You don’t know my story…

There are some things you hear as a parent that you can brush off.

And then there are things that stay with you.

Today, I heard something that stayed with me.

I learned that others have said they don’t want to deal with my autistic child.

And maybe to some people, that doesn’t sound like a big deal.

But as his mom?

It broke my heart.

Because this isn’t just about someone’s personal preference or whether a child’s behaviors are easy to manage.

This is my baby.

This is a child who has a disability.

A child who is funny, loving, bright, incredibly smart, and has so much to offer this world.

And I cannot help but wonder what it feels like for a child to grow up knowing that there are people who simply don’t want to deal with them because their needs are harder.

That thought absolutely tears me apart.

Because I don’t want my baby to have to recover from his childhood.

I don’t want him to grow up carrying the weight of feeling like he was too much.

Too difficult.

Too loud.

Too active.

Too different.

Too much work.

I don’t want him to remember his childhood as a time when the adults around him were constantly frustrated by him or wishing he were easier.

I want him to remember being loved.

Being accepted.

Being understood.

Being given opportunities to try again.

Being surrounded by people who believed in him.

And I know that isn’t always easy.

Believe me, I know.

There are behaviors that are incredibly challenging. There are moments where I am exhausted. There are times when I don’t know what the next move is.

I am his mom, and I don’t have all the answers.

But I am willing to learn.

I am willing to collaborate.

I am willing to listen.

And I am willing to try.

That’s what I wish more people understood about parenting children who experience the world differently.

You see the behavior.

I see the child.

You may see a child running.

I see a child who doesn’t always understand safety the way other children do.

You may see a child who isn’t following a direction.

I see a child who may need that direction presented differently.

You may see a child who is having a really difficult moment.

I see a child who is struggling and needs someone to help him through it.

And sometimes people look at parents like me and think we aren’t doing enough.

“You need to teach them rules.”

“You need to set boundaries.”

“You need to discipline them.”

“Your kids need to be around other kids.”

“You should take them to the park.”

I know these comments aren’t always intended to be hurtful.

But they can be.

Because what you don’t see is everything that happens before, during, and after those moments.

You don’t see the constant mental calculations.

You don’t see me watching one child who may suddenly run toward traffic while another little one is running in the completely opposite direction.

You don’t see me thinking, Which child do I get to first?

You don’t see the fear that comes with knowing that something as simple as taking several children to the park can require a level of supervision that most people don’t have to think about.

And please don’t mistake staying home for being lazy.

I’m not staying home because I don’t want my children to experience life.

I’m not staying home because I don’t care about socialization.

I’m not staying home because I don’t want to parent my children.

Sometimes I stay home because I am genuinely frightened that someone could get hurt.

Sometimes staying home is the safest choice I can make.

And I’m tired of having to justify that.

I’m tired of explaining things that people cannot possibly understand from the outside.

Because you don’t know my story.

You don’t know my children’s story.

You don’t know what we have already tried.

You don’t know the strategies, accommodations, conversations, tears, successes, setbacks, meetings, research, or sleepless nights that have gone into getting us where we are.

You see a moment.

I live the whole story.

And that’s why today hurt so much.

Because when someone says they don’t want to deal with my child, it doesn’t just stay with me.

I worry about what that means for him.

I worry about whether he will feel unwanted.

I worry about whether someone will make him feel like his disability is an inconvenience.

I worry about the messages children absorb when adults decide they’re too difficult instead of trying to understand them.

And I know that nobody is required to know exactly what to do.

Nobody is perfect.

Nobody is expected to have all the answers.

But there is a huge difference between saying,

“I don’t know how to support this child. Can we work together and figure it out?”

and saying,

“I don’t want to deal with him.”

One leaves the door open.

The other closes it.

And maybe that’s the biggest thing I wish people would understand.

You don’t have to understand my child perfectly.

You don’t have to know everything about autism.

You don’t have to know exactly what to say or do.

But you can ask.

Ask me.

Ask his teachers.

Ask the people who know him.

Let’s collaborate.

Let’s figure out what works.

Let’s meet him where he is instead of expecting him to always meet us where we are.

Because these children are not broken.

They are not burdens.

They are not less deserving of patience because their needs are different.

They are amazing.

They are beautiful.

They are funny.

They are bright.

They are creative.

They are capable.

And they have so much to contribute to this world.

Yet somehow, they are often asked to overcome not only the challenges that come with their disabilities, but also the assumptions and judgments of the people around them.

And as a mom, that hurts.

It hurts more than I can explain.

Because I know my child.

I know his heart.

I know his potential.

I know how hard he works.

And I know how fiercely he is loved.

My children may experience life differently than other people think they should.

But the beautiful thing about that is…

they’re my children.

I don’t need them to fit someone else’s idea of what childhood should look like.

I need them to know they belong.

I need them to know they are loved.

I need them to know that being different doesn’t make them less.

And I need the adults around them to remember something:

Before you judge the behavior, look for the child.

Before you judge the parent, remember you don’t know the whole story.

Before you decide a child is “too much,” ask yourself whether you’ve actually tried to understand what that child needs.

Because you don’t know what it’s like to walk a day in someone else’s shoes.

And sometimes the parent you’re judging isn’t doing less.

They’re doing more than you’ll ever know.

And sometimes the child you’re calling “difficult” isn’t asking for less.

They’re asking us to meet them where they are.

And I, for one, will keep showing up.

I’ll keep advocating.

I’ll keep learning.

I’ll keep loving my children exactly as they are.

Because my greatest hope isn’t that my children grow up and become easier for the world to handle.

My greatest hope is that they grow up knowing they were always worth the effort.