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.