Often when I go to home of people who have small children, the

When André the Giant said, “Often when I go to the home of people who have small children, the children will run from me, even though they have seen me on television. I understand why they do this but it is a sad feeling for me, even so,” he revealed the quiet sorrow that lives within the hearts of those who appear larger than life. These words, spoken by a man whose body was immense but whose spirit was gentle, carry the timeless pain of the misunderstood—the souls who are feared not for what they do, but for what they are. His sadness was not only personal; it was the sorrow of every being who has ever been judged by appearance rather than essence.

To understand his sadness, one must understand the man behind the myth. Born André René Roussimoff, he suffered from gigantism, a condition that made him grow beyond ordinary human size. To the world, he was a spectacle—a wrestler, a legend, a living colossus. But to himself, he was simply a man longing for the same tenderness that smaller hearts often take for granted. When children fled from him in fear, they did not see the gentle soul who played the hero Fezzik in The Princess Bride, or the kind friend who loved laughter and companionship—they saw only the giant, the unfamiliar, the overwhelming. And in that instant of their fear, André’s heart felt the chill of isolation that no fame could warm.

There is a profound truth here, as old as humanity itself: greatness often walks hand in hand with loneliness. The mighty are admired, but rarely embraced. The strong are respected, but seldom understood. The towering oak stands tall, but it does not receive the affection that the tender rose is given. So it was with André—the man whose size made him legendary also made him distant. Like the Titans of Greek myth, he carried the weight of his own difference with quiet dignity, never resenting the smallness of others, only mourning the gulf it created between hearts.

In ancient times, storytellers spoke of those who bore physical or spiritual burdens that set them apart. Hephaestus, the lame god of fire, forged beauty from pain but was mocked by his peers. Grendel, the lonely monster of Beowulf, yearned for belonging but was cast into darkness. Even Samson, the mighty warrior, found that strength isolated him as much as it empowered him. These figures remind us, as André does, that to be extraordinary is to dwell at the edges of understanding. The world worships difference from afar but trembles when it comes near.

And yet, in André’s gentle understanding, there is wisdom greater than sorrow. He says, “I understand why they do this.” There is no bitterness, no anger—only compassion for those who fear what they cannot yet comprehend. This is the mark of a noble spirit: to be hurt by rejection, but not hardened by it. His sadness was human, but his forgiveness was divine. Like a mountain that endures the wind without hatred, he bore the weight of his existence with grace, turning his pain into patience.

The meaning of his words extends far beyond his life. It is a lesson for every age and every heart: that empathy must reach beyond comfort, that we must look deeper than the surface of what we see. How many souls have we avoided because they seemed strange? How many hearts have we wounded with the cruelty of instinctive fear? André’s story reminds us that to approach others with courage and curiosity is to honor the shared humanity that binds us all, regardless of form.

In our time, when people still judge by color, shape, size, or difference, André’s sadness stands as both a warning and a call to compassion. He teaches us that kindness begins where fear ends. The next time we meet someone who seems unfamiliar—too loud, too quiet, too big, too small—we must remember that they too wish to be seen, not as an oddity, but as a fellow traveler on the road of life. For behind every face, no matter how different, beats a heart longing to be understood.

So, let this be the teaching of the gentle giant: do not flee from what is strange. Approach it with wonder. Listen to the story it carries. The sadness of André the Giant was not that he was feared, but that he could not fully share the tenderness he carried within him. May we, who have heard his words, learn to see beyond the surface, and in doing so, make the world a little less lonely for those who stand apart.