I'm Proud to Say "That Child" Is My Child

When a new parent brings home a baby, they realize that exhaustion follows closely behind. We expect sleepless nights and diaper changes, tiny fingers clutching at ours in need. We know we’ll be needed fully and completely, and we assume that as our child grows, that need will change shape but gradually ease. We assume that, in time, we’ll find balance again. But sometimes, that balance never comes.

My child is that child. The neurobiologically complex one with an IEP, an FBA, and a safety plan at school. The one who has been in and out of various therapies for years. The one who isn’t usually invited to playdates or birthday parties. The one with a giant heart and longing to belong but whose enormous emotions often eclipse this deep desire.

The need didn’t fade as my child grew—it only shapeshifted into something larger, something more consuming. The demands of parenting became heavier, stretching beyond what I once thought my capacity was. Every day turns into an emotional battlefield that requires me to make accommodations and act as an advocate—and the weight of it is relentless. Although I do my best to smooth the rough edges of their world, I cannot always protect them from the harsh reality that they struggle in ways other children do not.

And with that struggle, comes guilt. A constant, gnawing guilt that follows me from home to school meetings, from therapy appointments to abbreviated school day pick-ups. It’s the guilt of knowing that my child’s needs are not just their own—they extend outward, impacting the lives of their siblings, classmates, and teachers. Their extreme emotions and behaviors take up space, and it’s impossible for me to ignore the imbalance it creates.

I see it in how my other child sometimes has to wait and how they learn patience not as a virtue but as a necessity. I see it in the weary expressions of under-resourced teachers who are doing their best, and in the hesitation of other parents who aren’t sure how to navigate interactions with a child who frequently struggles to regulate.

Parenting and teaching a child like mine can feel like being stuck in a perpetual spin cycle of survival and recovery. We dedicate ourselves to scaffolding their needs, only to find ourselves depleted and running on fumes. And yet, we wake up and do it again because love demands it. Because our children deserve it. Because, even in our exhaustion, we see their beauty, goodness, and potential.

But no one really understands this unless they’ve lived it. Cultural narratives about parenting rarely make room for children like mine. Instead, they whisper that a struggling child results from poor parenting. It becomes a moral litmus test of our character, and we are put under a microscope where our decisions are scrutinized and measured against an invisible standard of discipline and control. When our child has a meltdown in public, the stares are heavy with judgment. When we cancel plans again because it’s just too much, people’s silence speaks volumes.

It’s a lonely road, this kind of parenting. And yet, I wouldn’t trade my child for anything. Not for an easier path, not for a quieter existence. Because my child is extraordinary. Their heart is vast, their emotions deep, their love intense. They see the world differently, and in doing so, they’ve forced me to see it differently too. I have learned patience beyond measure, strength I never knew I had, and a kind of fierce advocacy that only comes when you’ve fought battles no one else sees.

Yes, my child is that child. And I am their parent. Not in spite of but because of it all—I am proud.