Some days, I just want the world to pause—long enough to breathe, to think, to be still. The endless appointments, plans, and responsibilities can wear you down. And those questions like, “Where do you see him in five years?”—they sting.
What I want to say is: “I want him to wake up without autism. I want to help him pick out a tux for prom. I want to tour colleges with him and beam with pride at his graduation. I want to see him grow into a husband and father, visiting me with his family.”
But instead, I say what they expect: “We’re working on independence. He needs to build self-care skills.”
Sometimes, you can’t say what’s in your heart. People only understand what they’ve been taught. I’ve told a few professionals, “This isn’t a job for me—it’s my life. I don’t clock out. This is 24/7.” They need to see the full picture, not just the textbook version.
Yes, we laugh, we smile, we celebrate the wins—but it still hurts. It hurts to see your child struggle, to see them uncomfortable in their own skin, to watch them melt down because they can’t express what they feel.
But we keep going. We fight for them, every single day.
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