For starters, my 5-year-old was my unexpected miracle.
He was the baby who came at a time when I had no idea how much I needed him.
And his story started long before his diagnosis.
Four years before he was born, I had my older son.
At 30 weeks pregnant, I went in for what I thought was a routine appointment. Instead, I was told I had severe preeclampsia and needed to be transferred to a larger hospital with a Level 1 NICU—just in case.
I spent the next two weeks in the hospital, away from my family, hooked up to IV after IV and living on a liquid diet.
Can you imagine being eight months pregnant and being told you can only eat broth?
I was hangry.
Every day brought another ultrasound to check on my baby’s growth.
Then, at 32 weeks and 4 days, they realized that the high blood pressure had permanently damaged my placenta and my baby wasn’t growing.
I needed an emergency C-section.
That day.
Later that day, my son was born weighing a record-breaking 2 pounds, 9 ounces.
He spent seven weeks in the NICU.
It was one of the hardest things I had ever experienced.
Or so I thought at the time.
Looking back, I still recognize what a harrowing experience that was. But what would follow wasn’t really worse.
It was just different.
Because the NICU eventually ended.
The uncertainty didn’t.
Thankfully, my son is now a happy, healthy 10-year-old who has beaten a lot of odds. ❤️
But after everything we had been through, I had pretty much decided that I was done having children.
For my safety.
And for the safety of another baby.
Then, four years later, I found out I was pregnant.
And somehow, everything went beautifully.
I didn’t develop preeclampsia.
I made it to full term.
And I gave birth to a bouncing baby boy weighing 6 pounds, 2 ounces.
Our unexpected miracle.
The first year?
Pretty normal.
The second year?
Pretty normal.
Well… mostly.
He had a speech delay. He always seemed a little hypersensitive to sensory input. He had been banging his head since he was an infant. He walked for as long as I could remember.
But he was also incredibly social.
And because of that, I was repeatedly reassured that autism wasn’t really a concern.
Early Intervention followed him, and I was told that he was likely dealing with a learning delay and that, with support, he would catch up.
So I trusted that.
Until preschool.
That’s when things got hard.
Really hard.
He was running around the classroom.
He wasn’t following the group plan.
He was eating things that weren’t food.
He was engaging in unsafe behaviors.
And safety awareness?
Pretty much nonexistent.
He was evaluated through our public school system, and thankfully, he qualified for an IEP and was able to attend an integrated preschool program with special educators.
I thought, Okay. We’ve got this.
And honestly, that first year wasn’t too bad.
He attended for only about two and a half hours in the morning. His teacher reported that he was making a fair amount of progress.
Then he came home to me in the afternoon and had the time of his life.
He didn’t have to share Mom.
I mean… what could make a kid happier?
Then came the following school year.
He was still approved for half-day preschool, but because kindergarten was approaching, I thought he should probably experience a full school day.
So for a while, I paid the difference myself so he could attend the full-day integrated preschool program.
A couple of weeks into that school year, I started noticing a big change.
He was having a really difficult time settling down.
He was reluctant to go to school.
And his teachers were reporting that they were calling the crisis team multiple times a week because he was eloping from the classroom.
He struggled coming inside after outdoor time.
He struggled following the group plan.
He struggled staying safe.
And here’s the important part: these weren’t new behaviors. I had been seeing these same struggles at home for years.
I was already dealing with the running, the lack of safety awareness, the sensory challenges, and the difficulty with transitions and expectations at home.
But school was now showing me just how significantly these challenges were affecting him in a structured environment.
So I called a meeting.
Thankfully, because everyone could see that he was struggling and having a significantly harder time that year, the team determined that he needed to become a full-day IEP student.
That was actually a huge benefit for our family because I no longer had to pay the difference, and he was still receiving the support he needed.
Additional interventions were explored.
Evaluations were put into place.
And I said the thing I had been thinking for a long time:
I wanted him evaluated for autism.
Because I truly believed there was more going on.
Yes, he wanted to be social.
But wanting to be social and knowing how to be social are two very different things.
He wanted connection.
He just didn’t always have the tools to make that connection work.
And sometimes that created a lot of problems.
I understood why some people didn’t see autism right away.
But I was his mom.
And somewhere deep in my gut, I knew something wasn’t right.
Not because I thought something was wrong with him.
Because I knew there was something about the way his brain worked that we hadn’t figured out yet.
So I called the insurance company.
I got the referrals.
I made the phone calls.
I filled out the paperwork.
I did all the wonderfully glamorous things that come with trying to get your child evaluated.
And in January of 2026, we started the neuropsychological evaluation process.
By March, we had an answer.
My son was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.
His evaluation identified Level 1 support needs in social communication and Level 2 support needs related to restricted and repetitive behaviors. Safety awareness, elopement, and wandering were also significant concerns.
ABA therapy was recommended.
And then?
I called another school meeting.
Because apparently, getting the diagnosis is only the beginning of the paperwork adventure. 😂
We needed to talk about what this meant for his IEP.
And this is where I experienced one of the most complicated feelings of the entire journey.
Because suddenly, some of the things I had been advocating for over the previous year and a half were being taken more seriously.
Occupational therapy.
Additional support.
A one-on-one.
Things I had asked about before were suddenly much easier to discuss once there was a diagnosis attached to them.
And I’ll be honest.
That was frustrating.
Because I was still the same mom.
My son was still the same child.
I hadn’t suddenly become more knowledgeable about him because a piece of paper now had the word autism on it.
I had been saying these things for years.
But there was also relief.
A lot of relief.
Because when my son was diagnosed, part of me thought:
Okay.
I’m not crazy.
I wasn’t imagining this.
I knew my kid.
And then came the fear.
And the sadness.
Because once you have an answer, your brain immediately starts asking a million more questions.
What does this mean for his future?
Will the services help him function more effectively alongside his peers?
Will he become more independent?
Will he always need support?
What will school look like?
What will adulthood look like?
What happens when I’m not here to advocate for him?
And then there is the guilt.
Oh, the guilt.
Because our daily life can feel like I am living on an episode of Jackass and my primary job is making sure this child doesn’t accidentally launch himself into danger.
He keeps me on my toes.
He keeps me young.
He makes every single day an adventure.
And I love him more than I could ever possibly explain.
Because there are SO many incredible things about this kid.
He’s smart.
He’s funny.
He’s compassionate.
He has a hyperfixation on animals and can probably tell you approximately 47,000 completely random animal facts.
He loves making up riddles.
And let me tell you…
The riddles are wildly hilarious.
He has an amazing heart.
He is an amazing child.
And he is also a child who requires a tremendous amount of support.
Those things can exist at the same time.
That’s something I’m learning.
Because life with a neurodivergent child isn’t always funny.
Sometimes I make jokes about the chaos because honestly, if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably cry.
And sometimes I do both.
There are nights when I sit in the dark after everyone is finally asleep and just cry.
I’m overwhelmed.
I’m tired.
And I wonder:
Am I doing this right?
Am I giving everyone enough?
Am I giving my other children enough of me?
Because the truth is, sometimes I don’t feel like I am.
And that hurts.
My other children deserve their mom, too.
But I also know that my older children cannot become secondary caregivers simply because their brother needs more support.
So we juggle.
We schedule.
We ask for help.
We rely on our tribe.
We figure it out.
And some days, we absolutely nail it.
Other days?
Well…
Friday Fiasco exists for a reason. 😂
This is a work in progress for me.
I’m learning how to advocate without completely exhausting myself.
I’m learning how to care for one child with significant needs while still being present for my other children.
I’m learning that asking for help doesn’t mean I’m failing.
I’m learning that loving my child fiercely doesn’t mean I have to pretend that this is easy.
And most importantly, I’m learning to give myself some grace.
So if you’re reading this and you have a neurodivergent child…
Or a child with behavioral challenges…
Or a child whose needs consume so much of your energy that you sometimes wonder if you’re doing enough…
Please hear me.
You are not failing.
You are not a bad parent.
You are not supposed to have all the answers.
And you are not required to make this look easy.
You are allowed to be exhausted.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to laugh at the ridiculous moments.
You are allowed to grieve the things you thought parenting would look like.
You are allowed to celebrate the things your child CAN do.
And you are allowed to love them fiercely while admitting that sometimes this life is really, really hard.
Because here’s what I know:
You are enough.
To your child, you are their world.
So be gentle with yourself.
Give yourself grace.
Keep showing up.
Keep advocating.
Keep learning.
And when you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing?
Welcome to the club.
I’m right there with you.
It’s a work in progress for me, too.
But we’ll get there.
One chaotic, beautiful, extraordinary ordinary day at a time. ❤️
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