It began as a quiet murmur in my mind. Something feels different. Why doesn’t he make eye contact? Shouldn’t he be more engaged? Is this typical for boys? If I were a better mother, I would know.
For months, I brushed aside these nagging thoughts, immersing myself in playdates, decorating for my second son’s arrival, planning family getaways, and convincing myself he would eventually catch up. Boys are often late bloomers, I reassured myself. He’ll talk; he’s just contemplative and shy. He must be stubborn, I thought. But the blame weighed heavily on me. Was I reading to him enough? Did I choose the wrong books? Should I have introduced sign language earlier? Perhaps I should have opted for organic baby food or played more classical music instead of pop. I felt responsible for his development—or lack thereof. The guilt felt like an endless sea, pulling me under.
As time went on, that whisper escalated into a clear message. He was still not talking, avoiding eye contact, unresponsive to his name, struggling to express feelings. Sometimes, it felt like he was looking right through me. He walked on his toes, flapped his arms, and spun in circles when excited. It was clear: Autism. Deep down, I knew it. I had been a teacher before his arrival; I recognized the signs. It was time to confront the truth.
I reached out to a local child psychologist. “I’d like to schedule an appointment for my son; he just turned two, and I suspect he may have autism.” The weight of saying it aloud was overwhelming, like a ton of bricks pressing on my heart. I made the appointment, curled up on the couch, and cried for my firstborn. Autism… What did I do wrong? Why us?
Days turned into weeks. Our family experienced joy; we celebrated my son’s second birthday. Our newborn arrived with such drama; he nearly made his entrance in the car! Life was good, almost great. Gradually, the guilt began to dissipate, and the weight on my heart lessened.
Two months later, I found myself sitting on a stiff couch with my husband, our newborn nestled between us, while our toddler was at home with a babysitter. A serious woman sat across from us, her demeanor so abrupt that it sent chills down my spine. “Based on our discussions, completed tests, and observations, I can confidently say your son has moderate autism. The results are conclusive.”
That moment, at 10:42 AM on a bright Monday, fundamentally altered our lives. Initially, the news felt daunting, yet I came to realize it was a blessing in disguise. The guilt vanished; this wasn’t my fault. Goodbye, overwhelming ocean of guilt. Goodbye, heavy bricks on my heart.
Now, we understand why my sweet child is who he is. He is indeed different, and that’s perfectly fine. My son has autism, and without it, he wouldn’t be the amazing person he is. He’s joyful, loves tickling and wrestling with his father before bedtime, enjoys exploring nature, and dances freely at school.
Just yesterday at the store, he cupped my face in his tiny hands and planted a big, slobbery kiss on my cheek. Many might take such moments for granted, but for me, it represented progress and connection. I found myself tearing up right in the middle of the Halloween aisle, overwhelmed with gratitude. He has made me a mother and is teaching me how to grow into the person I aspire to be. I wouldn’t change a thing about him.
Autism doesn’t alter that reality; it enhances it.
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