There was a quiet realization nestled deep within me. Something felt off. Why doesn’t he look at me? Shouldn’t he seem more engaged? Is this how all boys are? If I were a better mother, I would surely know.
For months, I pushed these thoughts away, immersing myself in playdates, preparing the nursery for my second son, planning family trips, and convincing myself that he would eventually catch up. Boys develop at their own pace, I reassured myself. He will speak when he’s ready. He’s just shy. Maybe he’s just being stubborn. But guilt weighed on me heavily. Had I read him enough stories? Was I choosing the right books? Should I have introduced sign language earlier? I should have opted for organic baby food. Perhaps it was all my fault for letting him listen to pop music instead of classical.
As time passed, that quiet voice grew louder. He still wasn’t talking. He didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t respond when I called his name. Expressing emotions seemed challenging for him. At times, he looked right past me. He walked on his toes, flapped his arms, and spun around when excited. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It had to be autism. I had been a teacher before he was born; I recognized the signs.
So, 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 be on the autism spectrum.” Saying the word “autism” out loud felt like a weight pressing down on my heart. After hanging up, I curled up on the couch, tears flowing. My firstborn—a wave of emotions crashed over me. Why us? What did I do wrong?
Months rolled on. We were happy. We were good parents. We celebrated his second birthday, and our newborn’s dramatic entrance into the world was a story for the ages. Life was good; in fact, it was great. The guilt that had once engulfed me began to diminish.
Then came the day I sat with my husband on a hard couch, our newborn nestled between us while our toddler remained with his babysitter. Across from us sat a psychologist whose demeanor was as rigid as her professional attire. After reviewing tests, teacher feedback, and observing our son, she delivered the news: “I can confidently say that your son has moderate autism. The results are clear.”
At 10:42 AM on a sunny Monday, everything changed. Our family transformed, and to my surprise, it was for the better. In that moment, I began to let go of the guilt. I didn’t cause this. No one did. The weight lifted; the burdens I carried dissipated.
We gained insight into why my son is unique. He is different, and that’s perfectly okay. My son has autism, and without it, he wouldn’t be the wonderful little boy he is. He brings so much joy—he loves to wrestle and tickle his dad before bedtime, explore the outdoors, watch Elmo videos on YouTube, and dance freely at school.
Just yesterday, while shopping at Target, he cupped my face in his hands and planted a big, slobbery kiss on my lips. You may take those moments for granted, but for me, it was a significant step forward—a connection I had longed for. I found myself tearing up in the aisle, surrounded by Halloween costumes, feeling grateful for the journey we’re on. He has taught me about love and resilience, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
Autism doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change anything.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative reflects a mother’s journey as she navigates the early signs of her son’s autism. What began as guilt and uncertainty transformed into understanding and acceptance. She chronicles the moment of diagnosis, embracing her son’s uniqueness and celebrating the joy he brings to their lives. Ultimately, autism becomes a part of their story—a story filled with love, connection, and growth.