I often find myself reflecting on our friendship – how much I treasure it and how rarely we actually connect these days. We laugh it off, claiming life is just too hectic with jobs and kids. We keep promising to carve out time for each other, but the whirlwind of daily life seems to always take precedence. Maybe one day, we’ll actually make it happen.
But I’m starting to question if that’s a genuine hope for me. We’re different now. We’re friends, sure, but also family. I adore you and your little ones, yet there’s a gap between us that we try to ignore.
I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not reaching out to make plans. I’m sorry for avoiding commitments. Most of all, I’m sorry for frequently canceling.
This morning was another early wake-up call at 3:07 a.m. with my son, Max. This is my routine. Some mornings, he screams. Other days, he kicks. There are moments when I feel like I might just break. And there are countless days where I’m unsure how I’ll manage to get through.
I could share all of this with you, but I know it sounds unbelievable, like I’m stuck on repeat. So, I end up canceling or dodging plans. I can’t give you a clear answer because every single day is a different challenge. You need to understand that the burden I carry is weightier than just our friendship; it’s out of my hands.
I sense the distance between us too. It’s palpable. I miss you. I miss our connection. Most importantly, I miss the friend I used to be.
I’m aware that I’m not the person you once knew. I was fun and spontaneous. I know some of you even speculated if I was dealing with postpartum depression after Max’s arrival. I heard the whispers.
For clarity: I wasn’t.
I just found myself drifting away from your world. I wish I could say it was a gradual shift, but that would be a lie. It was a sudden change the moment Max was born. Before that, we were in sync – navigating college, planning weddings, preparing for babies. We were young and carefree. I was blissfully unaware of the storm that would soon take over my life.
Then – bam – I was labeled. I became an autism parent. And I felt the weight of that label immediately, often feeling overwhelmed.
When our kids were toddlers, it was one thing. My baby wouldn’t sleep. Yours did. Mine cried non-stop. Yours was thriving. I was exhausted and could hardly think of anything except how to prove my child wasn’t on the spectrum. I noticed when you began to miss my presence. I felt myself slipping away, and I was very aware of it happening.
I could pretend back then. Our little ones were infants. Every mom was exhausted. We’d occasionally slip away for a drink and laugh about the chaos of motherhood. We discussed future vacations we’d take when our kids were older.
But then the differences in Max started to emerge. This was no longer just a fussy baby; it was much more serious. The contrast between our children became more pronounced whenever we were together.
We’d share stories about other moms who faced similar challenges, and how everything turned out fine for them. You’d send me articles about late talkers, and we both agreed it wasn’t autism.
Then, I got the diagnosis.
Suddenly, my life revolved around doctors, therapies, and IEP meetings. I felt like we were worlds apart. I was watching myself fade into the background, feeling displaced and insignificant. Most heartbreakingly, I felt envious.
Your child was meeting milestones. Mine wasn’t. Your little one spoke her first words. Mine struggled. While you were celebrating potty training, I was still searching for size 7 diapers.
And just like that, I vanished into this new reality.
I stopped reaching out. I withdrew completely.
That’s the raw truth. We can dance around it, but you can say all you want about how you’re okay with Max. I hear it from family and friends all the time. I know you care about him. But the reality is my son is not like yours.
And I want to sincerely apologize for that.
It’s not you; you’re a fantastic 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 often. The logistics of preparing for a visit are monumental. Do you have a fence? Wi-Fi? Pets? Do you mind a little chaos? The list goes on: Snacks? Sippy cups? Milk? In a way, I still have a newborn – a hefty 60-pound toddler who can wreak havoc.
I believe you when you say you love Max and don’t mind the chaos.
But I do, my friend. I care deeply about how I parent in front of you. I worry about not being able to sit and chat because of Max’s needs. I think about waking up at 3:15 a.m. and the time I accidentally spilled on your floor while changing my 6-year-old.
In the back of my mind, I wonder how long you’ll stick around. When will it be too much to handle?
I want to assure you that I wake up each day with optimism, but by the end of it, I’m often drained. It takes all my strength just to respond to your texts.
I notice your posts on Facebook, like when you sign your daughter up for gymnastics or tee-ball. Meanwhile, I’m over here researching special needs strollers, figuring out how to finance one, and worrying about how to take it out in public without drawing attention.
What you’re doing is incredible, and I’m genuinely thrilled for you. Your children are beautiful, and you’re an amazing mom.
I just feel a world away.
I need your forgiveness.
I’m trying to cut you some slack, knowing autism isn’t your life – it’s mine.
Thank you for standing by me. Please don’t give up on me. Your kids will keep growing and thriving, while I sometimes fear Max and I will remain stuck in this same spot.
An amazing little boy and his mom, just trying to find our place.
Please remember us. We’re doing our best to fit into your world, and I truly love you.
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Summary
In this heartfelt reflection, a mother opens up about withdrawing from her friends after her son receives an autism diagnosis. She shares the struggles of parenting a child with special needs, the weight of societal expectations, and the emotional toll it takes on her friendships. Despite feeling distant, she expresses a deep love for her friends and a desire to reconnect, all while navigating the complexities of her new reality.