“You Don’t Know My Story But I Do”

 

  Five years ago, I stood in front of my son, begging him to say the word “mom.” He just stared at me—blankly, silently—as if he no longer knew who I was. Just weeks earlier, Boston had been babbling like any one-year-old, joyfully saying “mom” with ease. But now, there was nothing. No words. Just that vacant gaze. Do you know what that feels like for a mother?

In that moment, I knew our lives had changed forever. It was one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my motherhood. The guilt consumed me like a tidal wave. Had I done something wrong? Why was this happening? I would give up anything just to hear the word mom again.

For the last five years, I lived the waiting rooms of speech therapy clinics, doctor’s offices, and rehabilitation centers—desperate to help Boston find his voice again. Every waking moment with every ounce of energy I had in me, I was by his side, navigating this unfamiliar world together. I never gave up, pushing to find answers.

I’ve cried oceans of tears trying to make sense of it all—trying to understand why my beautiful boy has autism. And though the grief still lingers, so does the fierce love. Boston may have lost his words, but he never lost his light. 

Every day, we live in a world shaped by autism. Boston is the light of my life, but many days are hard. The uncertainty—never knowing what each moment might bring—can be overwhelming. Still, I will always advocate for Boston with every fiber of my being. I’m not a perfect parent, but my love for him is unconditional. And despite the challenges, he is thriving in a world that doesn’t always see him.

The other day, someone I once considered family called me a terrible parent—and, in not so many words, a horrible human being. They were judging me for an incident at a family gathering where Boston became overstimulated and had a major meltdown.

At first, I was stunned. Do they not understand what I’ve been through over the past five years? The countless hours spent researching, agonizing, and working to help my son. The relentless effort to support Boston in becoming as independent as possible. And then came the heartbreak—the deep, aching sadness that follows when someone calls you a bad mom. It took me right back to that day when Boston stopped saying “mom.” The guilt and shame returned with a vengeance.

Why would another parent tear someone down—especially when they know nothing of the journey? It’s been three days since that moment, and I’m still trying to make sense of the cruelty. Maybe I never will. But I’ve come to this conclusion: nobody truly knows what you’re going through but you. It’s easy to judge from the outside, but only you know your heart, your intent, and the depth of your love.

I know Boston better than anyone. I’ve been by his side every single day for five years. Our bond is unbreakable—and no one will ever tear that apart.

To the parents who’ve been judged, misunderstood, or hurt by cruel comments—I see you. You’re not alone. There are so many of us walking this path. Don’t let the haters dim your light. Keep advocating. Keep loving. Keep showing up.

Parenting in Full Color

🌱 Parenting in Full Color: Embracing the Sensory World of a Child on the Spectrum

Some days, parenting feels like stepping into a kaleidoscope. The world is brighter, louder, sharper, and softer all at once. My child doesn’t just see the sunlight through the trees—he feels it, tracing the shifting patterns with wide-eyed wonder. A plush bison isn’t just a toy; it’s a grounding anchor, a safe place to return to when the world spins too fast. Parenting a child on the spectrum means learning to live in this full-color world, where every detail matters and every sense tells a story.

🌟 Understanding the Sensory Lens

Children on the spectrum often experience the world differently—not wrong, not broken, just different. A buzzing light might feel like a roar. A scratchy tag might feel unbearable. But a single note of music, a ripple in water, or the texture of soft grass can bring joy so pure it stops you in your tracks.

As parents, our role isn’t to dim that sensory world but to understand it. To notice what overwhelms and what delights. To honor the way our children, experience life, even when it doesn’t match our own.

🛋️ Creating Spaces of Comfort

One of the most powerful tools we have is shaping the environment.

• Quiet corners with soft textures and familiar objects can become safe havens.
• Predictable routines help reduce anxiety and give children a sense of control.
• Sensory kits—with headphones, fidgets, or weighted blankets—can transform overwhelming moments into manageable ones.

These aren’t just strategies; they’re acts of love. They say, I see you. I hear you. I want you to feel safe in your own skin.

💡 Reframing Perspective

Parenting a child on the spectrum has taught me to slow down. To notice the way wind moves through leaves, the rhythm of footsteps on gravel, the sparkle in my child’s eyes when he finds something fascinating. What once felt like a challenge now feels like an invitation—to see the world differently, to celebrate the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Neurodiversity isn’t something to “fix.” It’s something to embrace. Our children remind us that there are infinite ways to be human, infinite ways to find joy, infinite ways to belong.

🌈 Closing Reflection

Parenting in full color means walking beside your child as they navigate a world that doesn’t always understand them. It means advocating fiercely, loving deeply, and learning constantly. But it also means being gifted with a new way of seeing—one that is richer, more textured, and more alive than you ever imagined.

So, when the world feels too loud, too bright, or too much, I remember: my child is teaching me how to listen, how to notice, how to live in full color. And that is the greatest gift of all.