My dear little one,
As I pen this letter, I realize you may never read it, as I might choose to keep it hidden away. There’s so much I wish to convey, but considering you’re only 7, I think it’s best to share it with the world instead.
If I had the ability, I would change certain aspects of your life to ease your journey. Yet, my role isn’t to alter the past but to enhance your present and future as best as I can.
I can only guess at the challenges you face each day in silence. I will never fully grasp the depth of your confusion or the way your mind interprets the world around you. I may not understand why you stim for days or why there are periods of silence, but it pains me to see you struggle without a way to help. I strive to empathize, but true understanding will come when you can share your feelings with me.
Witnessing the teasing from other kids is infuriating. I make an effort to educate those around you, hoping they will become more supportive as you grow. I wish you could remain oblivious to their hurtful comments. You are such a joyful child, and I am determined that the opinions of others, especially those of peers who should be your allies, do not tarnish your view of life. Just last week, I had to address a boy who was mocking your speech; you didn’t see it, but it shattered my heart. After our conversation, I had to hold back my tears until we were alone in the car. I do my best to stay strong in front of you, but sometimes my resolve falters.
It has been just you and me since you were a baby. I regret that your father isn’t present in your life and that you’ve had to come to terms with the absence of a great dad. I’m sorry it took time for me to explain that you don’t have one, especially as you began to notice that other kids do. But guess what? We are thriving together. You have me, and you have an incredible grandmother who loves you dearly.
I know we sometimes clash over meals. While I understand your desire to live on chips and candy, I have to prioritize your health. I make you drink meal replacement shakes because I love you. So can we try not to battle over this anymore? One day, you might just accept that I am the “boss” (though probably not).
I love you immensely, but I find myself frustrated with autism. I detest the silent battles you face, the constant worry that fills my mind, and the fight for the services you need to thrive. I particularly dislike the unkind individuals who judge you based on a single public meltdown. To those people, I say, enough.
You are a resilient and strong boy, and you inspire me every day. Your stubbornness (which you undoubtedly inherited from me) sometimes leads to power struggles, but know this, Jaxon: you have my whole heart, and nothing will ever alter the admiration I have for you.
With love always,
Mama