By Alaine Flynn 
My life changed on that beautiful autumn day. The thing is, nothing really happened. Not really. My life kind of went on as usual. A fly on the wall might even say it was a great day. I brought my 3-year-old son to an animal farm for a Halloween event. He was quirky as usual and a bit ornery that day. Aloof. “Come feed the baby animals,” I pleaded. No, thank you. Crowds of excited children? Absolutely not. Buckets of candy? You can keep them.
My heart ached watching my beautiful, blonde-haired boy wander into a field alone, away from the excitement of the day. He wasn’t walking toward anyone or anything, yet seemed to have a purpose. It was a slow escape, a savoring of the sun and solitude ahead. What was he searching the sky for? Airplanes, birds? Perhaps nothing at all. I looked to my husband, and without words, there was understanding. We felt the culmination of so many things: speech delays, awkward interactions, dysregulation, sensory overload, the endless worry, and our perceived inadequacies.
I spent years trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, quietly coaxing a little boy to act as I thought one should. I didn’t want to be the first in my family to put a diagnosis on paper. It’s always been there, for generations, unnamed. Could I really be the first to wave the white flag? I knew doors could open that were never opened or even available before, but was I brave enough? I take one look at my son and wonder if I’m not brave, how can he ever be? The world opens its arms just as wide for the fearful as it does for the fearless. And so, I took the leap. After a yearlong wait, I heard the words out loud and on paper. His doctor asked sympathetically, “So now that you know, how are you handling the news?” I told her it was fine. Or maybe it wasn’t fine, but what can you do? I already knew. A mother always knows.
We started services early, dutifully showing up twice each week for speech and occupational therapy. The little boy who refused to speak to his preschool teacher or classmates and cried in distress at preschool drop-off every day started to slowly change. We chose a new school more aligned with his needs, and with a pit in my stomach, I tearfully emailed the teacher. She had to know how he shuts down when he’s uncomfortable, and how he becomes obsessed with certain topics for no particular reason, and how I don’t know what I’m doing, and please, if there is anything you can do. On open school night, Miss Julie pulled me aside while I held my breath. “You know, he’s going to be just fine. We will help him,” she casually tells me with a shrug as if it wasn’t even in question. My shoulders relax, and I finally exhale. Motherhood didn’t need to feel so heavy. Why was I blaming myself for everything that went sideways? Why did I think that I alone needed to fix it? Finally, I am doing enough. He’s doing enough. We are enough.
My son made great strides that year. He learned how to socialize and follow directions. He (mostly) colored in the lines and wrote his letters. He was invited to birthday parties with peers who genuinely enjoyed his company. He learned how to be in a world he didn’t always understand. His teachers didn’t see a problem; they saw potential, and it allowed me to see it too. I attended his graduation that spring and quietly wept watching him cross the stage. The song they played was “Here Comes The Sun.” Fitting, indeed.
It has been a few years since I sent out an SOS pleading for help. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Navigating the needs of a neurodiverse mind is hard but important work, and I couldn’t do it alone. At my most vulnerable, the world around me took notice and offered love and care in the form of resources, guidance, and support. My son is happy and thriving these days. He is one of the kindest kids I know and I am endlessly proud of who he is becoming. I’m told that a life lived differently is not a life less lived. We will make sure of it.
