I Grieved

"I grieved."
Today, I was asked how I reacted when you were diagnosed.

I suspected you are neurodivergent LONG before your diagnosis. You have level 3 regressive autism, so at 14-months, the switch flipped. At first, I wondered if you were going through a growth spurt because of how those periods of development can cause children to be a little more standoffish. And then it hit me one night. As we laid in bed together, I reached for your hand and, before we could touch, you jerked away. Your glare dug into the wall until I forced eye contact and then your eyes glued to the dresser.

I sobbed.
Tears for the realization. Tears for the challenges ahead. Tears for the grief, and tears for the shame. There were a lot of tears.

First and foremost, the shame I felt was never in you. I was ashamed of myself. I'm the CEO of National AMBUCS where we celebrate, accommodate and advocate for differences. Other mothers have cried on my shoulder, and I've told them everything is going to be okay.

But in that moment I questioned if everything would be okay. For us. For you. You trusted me more than anyone in the world, and in that moment, I didn't feel any more acquainted with you than a stranger.

And yes, I did grieve. For 427 days, I mastered being a mom to a different child. I knew how to soothe her tears, and it didn't take much to hear her laugh. That baby was gone, and in her place was a child who may never smile or talk again.

I felt like I needed to relearn how to be your mom, and I questioned my abilities.

I hope you know how silly (and so, so guilty) I feel now. I'm an advocate and ally, but sometimes my crown slips. There's only one reason why I'm willing to admit this colossal blunder during such an important transition in your life, and it's for the sake of other parents who are sinking in the waves of emotions like I was.

I may have thought you transformed into this different person, but I want you to know you were always there, my baby. Your voice left. Your direct gaze left. Your natural ability to regulate left. But you, my fierce, formidable wonder, you have always been there with your unwavering sweet disposition, curiosity for life and towering strength. You led the way as I stumbled alongside of you, striving to be a better mother and human.

I've always called you my magnum opus, but I think it is you who made me. So, if either of us changed, it was me. Forever. And for the better.

Striving to Match Your Strength,
Mama