It began as a gentle murmur in my heart. Something feels different. Why doesn’t he look me in the eye? Shouldn’t he feel more connected with me? Is this typical boy behavior? If I were a better mom, I would understand.
For months, I brushed aside those thoughts while juggling playdates, preparing the nursery for my second son, planning family trips, and convincing myself he would eventually catch up. Boys mature slower than girls, I reassured myself. He’ll talk; he’s just shy and introspective. But deep down, I felt responsible. Had I not read to him enough? Was I choosing the wrong books? Should I have introduced sign language earlier? Perhaps I should have opted for organic baby food. Maybe it was all that pop music instead of classical. I should have enrolled him in art classes rather than gym. This was my fault, and the guilt weighed heavily on me, like an ocean pulling me under.
As time went on, that quiet voice in my heart transformed into a clear message in my mind. He’s still not speaking. He doesn’t respond to his name. He struggles to show emotions. He occasionally seems to look right through me. He walks on his toes, flaps his arms, and spins when he’s excited. Something isn’t right. Autism. You know it’s autism. Remember your teaching background? You recognize the signs. Stop ignoring them.
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 has autism.” The words felt like a heavy weight settling on my heart. After hanging up, I curled up on the couch and cried. My firstborn—what had I done or failed to do? Why us?
Time continued to pass. We were happy. We celebrated his second birthday. Our newborn arrived dramatically, nearly making his entrance in the car. Life was good, even great, as the waves of guilt gradually receded and the weight on my heart lifted.
Two months later, I found myself sitting on an uncomfortable couch with my husband, our newborn sleeping between us, while our toddler was at home with a babysitter. Across from us sat a woman who looked like she could use a fashion makeover. She was serious and direct, her words poised to change our lives forever. “Based on our discussions, tests, and observations, I can confidently say your son has moderate autism. The results are clear.”
At 10:42 AM on a sunny Monday, my entire perspective shifted. Our family transformed, and believe it or not, it was for the better. Just a minute earlier, I might not have believed that, but it’s true. The guilt evaporated. I didn’t cause this. No one did. Goodbye, guilt. Farewell, heavy heart.
Now, I understand my sweet son’s unique ways. He is different, and that’s perfectly okay. My son has autism, and without it, he wouldn’t be the wonderful person he is. He’s playful and loves to wrestle with his dad before bedtime. He enjoys exploring nature and has a fondness for Elmo videos on YouTube. He loves music and dances freely at school.
Just yesterday, while shopping at Target, he pulled my face close and gave me a big, slobbery kiss. You might take such moments for granted with your child, but for me, it signifies progress, connection, and sheer joy. It’s something I prayed for just months ago, and I wasn’t ashamed to find myself crying by the discounted Halloween costumes. He has made me a mom, teaching me to become the person and parent I aspire to be. I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
Autism doesn’t change that. It doesn’t alter my love or pride.
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In summary, embracing my son’s autism has led to an understanding of who he is and the joy he brings to our lives. The journey has transformed my perspective, replacing guilt with gratitude and connection.