I’ve always dreamed of being a mother—so much so that I would fantasize about it constantly. My husband and I have been together for almost 15 years, high school sweethearts who imagined our entire future together. As teenagers, we’d talk about having three or four children, about them playing football or volleyball like we did, and about what they might look like. We pictured our home filled with laughter, holiday mornings, prom nights, family vacations, and the moment I would see my husband walk our daughters down the aisle. But there was one thing we never imagined: autism.
My pregnancy with our oldest daughter was smooth and uncomplicated. We conceived on the first try—without even trying—which gave me a sense of hope and ease for future pregnancies. I was 18 weeks pregnant with her when we got married, sharing a magical moment that bonded the three of us before she was even born. She arrived on a sweltering August morning in sunny California and instantly filled our hearts with joy. She was everything I had dreamed of, everything I had waited for.
Around her first birthday, however, we started noticing some unusual behaviors. She put everything in her mouth—the floor, furniture, toys—anything she could reach. Even when we said no, she persisted. Soon, we noticed she resisted anyone touching her toys. A simple attempt to tidy up would trigger blood-curdling screams, so I stopped trying. I learned to clean up after she went to sleep, because attempting it during the day exhausted everyone emotionally and physically.
When she was around 18 months old, her lack of speech became more concerning. Everyone’s advice? “Just read to her.” I tried, but it was hopeless. She’d yank the book from my hands, upset that I had touched it at all. I stopped trying, feeling defeated. This one thing I had longed for—being a mom—suddenly felt like a role I was failing at miserably.
At two years old, her pediatrician referred her for an assessment because of her delayed speech. The paperwork was overwhelming, the questions familiar to any special needs parent: “Does your child answer to their name?” “Does your child flap their hands?” I told myself no—she hears me, but she doesn’t look. She doesn’t flap her hands. She’s not autistic. I clung to that thought with all my might, determined to convince myself otherwise. But soon, I would discover that reality had other plans.
I couldn’t accept that my daughter might be autistic. I was terrified. I had seen movies and TV shows portraying autistic children, and my daughter didn’t match that image. She loved bright lights, didn’t flinch at loud noises, never harmed herself or others, didn’t rock back and forth, and never disliked certain clothes. And I? I was certain I wasn’t cut out to be a special needs parent. The very words “special needs” frightened me. I didn’t know autism; I didn’t know this world. I thought I couldn’t be that mother.
Then, at two years and four months, our vibrant, animal-loving, smiley daughter was diagnosed with autism level 2 and sensory processing disorder. At that time, I was 25 weeks pregnant with our second child. When the psychiatrist spoke the words, I cried. I had sensed it coming, but hearing it aloud confirmed what I had tried so hard to deny. That cold December day, seven days before Christmas, I felt like I had just left the hospital with a newborn, completely unprepared. I allowed myself to feel it all—the grief, sadness, and uncertainty—but then I told myself to move forward. That beautiful girl with big brown eyes needed me to advocate for her, to fight for her, and to speak for her until she could find her own voice.
Three months later, our second daughter arrived, bringing new worries. How would our oldest respond? Would she be jealous? Would she even notice the baby? I had no expectations. Instead, I let her show me. At first, she seemed to ignore her sister entirely. Life went on as if nothing had changed. It made me sad sometimes, and that was okay. Then, one day, she stopped, looked at her sister, and touched her. I cried ugly, joyous tears. The two smallest people I loved most had finally connected.
Being a special needs mom has taught me to treasure every small moment, because these moments are precious and rare. I’ve cried over milestones many would take for granted—the first time my daughter said “duck” or the day she finally used a fork after two years of practice. Autism has taught me that success is not measured by speed but by perseverance and progress. Basic tasks may never be simple for her, and that’s okay. It’s part of the journey, and it’s beautiful.
If your child has recently been diagnosed, is undergoing assessment, or you suspect they may be on the spectrum, I want you to know this: it will be okay. It’s normal to feel alone and scared at first. Find your people, your support system, and allow yourself to grow alongside your child. You can be the best parent, grandparent, or caregiver your neurodivergent child deserves.
I talk about my daughter because the narrative must change. One day, my husband and I won’t be here, and I pray she lives in a world that accepts her fully. Autism is not something to fear. Children on the spectrum should never be excluded or made fun of for being different. Our differences are what make us unique, and if we approach the world with open hearts, we might all learn something invaluable.
