By Chanel N. Grant, MBA, M.ED 
“We are diagnosing him with Autism Spectrum Disorder with a language impairment.”
My eyes watered. “What level?” I asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t matter.
The clinical psychologist looked at me gently. “We’re really trying to steer away from levels. He’s so young; things can change.”
A tear rolled down my face as I sat alone in the center of my bed, staring at the Zoom screen. Why am I crying? I knew this already.
On the second screen, my ex-husband sat silently. My son walked up to the camera. “Mama.” I wiped the tear quickly and smiled as he ran off.
For more than a year, I’d been attending speech and occupational therapy sessions. I’d created more visual schedules than I could count and enough social stories to fill a library. I fought my ex-husband, family court, and the regional center on the premise that this diagnosis was so probable that intervention was necessary now. Now that we were here…why was I crying? Why was I sad? Why did my heart suddenly feel like it split open?
In that moment, I learned something no one tells you: you can feel heartbreak, relief, love, and hope all at the same time.
I thought getting the diagnosis would bring clarity. Instead, it brought more questions than answers.
What does this mean?
What will this look like?
Where do we go from here?
“We’ll need to monitor him,” the psychologist said. “He’s so young; we don’t yet know what challenges will present themselves. We’ll send you a detailed report with next steps.”
I closed my laptop and sat in silence, confused by my own sadness. How do you grieve something you don’t yet understand?
People say depression is living in the past, and anxiety is living in the future. But if you’ve ever spoken to a special needs parent, or are one, you know how unrealistic that sounds.
Living in the present? Sometimes it feels impossible. Honestly, most times it is.
I’m writing this on a flight home from vacation. We stayed at an autism-certified resort. Before we arrived, I emailed about the patio lock. I checked food options. I called the arcade to confirm the gaming policy. (Once, on a cruise, I spent 30 minutes on the floor discovering the $50-a-day arcade spending limit the hard way.)
I created a social story about switching planes because we’d never done that before. I bought a carry-on with a cup holder and a power bank so his tablet would never die. I planned everything with military precision.
Because sometimes, you simply cannot afford to live in the present.
I’ve had to learn what I must anticipate…and what I have to release and trust God with. I’ve been frustrated with systems, with family, with friends, with professionals, people who don’t understand my fears, my exhaustion, my joy.
People who don’t understand why I celebrate every time my son tries a new food or eats more than two bites at dinner.
And slowly, I found a community of parents who do understand. Parents who fight the same battles. Who love with the same fierceness. Who carry the same invisible weight.
My career, on the other hand, tanked. I have an MBA and a Master’s in Special Education, yet neither mattered in roles where I couldn’t be confined to a desk all day. Something had to change.
Autism is on the rise; support for parents is not. We needed to be seen. We needed to be heard. We needed help.
One day, I picked up one of the social stories I had written. A friend’s voice echoed in my mind: “If schools are using this to support kids with ASD, you should publish it and save everyone time.”
So I did.
The response was overwhelming.
I remembered when my son first received his Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) Device, and when I had to be trained on how to use it. That’s where James Finds His Voice was born, a story of a brave young boy with lots to say and a need for help to say it.
I recalled when my niece was diagnosed with dyslexia, and my sister didn’t know where to begin; that’s where Carla’s Brilliant Brain was born, a story of a brilliant young girl with a brain others struggled to understand.
No one talks about the duality of a diagnosis and brilliance. How our children struggle, but they know they’re struggling…how they sense they are different…how they ask questions we sometimes struggle to answer.
When I was working as a Head of School, every book had a glossary, an appendix, and interactive exercises, so I added all of that to my children’s books. I created child-friendly definitions, parent definitions, and activities for caregivers, teachers, and therapists.
I built resources I wish I had, but I didn’t stop there. I built a community. A place where neurodivergent children and their families could feel understood.
I took the credentials I once considered useless and turned them into tools. A painful diagnosis fueled my passion, and for the first time in a long time, I feel fulfilled.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said he dreamed of a world where children would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character
Here I am in 2026, dreaming of a world where my son is not judged by his communication abilities, his limitations, or his diagnosis, but by who he is.
So I fight, I love vigorously, I lead with confidence and compassion, and I am the advocate motherhood chose me to be.
To all my neurodivergent families:
I see you.
I hear you.
And I stand with you.
by Kate Swenson 
by Her View From Home 
