Growth is honoring where someone is and helping them build from there.

I think all people are this way.

Where there is desire, there is determination.

Where there is determination, there is attention.

Where there is attention, there is growth.

And where there is growth, there is possibility.

Now, logically, there are things we cannot do.

I cannot become a car.

I cannot become a seven-foot-tall basketball player.

There are realities beyond desire.

But those were never my calling.

And what I have learned, especially from raising a son who is uniquely and wonderfully created, is that “you can’t” is not the end of a sentence.

It is the beginning.

It is an honest acknowledgment of where we stand before we begin the work of becoming.

Not now.

Not yet.

Not this way.

Not without help.

Not without time.

The miracle is not believing we have no limits.

The miracle is understanding ourselves deeply enough to know which limits are real, which limits are temporary, and which ones are waiting for patience, support, and love to transform.

Because becoming is not just about pretending we are already there.

It is also the sacred space between I can’t and I can.