As I sit here reflecting on our friendship, I can’t help but feel a wave of love mixed with sadness. We often joke about how hectic life has become with work and kids, and while we promise to find time to connect, the reality is that life often takes precedence. I hope that someday we can truly catch up, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s a distant dream.
I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not making plans with you. I’m sorry for hesitating to commit to anything, and I’m especially sorry for the times I’ve canceled.
This morning, I woke up at 3:22 a.m. with my son, Max. This has become a regular occurrence for us. Some days are filled with screams; others come with kicks. There are moments when I feel at the brink of exhaustion, questioning how I will get through the day. I could share these struggles with you, but it often feels unbelievable, like a broken record that repeats endlessly.
So I withdraw, avoiding commitments. Each day presents itself with unique challenges, and the weight I carry is heavier than our friendship can bear. I know the distance between us is palpable. I miss you, and I miss who I used to be.
I recognize that I’m not the same person you once knew. I used to be fun-loving and spontaneous, but now I feel like I’ve changed dramatically. I remember when my son was born—everything shifted in an instant. Before then, we shared common experiences, like college life and wedding planning. We were carefree and blissfully naive about the challenges ahead.
Then came the diagnosis: I was now an autism parent, and that label weighed heavily on me. The struggles became intense as I navigated therapies and doctor appointments, and I felt a chasm grow between us. Your child was hitting milestones while Max struggled to communicate. I felt invisible, out of place, and envious.
Our conversations shifted from laughter over sleepless nights to the stark reality of differing experiences. You were able to celebrate achievements while I was grappling with the harsh truths that came with my son’s condition. I remember the day I stopped calling and began to withdraw completely.
I stopped visiting, because even the logistics of a simple get-together became daunting. I worried about whether your home was suitable for Max—did you have a fence? Wi-Fi? Could I bring snacks and sippy cups? It felt as if I was still caring for a newborn, but one who could cause chaos in a matter of seconds.
I appreciate how you express your love for Max, and I know you genuinely mean it. But the reality is that I do care—care about how I parent in front of you, about the noise and the mess, and about the moments when I feel overwhelmed.
I see your life moving forward. I notice when you sign your daughter up for activities, and my heart aches. While you celebrate those milestones, I wrestle with finding the right special needs stroller and figuring out how to manage outings. It’s a world apart, but I want you to know that I think what you’re doing is incredible. Your children are wonderful, and I’m truly happy for you, even if I can’t be there.
Please forgive me for my absence. Autism has become my reality, and I deeply appreciate your understanding. I want you to know that we’re trying hard to fit into your world. I hope you won’t give up on me. Max and I are working to find our place, and I cherish the bond we once shared.
If you’re interested in navigating similar challenges, consider checking out more about home insemination and the resources available at this link. You may also find helpful insights on this site, as they are a great authority on this topic. For additional support, the NHS offers an excellent resource for pregnancy and related treatments at this page.
In summary, my journey has been a challenging one, and while I’ve withdrawn from our friendship, I hope to reconnect as I navigate this new normal with my son. Your understanding means the world to me, and I hope we can find a way back to each other.