Along my journey parenting a neurodivergent child, I’m learning to say the quiet parts out loud. It hasn’t been and isn’t easy.
Many innocuous, well-intended questions and statements used to fill me with anxiety and a general sense of lacking.
What was his first word?
Have you started sleepovers?
Is he playing Little League, kids’ soccer, or flag football?
The answer was almost always “not yet,” and I wasn’t ready to share a diagnosis. Sharing that he hadn’t yet said his first word, didn’t have a buddy to invite to a sleepover, and was too busy to participate in extracurricular kids’ activities (due to his therapy schedule and lack of interest) felt like a hard stop to any conversation with another mom. It was typical mom banter, and I couldn’t relate. Eventually, my strategy was to withdraw. If I limited my contact with people, I wouldn’t have to answer questions, feel defensive, or even worse, feel I should be doing more. But not talking about the quiet thoughts didn’t help either. There was an elephant in the room, and without addressing it, it grew bigger, more untenable, and deprived me of the connection I desperately needed.
Saying the quiet parts out loud has been a game-changer. It can be to a therapist, a friend, a group of people walking a similar path, or the cashier at CVS. Recently, a cashier was ringing up my items, and she was teary-eyed. When I asked her if she was okay, she said they were happy tears. Her autistic son had just done something she never thought he would do. I shared that my son was also autistic, and we briefly spoke about the wins when you often least expect them. That three-minute conversation impacted the rest of my day.
Now that my son is a teenager, the questions that come with this stage in his life have changed.
Do you think he’ll return to public school for high school?
Do you think he’ll go to college?
For me, the last question came on the drive home from a recent weekend trip with an old friend. After my initial pause, I said out loud what I’d often thought in silence. “I’m not sure. ” I don’t want to live in an altered reality where people can’t ask general questions about my son. He’s a 13-year-old boy with twinkling eyes and a cackle. He loves baseball, and after a long period of being an anti-Philadelphia sports fan, he just admitted he liked the Phillies.
Things are always subject to change
by Elizabeth North 
by Stephanie Hanrahan 
by Christa Barnet 
