Parenting Through the Noise: When Politics Touch Autism

 

🧩 Parenting Through the Noise: When Politics Touch Autism

I never imagined that parenting my son Boston—bright-eyed, bison-loving, and beautifully autistic—would one day feel like a political act. But here we are.

Earlier this week, President Donald Trump made headlines with comments suggesting that acetaminophen (Tylenol) use during pregnancy might be linked to autism. He urged pregnant women to “fight like hell” to avoid it and echoed long-debunked claims about vaccines. He even referenced the Amish community as an example of low autism prevalence, implying that modern medicine might be to blame.

For many, these remarks were just another headline. For parents like me, they were a gut punch.

💔 When Words Reopen Wounds

Raising a child with autism already means navigating a world that often misunderstands him. It means decoding sensory overloads, advocating in school meetings, and celebrating victories others might overlook—like a new word spoken, or a meltdown averted.

But when the most powerful voice in the country implies that our children’s neurology is a preventable mistake? That’s not just misinformation. That’s emotional sabotage.

I remember the guilt I carried during pregnancy. Every snack, every medicine, every moment of stress—I wondered if I was doing something wrong. And now, years later, to hear a president suggest that Boston’s autism might have been caused by something I did. It’s cruel. It’s reckless. And it’s wrong.

🧠 What the Science Actually Says

Medical experts swiftly responded. The FDA clarified that while some studies have explored potential associations between acetaminophen and neurodevelopmental outcomes, no causal link has been established. The American Academy of Pediatrics and the Autism Science Foundation reaffirmed that acetaminophen remains safe when used appropriately during pregnancy.

Vaccines, too, have been exhaustively studied. They do not cause autism. Period.

But the damage of misinformation isn’t just scientific—it’s emotional. It plants seeds of doubt in parents already stretched thin. It fuels stigma. It distracts from the real work of supporting autistic children and building inclusive communities.

👩‍👧‍👦 My Children Are Not Cautionary Tales

Boston is six. He has short blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a stocky build. He loves his plush bison and finds comfort in routine. His autism isn’t something to be feared—it’s part of who he is. It shapes how he sees the world, how he loves, how he learns.

Our story isn’t tragic. It’s tender. It’s resilient. It’s real.

Sensory Breaks That Spark Joy, Focus, and Regulation

 

🌈 Sensory Breaks That Spark Joy, Focus, and Regulation

In classrooms and homes alike, children—especially those who are neurodiverse—often need more than just a moment of quiet. They need movement, rhythm, and intentional sensory input to reset, regulate, and re-engage. That’s where sensory break videos come in—not as filler, but as transformative tools for emotional well-being and learning readiness.

Whether you're a teacher navigating transitions or a parent supporting your child through a tough moment, these videos offer a gentle, joyful way to meet sensory needs with purpose.

💡 Why Sensory Breaks Matter

Sensory breaks aren’t just about movement—they’re about emotional safety, inclusion, and giving children the tools to self-regulate. For neurodiverse learners, these moments can be the difference between overwhelm and engagement. And for all children, they build body awareness, emotional literacy, and resilience.

🧠 Designed with Heart and Science

These videos are more than just exercises—they’re crafted with a deep understanding of educational psychology and the lived experiences of neurodiverse children. They reflect a commitment to inclusion, empathy, and joy.

So, whether you're building a sensory-friendly classroom, supporting transitions at home, or simply looking for ways to help kids feel seen and safe—these sensory break videos are your toolkit for connection.

Check the links at the side of my blog for Sensory Digital Products.

Autism Isn't a Diagnosis--It's a Relationship

 

🧠 Autism Isn’t a Diagnosis—It’s a Relationship

When I first heard the word “autism,” it came wrapped in paperwork.
Clinical terms. Developmental delays. A diagnosis.
But what I’ve learned since then is this: autism isn’t a diagnosis.
It’s a relationship.

It’s the way my son reaches for his plush bison when the world feels too loud.
It’s the way he scripts movie lines to say, “I love you.”
It’s the way I’ve learned to listen—not just with my ears, but with my heart.

🌈 Beyond the Label

A diagnosis might open doors to services.
But it doesn’t define the child.
It doesn’t capture the joy of stimming in the sunlight.
It doesn’t explain the deep, intuitive bond between a mother and her neurodivergent child.

Autism isn’t a checklist.
It’s a way of being.
A way of relating to the world with honesty, intensity, and beauty.

💌 The Language of Connection

Boston doesn’t always speak in words. but he speaks.

In patterns. In routines. In the way he trusts me to understand him—even when others don’t.

Autism has taught me a new language.
One built on visual schedules, sensory-friendly spaces, and emotional attunement.
It’s not less. It’s more.

More intentional.

More tender.
More true.

🧩 From Diagnosis to Dialogue

When we treat autism as a diagnosis, we focus on deficits.
When we treat it as a relationship, we focus on connection.

We stop asking, “What’s wrong?”
And start asking, “What does this child need to feel safe, seen, and celebrated?”

That shift changes everything.

🌻 A Love That Listens Differently

Autism isn’t something to fix.
It’s something to understand.
To honor.
To build a life around.

In our home, autism is woven into our routines, our storybooks, our affirmation cards.
It’s not a diagnosis we carry.
It’s a relationship we nurture.

And it’s beautiful.

What I Wish I Could Tell Every Mom

 

💌 What I Wish I Could Tell Every Mom

The morning light was soft that day, spilling across the kitchen table where Boston sat, his plush bison tucked under one arm. He was lining up his cereal pieces in a perfect row, humming to himself, completely absorbed in his own quiet world.

I watched him, coffee cooling in my hands, and felt that familiar ache—love so fierce it almost hurt, tangled with the weight of knowing how different his path would be. In that moment, I thought about all the mothers who might be sitting at their own tables, feeling the same mix of pride, exhaustion, and uncertainty.

If I could sit across from you, here’s what I’d tell you.

I’d tell you that you are not failing.
That the moments you feel invisible are the very moments you are doing the most important work—holding the pieces together when no one else sees the cracks.

I’d tell you that your child’s pace is not a race.

Milestones are not a scoreboard, and love is not measured in checkboxes.

I’d tell you that it’s okay to grieve and celebrate at the same time.
Joy and sorrow can sit side by side at your kitchen table, and both are welcome.

I’d tell you that the way you see your child—the way you notice the tiny victories, the quiet strengths, the quirks that make them wholly themselves—is a gift the world desperately needs.

I’d tell you that you are allowed to rest.
Your worth is not tied to your productivity, your patience, or your ability to “hold it all together.” I’d tell you that you are not alone.

Even when it feels like no one understands, there is a quiet sisterhood of mothers who carry the same invisible weight, who would nod through your tears and say, me too.

And most of all, I’d tell you that you are enough.
Not because you’ve done everything perfectly, but because you love fiercely in the middle of the mess.

Boston looked up at me then, eyes bright, and handed me one of his cereal pieces as if it were the most natural thing in the world to share. And I thought—this is it. This is the work. This is the love.

Grieving Expectations

 

💔 Grieving Expectations

I didn’t cry when the doctor said “autism.” I cried when I saw the birthday party invitation we never received.

No one prepares you for the quiet grief that comes with parenting a child on the autism spectrum. It’s not the kind of grief people talk about openly. It’s not dramatic or loud. It’s the kind that settles into your bones slowly, like fog creeping in through the cracks of a life you thought you understood.

Before the diagnosis, I had a picture in my head. It was painted with milestones—first words, playdates, soccer games, spontaneous “I love you.” I imagined a childhood that mirrored my own, or at least the one I saw in movies and on Instagram. And then, piece by piece, that picture began to change.

I grieved the expectations. I grieved the ease. I grieved the imagined future.

And then came the guilt. Because how could I mourn something when I had this beautiful, brilliant child right in front of me? How could I feel loss when I was given someone so extraordinary?

But grief and love are not opposites. They can live side by side. I’ve learned that now.

Letting go of expectations didn’t mean giving up. It meant making space—for new dreams, new victories, new definitions of joy. It meant celebrating the moments that others might overlook: a glance held for three seconds longer than usual, a meltdown averted, a joke understood, a hug initiated.

It meant learning to see the world through my child’s eyes—and realizing it was more vibrant, more intricate, and more profound than I ever imagined.

I still grieve sometimes. When I see kids chatting effortlessly on the playground. When I hear parents complain about too many birthday parties. When I wonder what adulthood will look like for my child.

But I also celebrate. I celebrate the way my child lines up his toys with precision and pride. I celebrate the way he flaps his hands when he’s excited. I celebrate the way he loves—purely, fiercely, and without pretense.

Grieving expectations was never about giving up. It was about making room. And in that space, I found something better than the picture I once held I found my child. Exactly as he is. And he is more than enough.

The Day I Stopped Apologizing for My Child's Differences

 

🌼 The Day I Stopped Apologizing for My Child’s Differences

I used to brace myself before every outing. The sideways glances. The unsolicited advice. The apologies I whispered—not to Boston, but to the world around him.

“Sorry, he’s just sensitive to noise.” “Sorry, he doesn’t like hugs.” “Sorry, he’s not trying to be rude.”

But one day, I looked at my son—his hazel eyes scanning the world with quiet intensity, his plush bison clutched like a lifeline—and I realized: I wasn’t sorry. Not even a little.

I was proud.

Proud of the way he navigates a world that wasn’t built for him. Proud of the way he finds joy in patterns, textures, and silence. Proud of the way he teaches me to slow down, to listen deeper, to love without conditions.

That was the day I stopped apologizing. Not because the world changed. But because I did.

Now, when someone stares, I smile. When someone questions, I advocate. When someone misunderstands, I educate.

Boston’s differences aren’t deficits. They’re dimensions. And I will never again shrink them to fit someone else’s comfort.

Sending My Child with Autism to School: A Love Letter to the Morning

 

🌅 Sending My Child with Autism to School: A Love Letter to the Morning

The backpack is packed. The lunch is labeled. The visual schedule is taped to the fridge. And still, my heart feels like it’s holding its breath.

Sending a child with autism to school isn’t just a logistical milestone—it’s an emotional one. It’s the quiet ache of letting go, the hope that their uniqueness will be seen, and the prayer that their needs will be met with kindness.

🧠 Preparing the Path, Gently

For weeks, we’ve been rehearsing the morning routine.

• Wake up with soft light and a favorite song.

• Breakfast served in the same blue bowl.

• Shoes by the door, labeled with left and right.

Each step is a rhythm, a reassurance. Predictability isn’t just helpful—it’s sacred.

We’ve visited the school, walked the hallways, met the teacher. I’ve handed over a one-page sheet that says, “This is my child. Here’s what helps. Here’s what hurts. Here’s what makes him shine.”

💬 The Unspoken Worries

Will he be overwhelmed by the noise in the cafeteria? Will someone understand why he flaps when he’s excited? Will he find a safe space when the world feels too big?

These questions don’t have easy answers. But I send him anyway—not because I’m fearless, but because I believe in his resilience.

🌈 What I Hope They See

I hope they see the way he lines up his crayons in rainbow order. I hope they notice how he hums when he’s focused. I hope they celebrate his victories—no matter how small.

Because every child deserves to be seen not just for who they are, but for who they’re becoming.

💌 To Other Parents Walking This Path

You’re not alone. Your worries are valid. Your love is fierce. Whether your child speaks with words, gestures, or silence—sending them to school is an act of bravery.

So, pack the backpack. Tape up the schedule. And whisper to yourself: "He is ready. And so am I."

 

What Neurodiversity Means to Me

 

🌈 What Neurodiversity Means to Me

Neurodiversity isn’t just a concept I believe in—it’s the lens through which I now see the world. It’s the rhythm of my son’s footsteps as he paces to self-soothe. It’s the way he lines up his toys with precision, creating order in a world that often feels chaotic. It’s the language we speak without words, built on glances, gestures, and the kind of love that doesn’t need translation.

Before Boston’s diagnosis, I thought I understood what it meant to be “different.” But neurodiversity cracked me open. It taught me that brains are not broken—they’re beautifully varied. That communication isn’t always verbal, and connection doesn’t always follow a script.

To me, neurodiversity means honoring the full spectrum of human experience. It means celebrating the child who flaps with joy, who scripts movie lines to feel safe, who finds comfort in repetition. It means fighting for a world that doesn’t just tolerate difference—but embraces it.

It’s not always easy. There are days when the world feels too loud, too fast, too unforgiving. When I watch Boston struggle to make friends, or when I have to explain—again—why he’s not being “difficult,” he’s just overwhelmed. But even in those moments, neurodiversity reminds me: He is not less. He is not broken. He is a soul worth knowing.

Neurodiversity means rewriting the narrative. It means shifting from “fixing” to understanding. From “normalizing” to celebrating. From “coping” to connecting.

It means building a life in full color—where every shade, every hue, every variation is welcome.

Boston is my teacher. Through him, I’ve learned that beauty lives in the unexpected. That progress isn’t linear. That love doesn’t always look like a Hallmark card—it can look like a weighted blanket, a quiet room, a shared smile after a hard day.

Neurodiversity means hope. It means possibility. It means seeing the world not as it should be, but as it truly is—complex, vibrant, and gloriously diverse.