The Playground Isn't Always Play: Watching My Child Try to Make Friends

 

💔 The Playground Isn’t Always Play: Watching My Child Try to Make Friends

There’s a particular ache that lives in the chest of a mother whose child stands on the edge of a group, hopeful and hesitant. It’s not the loud kind of pain—the kind that comes with scraped knees or broken bones. It’s quieter. It hums beneath the surface. It’s the ache of watching your child try to connect in a world that doesn’t always know how to meet them halfway.

My son is on the autism spectrum. He’s brilliant, funny, and endlessly curious. He can tell you the life cycle of a shark in vivid detail or build entire worlds out of cardboard and tape. But social cues? They’re a foreign language. And friendship, that elusive dance of give and take, often feels like a song he hasn’t been taught the lyrics to.

I’ve watched him approach kids with the kind of courage that makes me want to cry. He’ll walk up, toy in hand, eyes bright, and say something like, “Do you want to see my dinosaur roar?” And sometimes—blessedly—another child will say yes. But more often, they look confused. They turn away. They run off. And he’s left standing there, dinosaur still roaring, heart still open.

And mine? Mine breaks a little more each time.

I want to scoop him up and tell him he’s perfect. That friendship isn’t about fitting in—it’s about finding people who see you, really see you. But he’s six. He just wants someone to play tag with.

There are days I sit in my car and cry. Not because I’m ashamed or angry—but because I’m grieving the ease I wish he had. The spontaneous giggles. The shared secrets. The birthday party invitations that never come.

But then there are moments—glorious, unexpected moments—when connection happens. When a classmate joins him in lining up toy cars or asks about his favorite animal. When he laughs with someone, not just near them. And in those moments, I feel hope bloom like spring after a long winter.

I’ve learned that friendship for my son may look different. It may come slower, be quieter, and require more scaffolding. But it’s no less beautiful. And he is no less worthy of it.

To the other moms out there watching from the sidelines, holding your breath as your child reaches out—I see you. I feel your ache. And I celebrate your child’s brave heart.

Because trying, even when it’s hard, is a kind of triumph.