Dear Past Self, You Should Know This About Our Autism Journey


Hey Girl,

It’s been a while. How have you been? Tired, I bet. It’s been like 10 years. What is Bob now? 15? 16? I always lose track of time. I bet he’s grown. I’m pretty sure you’re so proud of him. I just wanted to drop you a line to remind you of a couple of things — things I hope you did on this journey. You know the one.

img_4030 The one called life.

I hope you took time outside of therapy to enjoy him. Childhood is short. I know you want the best for him. But I hope you took time to watch him grow — from kindergarten to high school seems like forever, but it’s over in the blink of an eye. Seriously, I hope you didn’t blink. Because if you did, you missed it. You missed some awesome things. I hope you didn’t.

I hope you took some time for yourself. I know his schedule is hectic, and you’re busy. Truly I get it. But I hope you did. I hope you remembered that before this little person, you were a person too — with wants and needs and hopes and dreams outside of your precious angel. You see, it was important for you to do this. Not only important for you but for him. He needed you at your best. I hope you didn’t disappoint. It was so important that you be on your A game.

With all the ups and downs, I hope you understood what this was all about. In the grand scheme of things everything is the same — we’re all on our own journey — autism or not. We’re all stumbling through life. It’s not always on your shoulders. You can’t always fix everything. And that’s OK. It’s truly OK.

Life will continue moving on, regardless of the outcome or the circumstances. It just does. Thank God it does!


Your future self

This post originally appeared on I’m Bob.

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How I'm Helping My Child Rid Himself of Bullying Memories


Two years ago I withdrew my child from mainstream education after a regime of bullying (from children and an adult learning assistant) shot his self confidence to pieces.

He was 5 at the time and made to feel worthless. The psychological affects of this were vast, including an inability to speak fluently anymore and other distressing physical behaviors.

Since then, he’s progressed by being home educated, having plenty of play therapy to rid his memories and in some cases, reenacting the bullying with dolls to help him process and transition.

DSC_1546 Today, after a few months of nothing unusual, he awoke and began to cry. He said he can remember how the other children would sit at the table not talking to him, that he could feel what they felt, and it was horrible. That they wanted to leave, and so did he, that it feels like there’s a traffic jam in his stomach and memories in his legs.

I got him some paper, and he drew these bad memories, putting them securely into an envelope. We then dressed warmly and took the envelope out in the rain and went for a walk. We found a quiet wooded area and I pulled out the spoon I’d brought. We dug a hole, and he buried his worries.

As we walked away, he jumped in puddles saying his memories had left his legs. I presume they’d made him feel heavy and sluggish, like when you walk and you’re feeling sadness.

My darling came home and had a warm bubble bath full of ducks and empty bottles for pouring.

If your child is having trouble processing unpleasant memories, I suggest writing or drawing them on paper, tying them to a helium balloon and letting them go in the garden or burying them (not in your garden, as they are still there). Somewhere a bit further away. Toys are brilliant for reenactment; please try not to show distress at what’s enacted but do show reaction (i.e. “That’s not nice of them. They shouldn’t do that to dolly.”).  Never break role. Over time, your child may talk about it, but if they don’t, this is an excellent way of finding out what has transpired. A mood diary is also good; they can write their feelings and recollections down.

Our children replay situations in their heads, reliving each experience and memory as vividly as when it happened; they need help to process it sometimes, or it can lead to frustration and in severe cases, like my son’s, regression.

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I Let My 4-Year-Old With Autism Use My Camera. Here's How He Sees the World.


Last year around this time I put together a post of the pictures my son, Mareto, had been taking with my fancy DSLR camera. Every time I dump the photos from my camera to my computer I enjoy going through to find his little treasures. Sometimes I remember him taking specific pictures, but usually they’re all a surprise. It’s a sweet glimpse into life from his perspective. I love seeing what he thinks is important, interesting, valuable and worthy of a picture.

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I’m so thankful I decided early on in my children’s lives to say yes whenever possible. Saying yes has given them the space to explore their world and exercise their creativity. Here are some of the latest photos from my sweet 4-year-old.

Mommy getting his sister ready for school.

snow white figurine

VMI cadets marching in an afternoon parade.
Visiting Daddy at the office.


Sunbeam on the rug.
Sister riding next to him in the car.

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Examining the threads of the carpet.
Stunning shot of his sister in the morning light.


He caught mommy cleaning up crafts.
His favorite smile.
Mommy getting out of the car to run a quick errand.


He loves watching ceiling fans go around and around.
What every true artist needs… a self-portrait (with Mr. Rogers in the background.)

This post originally appeared on

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Please Don't Tell Me Autism Is a Gift


Every time I sit down to write, I often already have a positive message to end on in mind. I don’t have that today. Today I am sad, I am angry and I am coming from a place that I don’t often go: a place with walls papered by self-pity and lighting dimmed by exhaustion. We’ve all been there, but of course, we try not to live there.

I read story after story that highlight the aspects of having a child with autism that are positive and uplifting. I’ve written many posts that do the same. I think these stories are important; they help spread awareness and acceptance, they celebrate our children holistically, which is great because our children deserve to be celebrated.

young boy in red sweater

I wonder, though, if sometimes we sugarcoat or put a positive spin on reality to make ourselves feel better or maybe to avoid coming off as a victim. After all, bloggers who have written more negatively about their children with autism are often scrutinized and demonized. Another reason I usually stay away from the negative: I don’t want my child (or others with autism) demonized or people to think any less of him.

As positive as I try to stay, there’s a reality with which we have to contend. That reality usually gets to make a short appearance in my blog in sentences like “Of course we have our challenges” or “And even though he struggles…” Anyone affected by autism knows those phrases are emotionally charged.

But I started thinking. People outside of our household, people outside of our community, must all be scratching their heads and wondering this: If our children and their autism are so great and so gifted, why are autism parents so vocal about needing help and advocating for their children? Why would a savant be labeled “disabled” or need to receive special services from a school district?

Autism is a spectrum disorder. No two people on the spectrum are the same. Many of our children are not savants. Many of our children are not even on target with their development for their age. Many of our children will live with us for the rest of their lives.

So, please, don’t tell me autism is a gift. When my child has been screaming every 30 minutes all day long and we have to go to the store and he screams at the checkout, the cashier telling me he’ll be OK and will be great with numbers when he grows up is not what I want to hear.

When I look into my son’s eyes when he doesn’t understand his surroundings and his anxiety and fear are palpable, there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do to take that fear away. You cannot look into his panicking gaze as he’s shaking and cowering from everyday stimuli and tell me this is a gift or an enlightening experience.

Please don’t tell me his autism is a gift when I take his little sister to the hospital for a concussion resulting from an impulsive outburst he could not control.

When I see his older brother with tears in his eyes yet again because his little brother doesn’t want to play with him or has lashed out at him, I don’t accept that this is a gift. He’s hurting and his needs are put on the back burner every day; I see no positive in that other than I’m hopeful it will build character and instill compassion in him.

As I bang my head against a wall just trying to get my child an education like everyone else is entitled to, I wonder if outsiders know just how “challenging” it is. We are in a district in a state that won’t even provide classes for preschool children with special needs. So I found a private preschool that would take him, but he has so much anxiety about going every morning that he screams the whole way there and as his teachers carry him in. I have a laundry list of medically prescribed therapies that I have to work around the clock to access for our child. Once we finally have established providers, we drive and we schedule and usually have some type of appointment every day. These are not groundbreaking therapies that are going to have my child doing quantum physics or painting masterpieces; these are necessary to get my child to function high enough to dress himself and feed himself and to allow him to tolerate being in a room with everyday noises.

And then there’s the loneliness. Please don’t tell me autism is a gift when my child and his siblings are no longer invited to birthday parties because parents don’t want one of my child’s meltdowns to ruin their kid’s special day. When I stop having friends outside of the autism community because other people don’t want to hear about autism and how it’s consuming your life, it doesn’t feel like a gift. Unfortunately as much as it consumes our lives, it consumes our conversations too. And that doesn’t make for great girls’-night-out conversation. I can’t say I blame former friends for throwing in the towel, but that doesn’t make it any less lonely. The gift that keeps giving.

I know this post will offend some, but just as my opinion is that autism is not a gift, you, of course, are entitled to a different one. For me, autism is exhausting, and I feel like every minute of every day is spent trying to break my child free from the anxiety that consumes him.

Please don’t tell me autism is a gift. My child is a gift.

close up of young boy

This post originally appeared on From the Bowels of Motherhood.

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9 Things I Wish I'd Known During Our Autism Diagnosis Process


I remember back to the time that I first told my Hail’s pediatrician we would like to have our boy tested for autism. We’d noticed a lot of odd behavior — he would line everything up when he played, he had sensitivity issues and would gag on foods, would yank on his hair until he pulled it out, and he would bang his head on the wall when he was stressed out. He was delayed in milestones like walking, talking, crawling, and he preferred to play with garbage than all the toys we bought him. He would obsess over things for long periods of time. After a quick search online, the accumulation of things pointed to possibly autism or some other developmental delay. We were a bit freaked out but decided it was better to know and do something with it, read something, try a therapy — anything other than just guess and tell people that he was “just weird” or “we don’t know what’s wrong with him.” A diagnosis would help reassure us that we weren’t bad parents; there really was something wrong with our kid.

So, we asked for testing. While going through the process, we learned a lot of things we hadn’t previously been told. We found this quite daunting. Now that we’re “experienced” autism veteran parents (really there is no such thing as being experienced when it comes to autism) I feel that I need to share the knowledge I discovered when we were pursuing diagnosis to help make the process less scary for another new parent.

1. Autism is a spectrum disorder.

I know you’ve likely heard this several times, but if you’ve met one kid with autism, you’ve only met one kid with autism. Autism really is a spectrum disorder and can range from a huge spectrum of issues. Even within the same family, people can have different autism symptoms and still be on the spectrum. You’re firstborn could be completely nonverbal, have epilepsy and an IQ of 190. Your second child could just be a bit quirky, spin and flap when excited and not do social situations well. Or your child could be like Sheldon Cooper from “The Big Bang Theory” and be super nerdy and intelligent but have to have a bazillion rules in place to function.

2. Don’t let a doctor tell you your child doesn’t have autism without testing.

Many doctors feel that autism is over diagnosed. But since we simply know more about it than we ever did before, diagnosing it is easier. If you think back in your family, there’s likely one weird relative who was a bit eccentric and didn’t really relate well to the rest of the family. They might have had autism, but nobody knew what to call it then. Some doctors will even go as far as telling you that your child can’t possibly have autism because he looks you in the eyes when you speak or because they’re smart or can speak. Whatever the reason, these are still misconceptions, and your child could still have autism. It never hurts to have them tested if you suspect that they might be autistic or developmentally delayed. If your pediatrician won’t do testing, look into a developmental pediatrician or a psychiatrist who will.

3. There are different autism diagnoses — an educational autism diagnosis and a medical diagnosis. Pursue both.

You want to pursue both because they serve different purposes. If you have a medical diagnosis, it’s easier to pursue therapies such as applied behavioral analysis (ABA), occupational therapy and other types of medical help you may need through your insurance. Often times, comorbid diagnoses are present, such as sensory processing disorder or anxiety or even ADHD, and they are more easily treated if a doctor, therapist or psychiatrist knows your child also has autism.

4. Diagnosis can take a long time.

I say this because it really is true. Depending on your area, how many places are providing testing or availability of a doctor who can diagnose autism, a waiting list of a year or longer isn’t uncommon. In my area, with my insurance, it took us nearly nine months before we received a medical diagnosis and a year before we received an educational diagnosis. In my experience, when we pursued diagnoses — we did all kinds of other testing to ensure autism was the cause, and we weren’t looking at other developmental delays, auditory issues or other issues. The developmental pediatrician wouldn’t test for autism until everything else was ruled out.

Wait lists for services can be long; it’s better to focus on your child’s challenges and emphasize them than it is to sugarcoat them. If it’s diagnosis and treatment you want, the earlier you get treatment the better, but younger children can be hard to diagnose since the trajectory is so different for developing children.

5. You don’t have to try or stick with every treatment.

Treatment won’t harm a child who isn’t on the spectrum, but it could be important for someone who is. Trust your instincts on treatment and do your homework to make sure it feels right for you and your child because you know what’s best. Not everything you try will work. Not every treatment you try is going to be a good fit for your child or family. You don’t have to do them all.

6. You are your child’s only advocate.

Sometimes, you are your child’s only advocate. Nobody will fight for them like you will. Follow your instincts, and don’t give in to the experts who might not see what you see. You spend the most time with your child, while doctors and experts only see them for a few minutes in the office. A diagnosis doesn’t change who your child is or mean they won’t have a beautiful life and future. Find a wonderful group of supportive people in the trenches, even before you have a diagnosis, because they are the best resources you will ever have in navigating this territory.

7. It’s OK to be angry.

In the beginning, I was angry at the disability, the label, the diagnosis. Now, I look to how I can improve access to acceptance, therapy choices by way of improving insurance, respite, education and transitioning into adulthood challenges. Disability happens, but how we treat that person as a society defines us, not people with disabilities.

8. Don’t be afraid of a diagnosis.

You’re not labeling your child with a problem. You’re identifying tools to help them. And the diagnosis doesn’t change who they are. Everything amazing about them is still amazing. A diagnosis doesn’t change who your child is. It does not change your path as a parent or as a family. Your child is who they are, diagnosed or not. It gives you answers and ideas, diagnosis does not make your child any different than the day before diagnosis. If anything, a diagnosis will help you help your child better.

9. Don’t compare your child to other children.

 Yes, that is ridiculously difficult to do as you see other kids doing things your child can’t or isn’t yet able to do.  Compare him to his past self — three, six, 12 months ago. That’s when you see how much he’s progressed. Celebrate everything. Whether it’s your child’s first swear word or having an argument with you that makes logical sense, to eating a new food. All milestones are important and specific and unique to your child. Celebrate them all.

Navigating a diagnosis can be difficult and cause a lot of hard feelings between family members, friends and even parents of the child. There are some who are still going to just assume you’re the cause of your child’s behavior. Some will say they don’t believe in autism. There are also those who won’t agree with your child’s diagnosis and will go out of their way to disagree with you and do whatever they can to tell you how incorrect or wrong you are. You may lose friends and family members over pursuing a diagnosis and treatment.

Do what you feel is best for your child.

A version of this post appeared on Need More Crayons.

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What We Really Mean When We Say 'I'm Fine'


“I’m fine.”

These words are spoken by most parents of children with special needs.

What we really mean is we are tired. And sometimes broken, sometimes sad, sometimes hurt, aching or numb. Or we might be excited, shocked, cautiously optimistic. But we say fine because so much of the time it’s the safest thing to say.

Some days with Kreed are amazing and wonderful and hearing his voice is the greatest joy of our life. Other days my muscles ache from his rages and I’m numb to my feelings. But deep down inside I’m so incredibly sad for any pain he feels.

Like I said — I’m fine.

Some days I wish someone would finally look at me and say, “You are most definitely not fine.” But then I know I will still lie through my teeth. Sometimes I ask myself, “Why? Why do we say we’re fine?” I think it’s because the alternative is too great, the emotions are too raw and powerful, and we feel as if we would drown in those emotions if we actually felt them.

Not everyone talks about this side. When you’ve spent nights and days awake for weeks or months on end and can no longer even tell the difference between day and night or even if it’s a week day or a weekend. When you lie next to your child at night listening to them breathe and are thankful for each breath they take because you fear when you hear them struggling for breath. Or when you watch your child pound their head into the ground because it hurts so bad, and somehow in their body, hurting their head makes it better. Or when you’re holding your son and the tears roll down his face into your hand while you’re keeping him safe. You would do anything in the world to alleviate their suffering.

But I’m fine.

I have to be fine. When people ask me how do you do it, the answer is simple. Because I do. Because what other choice do I have? He’s my son. He is my heart. He is my soul. When your soul is hurting, you would do anything to make it better. So I search for answers, I research, I connect with doctors and I never stop until I know he feels better.

Because he’s not fine. He is in pain, and he is telling me. His emotions are raw, his feelings are more real than I’ve ever seen and his voice rings true — he can’t say he’s fine when he’s not. I have to be there for him. I have to help him. I have to be fine for him. If I break down, it means nothing will be solved for him. I can’t do that to him.

So I’m fine.

We do what we can, when we can, for ourselves. Five minutes here. Five minutes there. Or on calm nights we get snuggly and catch up on our DVR. We rejoice in those quiet moments and save up our strength for the storms we know will come.

The thing about the storms though — they come, they rage, they blow us around and knock us against walls and then the calm comes. We can breathe. We take time. We heal. We love. We strengthen ourselves for the next storm.

Not everyone’s experience is like ours, but I can tell you without a doubt, every special needs parent you meet has weathered storms you’ll never know about, and lived to tell you another day they are fine.

Behind every “fine” is a story, a past, a strong heart and soul who has seen more and experienced more than most people will ever realize.

Because we are fine.

Editor’s note: It is with a heavy heart we share the news that Kreed passed away on May 8, 2016. Our hearts are with his family, and we’re so grateful to help keep his memory alive on our site. He was truly one of the mighty.

A version of this post originally appeared on Kreed’s World


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