As I sit and reflect on our friendship, I’m overwhelmed with love for you, even though we rarely connect. We often joke about how busy life has become—jobs, kids, and the endless chaos that fills our days. We always say we’ll find time to meet up, but somehow that time never materializes. Someday, I hope we’ll truly reunite and enjoy each other’s company.
But I’m beginning to question if that’s a reality for me. Our lives have diverged, and while we share a bond as friends and family, I feel a distance growing between us that we both try to ignore.
I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not making plans with you, for my reluctance to commit, and most of all, for the times I cancel at the last minute.
Just this morning, I found myself awake at 3:07 a.m. with my son, Henry. This is a routine occurrence in my life. Some days he cries, other days he thrashes in frustration. There are moments when I feel utterly defeated. And there are mornings when I wonder how I’ll get through the day, let alone the week.
I could share all of this with you, but it often feels unbelievable, like I’m repeating myself. So instead, I withdraw or avoid making plans altogether. I hesitate to give you a straight answer because each day in my life feels unpredictable and overwhelming. The weight I carry is heavier than I can express—beyond our friendship, and completely outside my control.
I sense the strain in our relationship. I miss you, I miss us, and I grieve for the version of myself that used to be so present and engaged.
I am aware that I am not the person you once knew. I used to be full of energy, always ready for anything. I know there were whispers about whether I experienced postpartum depression after Henry was born, but I want to clarify that I didn’t.
It’s just that I no longer fit into your world. I wish I could say it was a gradual change, but that’s not the case. It was immediate—the day Henry arrived. Before that, we shared similar experiences—college, wedding planning, preparing for babies. We were vibrant and blissful, unaware of the challenges that would soon engulf my life.
Then everything shifted. I became an autism parent, and that label weighed heavily on my shoulders. Sometimes it felt like too much to bear.
In the early days, it was manageable. My baby didn’t sleep soundly, while yours did. He cried constantly, and I felt drained. My thoughts revolved around proving that my son wasn’t autistic, and I noticed you beginning to miss the person I used to be. I was acutely aware of the distance growing between us.
At first, I could still pretend everything was okay. Our children were newborns, and we were all exhausted. We’d sneak away for laughs over a glass of wine, sharing stories of motherhood and the adventures we’d have when our kids were older.
But then it became clear that Henry’s challenges were more significant than sleepless nights or temperamental behavior. The differences between our children became impossible to ignore.
We exchanged stories about other mothers whose children overcame similar hurdles, and I held on to the hope that we would be fine—until the day I received the diagnosis.
Suddenly, my life revolved around doctors, therapies, and individualized education plans (IEPs). Our conversations shifted, and I found myself feeling more isolated. I felt invisible, irrelevant, and, honestly, jealous.
Your child reached milestones; mine struggled. You celebrated first words, while I dealt with tantrums. You easily potty trained your little one, while I was still searching for size 7 diapers for mine. I completely retreated into this new reality.
I stopped reaching out. I withdrew completely. That’s the bare truth. You can say you’re okay with Henry, and I appreciate your love for him. But the truth is, he is not like your child.
I want to express my sincere apologies. This isn’t about you. You are a wonderful friend, and I cherish you. But I’ve drifted away, and I’m unsure how to bridge that gap.
I regret that we don’t visit each other more often. The logistics of preparing for a visit are daunting. Do you have a fence? Wi-Fi? Pets? What about the mess? The list is endless. Snacks, sippy cups, milk—it’s like preparing for a small expedition. It feels like I still have a newborn—a hefty 60-pound one who can cause chaos.
I believe you when you say you love Henry and that you don’t mind the noise. But I do care. I care about how I parent in front of you, how I can’t sit and chat freely because of Henry’s needs. I care about waking up at 3:15 a.m. and dealing with accidents in your home while changing my 6-year-old.
I often wonder how long you’ll be able to handle it. When will it become too much?
Despite everything, I wake up each day with optimism. I have the best intentions, but by the end of the day, I often feel overwhelmed. Responding to a late text from you can feel like an insurmountable task.
I see your posts on social media about signing your child up for activities—gymnastics or tee-ball or whatever else kids are doing these days. Each time, I feel a pang of sadness. Meanwhile, I’m over here researching special needs strollers, trying to figure out how to afford one and how to muster the courage to use it in public. I want one that won’t draw too much attention.
What you’re doing is wonderful. Your kids are thriving, and you’re a remarkable parent. I’m genuinely happy for you. But I just can’t be a part of it right now.
I need your understanding and forgiveness. I’m letting you off the hook. Autism is my reality, not yours.
Thank you for standing by me through this. Please don’t give up on me. Your children will continue to flourish, and there are moments when I fear that Henry and I will remain stuck in the same place.
Just remember us. We’re trying our best to adapt to your world, and I love you for that.
Summary
This reflection dives deep into the emotional distance that can develop between friends when one becomes a parent of a child with special needs. The author expresses regret for withdrawing from friendships due to the overwhelming challenges of parenting a child with autism. Amidst the chaos, there’s a plea for understanding and forgiveness, emphasizing the importance of maintaining connections even when circumstances change drastically.