My youngest baby was my only child to go to preschool. It was necessary and heartbreaking. I was so sad to be giving up hours of my time with him. Time I had with his brothers when they were that age. But, he needed it, all of it, and I had to let go.

I remember vividly the first time I visited his classroom. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting in a classroom that was labeled substantially separate. As I looked around at the other children with obvious special needs, I was sad he was in this class. And yet at nearly three years old, he was non-verbal, so, why wouldn’t he be in this class? Maybe my mama heart lived in a little place called denial—after all, he looked like typical kids his age and the pediatrician didn’t notice anything off. But there we were and here we still are, and this is our life.

My vocabulary for all things special needs began to grow. Half-day preschool turned into full days filled with speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy. After school hours were filled with speech therapy and occupational therapy appointments. I learned about IEPs, IEP meetings, special ed liaisons, and neuropsych testing. We went to the neurologist and followed up with an MRI. We learned about low muscle tone, developmental delays, and later developmental coordination disorder and unspecified learned disabilities.

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We have had good meetings and appointments and bad ones. I’ve laughed and I’ve cried. I have sat at meetings where I was told how sweet and kind my child is, how he is a role model for his peers, that he is a helper to his teachers. I have also sat at meetings where the statements were “he may never learn to tie his shoes,” and “he may never learn to ride a bike.” I heard those words, and instead of crumbling, I felt a warrior rise up within me and I thought, challenge accepted.

When my baby nailed tying his shoes, I told him to make sure his teachers saw him tie his shoes. When he learned to ride that bike, I made sure every member of his special education team knew. Not for the sake of people pleasing or for applause for me, but so everyone would know that my boy could overcome what life throws at him. Seven years ago his preschool award was for powerful perseverance—sometimes it drives us crazy that he won’t ask for help. Through it all, he never gives up. He’s kind of my hero.

Truth be told though, at 12 years old, a sixth grader, and a pre-teen, the challenges are getting harder. For him and for me. The mama bear in me so badly wants to fix it. I want to fix it so he understands his homework and gets through it without tears and frustration. I want to fix it so he can be on the same level as his peers. I want to fix it so he doesn’t have to do extra just so he can learn.

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I know that as he gets older the work is just going to continue to get harder. But I also know he is going to try harder. I know he is going to do great things. I know he is going to succeed.

Even though my mama heart and brain are tired right now, I have faith in the process, faith in my child, and most of all faith in God—the author of life, the one who created my child in my womb and knows the number of hairs on his head, the one who is faithful and loves His children, the one who calls us by name, the one who says we are fearfully and wonderfully made. He made my child with a plan in mind, and He made his mama that way too. He didn’t make me to fix my son but rather to advocate for him, help him, and love him. The road we are on is a hard one, but it’s all his. It’s his story, and I have no doubt that God will use it for His glory.