If someone had told me just four months ago that I’d be sharing my journey regarding my daughter’s autism, I would have dismissed it entirely. I simply couldn’t see it back then.
Even when her developmental pediatrician highlighted specific signs during our visit, I remained in disbelief. As he noted his observations in his notebook and watched her play, I felt a wave of numbness wash over me. When he concluded his assessment with certainty that my daughter was on the autism spectrum, the room faded away, and all I could hear was the thumping of my heart in my ears.
In that moment, I felt a flicker of anger towards him as he casually pointed out her lack of eye contact. He mentioned how she would crash toy cars and topple block towers but couldn’t replicate even the simplest structure herself. Despite knowing her shapes, colors, and flashcard pictures, she struggled to follow basic instructions. She communicated by repeating phrases instead of answering simple yes or no questions, and she couldn’t engage in a back-and-forth conversation. I was frustrated. She never asked questions or used pronouns, and her hand-flapping and erratic running were evident.
What upset me most wasn’t the prospect of 15 hours a week of early intervention therapy, the daunting paperwork for her IEP, or the uncertainty of her future. It was realizing that the very traits I cherished about her—everything I believed made her unique and special—were now labeled as symptoms of a disorder.
He didn’t see her as I did. While she might not have been able to create a three-block tower, she could build elaborate and imaginative Duplo cities that far surpassed anything I could design. He failed to recognize her spirited nature, which was so different from my own childhood shyness. Although she didn’t greet other children with a proper introduction, he missed the sheer joy on her face as she enthusiastically approached them with a smile and squeal, attempting to engage in her own non-verbal way. I love that she exists in her own world, seemingly unaware of how she differs from her peers. Some kids appear wary of her, others watch her in curiosity, while a few are eager to join in her adventures.
He didn’t observe how, despite her limited eye contact, her face would light up and she’d laugh joyously when our eyes met. He didn’t see how she would take my face in her tiny hands, pulling me close as if inviting me into her world.
I resisted accepting her ASD diagnosis because I feared it would box her in with labels. It wasn’t until three days later, while waiting in line at a craft store to buy supplies for her tutu skirt for her third birthday, that I began to grasp the importance of the diagnosis. Suddenly, she spiraled into a meltdown, kicking and hitting me as I tried to comfort her. I felt helpless, unable to soothe her while others in line watched and whispered.
It has taken time, but I am gradually coming to terms with the diagnosis. I know we have a long journey ahead of us—learning how to advocate for her and navigating this new chapter. I often find myself analyzing her behavior, questioning what’s typical toddler development versus her autism traits.
Yet, the more I reflect, the less I care about the labels. This diagnosis is crucial because it provides us with the tools to help her thrive, allowing her to create the life she envisions for herself—just like any parent hopes for their child, whether on or off the spectrum. Although I’m uncertain about what the future holds, I firmly believe she will shape her own path, as she is more than the sum of her symptoms. No diagnosis can define her.
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In summary, it’s a journey of acceptance and understanding, recognizing that while the diagnosis may seem daunting, it ultimately equips us to better support our daughter in her unique path.