I wonder if she knows.
Oftentimes, I catch myself thinking about whether Lillyana truly understands how different her life is. I could never have imagined how autism would shape our family, or how deeply in awe I would be of the grace and resilience she has shown through it all.
My daughter was five years old—she’s now nine—when her little brother, Jackson, was diagnosed with autism shortly after his second birthday. But in truth, her life, just like mine and her father’s, began to change long before that diagnosis.
Even before Jackson turned one, the shifts in our family had already begun. The most immediate challenge was his severe sleep regression. At first, I chalked up his middle-of-the-night wake-ups to normal baby behavior. He was only a year old, after all. But soon, it became clear this was far from ordinary. Jackson was sleeping only three hours a night, with maybe an hour nap during the day. I told myself it was just a phase, something we would grow out of.
One of the hardest things for me to talk about is how profoundly these early years affected Lillyana. My little angel—our bright, vibrant light. She has always been remarkable. I remember when she was just under two years old, she would wake up at night completely on her own. She would turn on the TV, grab a bottle from the mini-fridge upstairs, and settle into her chair without needing anyone’s help. That independence always left me in awe.
She loved the beach, and we went every chance we could. She and her dad spent hours crafting cosplay costumes for local comic cons. We hand-stitched her Halloween outfits. Family vacations, shopping trips, simple outings—we had the time and freedom to do these things together.
And then slowly, it all began to change.
I remember the moments when she would come out of her room asking to play or go somewhere, and I had to say no. The sadness on her face would cut straight through me, filling me with guilt and a sense of failure. Jackson had been up all night, leaving chaos in his wake—throwing food, tearing through the house, not listening no matter how firmly I commanded him. I had to clean up while also trying to grab a few hours of rest before work. I wonder if Lillyana knew that when I said no, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to go—it was because I hoped tomorrow would be better.
I wonder if she knows how deeply I felt that guilt, how much I wished I could shield her from the disruption. I wonder if she knew how it broke my heart when Jackson would barge into her room in the middle of the night, swiping her trinkets, dumping drawers, scattering clothes across the floor. I would wake up to her small, tear-streaked face and the plea: “Can you get Jackson out of my room?” Those moments are etched into my memory forever.
Yet, despite everything, Lillyana has been nothing short of extraordinary. She is the most sensitive soul I have ever known, feeling deeply not just her own experiences but mine as well—my exhaustion, anxiety, and isolation. I remember one day she handed me a post-it note, written in her careful handwriting: “Mom, I know it is hard to take care of Jackson a lot. I love you two more than you think.”
That little note meant the world to me. And yet, it also made me ache, knowing the weight she bore silently—choosing not to wake me, holding back her own desires so I could rest, prioritizing my needs over her own. I wonder if she realizes how much that selflessness spoke to her compassion, and also how much it broke my heart.
Even now, when she wakes up with her brother in the morning, she takes care of him—shutting my door, turning on his show, giving him a drink—before I get out of bed to relieve her. She never complains. She never lashes out. She embraces these responsibilities with pride and love. I wish I could have protected her from this pressure, yet I am in awe of her resilience and empathy.
She has had to navigate a childhood that looks different from that of her friends. She has learned patience, compassion, and understanding in ways few children ever do. Yet all she ever asks is to spend time as a family—mom, dad, little brother. She craves the moments that most children take for granted. And every time we share them, it feels like a small victory in a life reshaped by circumstances beyond our control.
I wonder if she knows how deeply her brother adores her—how he cries at the fence when she plays across the street with neighbors, longing for her to return. She was so excited to have a sibling, a future best friend, and I wonder if it saddens her that things haven’t unfolded exactly as she imagined.
I also wonder if she knows how proud she makes me feel. How she celebrates Jackson’s milestones, how she embraces differences in others, how her kindness extends to lonely children at the playground or younger cousins, even to those on the spectrum. People notice her inclusiveness, and I see it in her every day.
Most of all, I wonder if she knows how special she truly is. How much we cherish every ounce of who she is becoming. I work hard to ensure she has time, attention, and opportunities of her own—she deserves it more than anyone. I hope she knows the depth of my love, my pride, and my gratitude for the strength she shows every single day.
Yes, I really wonder if she knows just how incredibly special she is—and how much she has touched our lives in ways I could have never imagined.
