A Mother’s Spectrum

With love in every shade of the spectrum

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Mom of 2 sweet boys. Our journey of an autism diagnosis.

  • The Space Between Chaos and Calm

    It’s been a while since I’ve written. Work swallowed me whole — busy season in full swing — and the boys spent a week at their grandparents’ so I could focus without distraction. The house was quiet, too quiet. For a few days, I let myself just breathe and work, without the constant hum of worry in the background. But even as I tried to enjoy the silence, I missed them.

    Eli always does well at Gam and Pap’s for the first few days, but too long out of his routine and things start to unravel. By the time the week ended, I could feel it — the tension in my gut, the knowing that he needed to be home. When I finally got to scoop him and Caden into my arms, it felt like a weight lifted. There’s nothing like the feeling of having my boys home, of being able to hold them close and breathe them in again.

    It’s crazy what a single week can do — so much progress, and yet somehow, a derailment too. It’s hard to explain, but any parent of a child on the spectrum probably understands. After a week and a half away from daycare, Eli starts full-time ABA therapy tomorrow. I’m both nervous and excited. I want to see what he can do with people who truly understand how his mind works. I’m hopeful — really hopeful — but if I’m honest, I’m scared too.

    This weekend has been rough. Eli’s been stimming more, extra clingy, and his emotions have been all over the place. He’s hit his brother several times and even pushed him down the stairs. It’s terrifying how quickly things can happen — you can’t look away for a second. It takes both me and my husband constantly watching just to keep everyone safe and happy. It’s exhausting. Sometimes it feels endless.

    But then there are moments like last night. Eli was restless, emotional, unable to settle until he crawled into my arms. Our cat jumped up on the bed, and Eli looked at her and said, “I love you, kitty.” Just like that. And I cried. Because how can one child break your heart and heal it all in the same breath? How can life feel so hard one minute and so indescribably beautiful the next?

    I try not to think too far ahead, but sometimes the thought sneaks in — is this what it will always be like? The constant swings, the exhaustion, the endless balancing act. It’s not fair to them that we’re so depleted all the time. On a good day, we’re running at fifty percent. I keep wondering how to hold onto the good moments more tightly, how to stop letting the hard ones take up so much space.

    Cody and I have talked about taking a trip, just the two of us. We haven’t done that since Eli was born — more than three years ago. The thought feels exciting, but also impossible. Who could care for Eli the way we do? Even with family, I get scared thinking about someone else trying to calm him during a meltdown, not knowing exactly what he needs, or how to reach him with patience and love. The thought of not being there to save him terrifies me.

    But the truth is, we’re running on empty. We need rest, too. A moment to remember who we are outside of being Mom and Dad. Whether that trip happens or not, I know one thing — we’ll always put our boys first. Always. Because even when it’s hard, they are our hearts walking around outside our bodies.

    Today’s Lesson

    Even in chaos, there are small, perfect moments that remind me why I keep going. Love doesn’t erase the exhaustion, but it gives it purpose.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    Eli’s little voice saying, “I love you, kitty.” Proof that the light always finds its way through.

  • Gratitude

    Today we had Eli’s in-person assessment at the ABA therapy center. The space was small and intimate — nothing flashy, but warm enough. Each child gets their own RBT, and everyone I met seemed kind, patient, and gentle. Eli will be the youngest one there.

    It wasn’t what I pictured. Then again, I’m not even sure what I pictured. In many ways it felt like just a smaller version of daycare. And that’s where my heart started to ache a little. Eli loves his daycare. He loves his teachers, and they love him. Pulling him out of the familiar feels like pulling him away from comfort. Maybe I’m just nervous about breaking his routine. Or maybe I’m still unsure if he really needs this therapy.

    Earlier this week, I spoke with a coworker who had some hard things to say about ABA. Her child faced similar struggles, but wasn’t diagnosed until after school began. She’s the only person so far who’s spoken negatively about it, but her words stuck in my head. It’s hard not to second-guess every single choice. Why does every decision feel so heavy? Why does it feel like life has become nothing but impossible decisions stacked on top of one another? I just want to be able to breathe without the weight pressing down on me.

    And yet, I know we are fortunate. More fortunate than many others. I remind myself of that often. If it were something worse — something terminal, like cancer — I don’t know if I would survive it. We have our moments of struggle, yes, but we also have a good life. Two beautiful boys. A roof over our heads. Opportunities for help. It’s easy to spiral into pity, but I don’t want to live there. I don’t have the time or space for it. My boys need me — to care for them, to love them, to fight for them.

    Life is hard. But it could be so much harder. And for that, I am grateful.

    Today’s Lesson

    Every decision feels overwhelming, but uncertainty doesn’t mean failure. Love guides the way, even when the path isn’t clear.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    Gratitude — for the blessings we do have, even on the days when they’re harder to see.

  • The Weight of it All

    Being the parent who is both the primary breadwinner and a mom is hard. It feels even heavier with a child on the autism spectrum. I want to be the one who is always there for Eli, at every appointment, every therapy session, every milestone. But I can’t be. Some days I work fifteen hours straight, and I’m painfully aware of all the moments I’m missing.

    I’m grateful — deeply grateful — that my husband is able to be the stay-at-home parent. Honestly, we couldn’t do this without him. Between therapy schedules, doctor’s appointments, and everyday needs, it wouldn’t be possible if one of us wasn’t home full-time. Still, the gratitude doesn’t erase the ache of wishing I could be there more.

    The last few days with Eli have been good ones, and when those moments happen, I can’t help but wonder: are they really sure? Does he really have autism? But then the harder days come, and reality pulls me back fast. Yesterday, we met family for a birthday dinner. Eli laughed, smiled, and seemed to have the best time. Then out of nowhere, he started banging his head. I think he was just tired, ready to go home, but it left me rattled. On the drive back, my chest felt tight, like a panic attack was chasing me down.

    That’s how it goes: some moments feel so normal, almost easy, and then the next moment I feel like the weight of the world is crushing me. The highs and lows repeat like a cycle I can’t break. Sometimes I don’t even know what to write anymore because the feelings are the same, just looping over and over.

    Maybe no one will ever read these words, but writing them down feels like my therapy. For a few minutes, it’s like I get to breathe, like my thoughts are heard even if it’s only by me.

    And right now, everything feels overwhelming. The boys are both sick — poor Caden projectile vomited all over himself and the car on the way to dinner, and now his little body is raw from diarrhea. Eli’s finally over the stomach bug, but now he’s coughing and sniffling. I’m working more than sixty hours a week, while my husband is drained from caring for both boys around the clock. Every free moment outside of work is spent at appointments or tending to sick little bodies. I’m so tired.

    But I don’t want to miss anything. I don’t want to stop showing up. Even when it feels impossible, I push forward. Because they need me. And even when I feel like I’m running on empty, I know the truth: I need them just as much.

    Today’s Lesson

    The weight may feel unbearable at times, but showing up — even imperfectly — is still love.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    That every smile, every laugh, every small “normal” moment is worth the exhaustion a thousand times over.

  • Shifting Ground

    It’s been a few days since I’ve written anything, mostly because life has been heavy and exhausting. This week has drained me in ways I didn’t expect. I find myself hyper-aware of Eli’s every need, maybe even overprotective. I’m stepping into a world I don’t understand, trying to navigate rules I don’t know yet, and it’s sobering.

    Does he need more discipline? Or more patience? Is there even a clear line between the two? I want to do everything right, but sometimes I don’t even know what “right” looks like. What I do know is that I need to be more present with him, but work demands so much of me. And work is what gives us the ability to provide for his care. It’s a cycle I don’t know how to step out of.

    Eli is still Eli — his laugh, his light, his quirks are the same as they were last week. But somehow everything feels different now. The diagnosis has settled into my thoughts like a constant hum I can’t shut off. All I think about is autism: what it means, what we need to do, how we can help him. From the outside, our days haven’t changed much. We still celebrate the good and fight through the hard. But inside, I feel different.

    And then there’s Caden. My sweet baby who also needs us, who also deserves our love and attention. We give it to him, of course, but I can’t shake the guilt that Eli requires more. Does he really? Or do I just think he does? At bedtime, when it’s just me and Caden for a half hour, I savor it — the stillness, the coos, the soft smiles. In those moments I know he feels seen, held, and loved. I just wish I had more to give both of them.

    Lately, my thoughts drift beyond our home. I wonder how many parents are quietly walking this same road, but without the support to lean on. How many suffer in silence because they’re too scared to say, “Something feels off”? Or because they don’t have a partner who would accept it? How many are just waiting for someone else to raise the question — in a society that’s afraid to tell parents their child might be different?

    And then I think about the children. The little ones who might be misunderstood, labeled as “bad” or “difficult,” when in reality they need help, support, and someone to fight for them. How many go without resources because no one spoke up? That thought breaks my heart. This journey has opened my eyes to a side of life I never truly saw before — the quiet, hidden struggles happening all around us.

    Today’s Lesson

    Advocacy matters. Speaking up matters. Every child deserves someone to see past the behavior and fight for the support they need.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    The quiet bedtime moments with Caden — reminders that love, attention, and presence are the greatest gifts I can give both of my boys.

  • Small Steps and Setbacks

    Today was the first day I didn’t have a full-on cry session — and that feels like progress. After breaking down in front of a partner at work yesterday (and blurting out more than I intended), I decided it might be best to stay home for the rest of the week. Juggling tax season while carrying this weight is already hard enough; working from home gives me just a little more space to breathe.

    But the day didn’t stay quiet for long. Mid-morning, daycare called. My son had been hitting other kids and even his teacher. By the time I got there, they told me he’d also been tipping tables and throwing chairs. My heart sank walking in to find him in tears, cradled in his teacher’s arms. The moment he saw me, he came running. I scooped him up, and he clung to me like he never wanted to let go. The teacher admitted she wasn’t sure why he was so upset, only that she couldn’t put him down without him melting down completely.

    It feels like we’ve slipped backward this past week. Behaviors I thought we had left behind have returned. And maybe it’s just me paying closer attention now, but I’ve noticed new things too — lining objects up, pressing his head into things, less clear words and more jargon. My mind races: is this regression, or just part of the process?

    But when we got home, he curled up against me and didn’t move until he drifted off to sleep. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The chaos of the morning, the worry, the questions — it all faded as I held him, and everything felt right again.

    Later, we shared the news with some of our friends. Saying the words out loud lifted a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. Their kindness and support gave me strength. And tomorrow brings a new step: our first appointment with an ABA therapist. For the first time this week, I can feel a flicker of something new — hope.

    Today’s Lesson

    Progress doesn’t always look like moving forward. Sometimes it’s learning to hold on through the setbacks.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    His need to snuggle close — because in those quiet moments, I’m reminded that love is enough.

  • The Diagnosis & the Drive

    Monday afternoon, everything changed. The word I had feared became real: autism.

    That evening, I was numb. My body moved through the motions, but my heart felt heavy in a way I can’t fully explain. By Tuesday, shock had given way to action. There were calls to make, schools to contact, therapies to research. I found myself glued to my laptop reading about ABA, scrolling through reviews, filling out intake forms, scheduling appointments. Every task completed left me staring at a list that only seemed to grow. And tucked between the logistics were the moments I couldn’t plan for — crying spells that came out of nowhere, waves of guilt, the kind of anxiety that steals your breath.

    And all of this layered on top of tax season. Clients, deadlines, numbers swirling on my computer screen. Somehow, I was supposed to show up for work with the same focus as always. But my mind was somewhere else. My heart was with my little boy.

    This morning, I dropped him off at daycare, knowing he won’t be there much longer. His doctor recommended full-time ABA, and we were lucky enough to find a therapist with an opening soon. As I pulled away, I braced myself for the 30-minute drive to the office — just me, the road, and my thoughts.

    It didn’t take long for them to catch up with me. Fear rushed in first: I don’t want to leave him. Not because he isn’t safe, but because when he’s not with me, I can’t protect him. Then came the guilt — why do I feel like he needs protecting when there’s nothing “wrong” with him? But what if someone doesn’t understand his emotions the way I do? What if his laughter, his frustrations, his way of seeing the world isn’t met with kindness? Love, fear, guilt, confusion — they all collided at once, and suddenly the tears were pouring.

    At a stoplight, I reached for my phone and played videos of his laugh. That laugh — bright, unfiltered joy — is my anchor. It reminds me that my boy is perfectly normal. His diagnosis doesn’t define him. His happiness does.

    And then, almost as if the world knew I needed it, my social feeds flooded with autism stories. Today, one stood out — a young woman with autism who competed on Survivor. Watching her wasn’t about seeing difference. It was about seeing resilience, acceptance, hope. For the first time in days, I felt my chest loosen just a little.

    It’s only been three days since hearing that word, and I know this road will bring more emotions: sadness, guilt, confusion, fear. But I also know there will be hope, resilience, and love stronger than anything else. I don’t have all the answers, but I don’t need them. I just need to keep showing up. Because God made me his mom for a reason.

    And he is my reason.

    Today’s Lesson

    It’s okay not to know what comes next. Love and determination are enough for today.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    His laugh — the purest reminder of who he is and always will be.

  • Where our story begins…

    My sweet boy will be three this December. He is the light of my life — joyful, silly, full of laughter when he’s happy. But our journey hasn’t looked like what I imagined when I first became his mom.

    From early on, I noticed little quirks. Repetitive behaviors. Things I brushed off as just “his way.” Everyone told me not to worry. “My son didn’t talk until he was three, and then he never stopped!” I held onto those words like a lifeline. But as time passed, his speech delays became harder to ignore. And then came the tantrums — the kind that broke me. The kind where my little boy, the one I would do anything to protect, was hurting himself. Banging his head on the floor, the walls, the concrete. Throwing chairs. Tipping tables.

    There were nights I cried, convinced I was failing him. Convinced I wasn’t patient enough, strong enough, or maybe not even a good enough mom. Because when he was happy, he radiated joy. But when he was upset, it was like standing in a storm I didn’t know how to weather.

    We started conversations with his pediatrician early, mostly about his speech. And while I prayed it was just a delay, deep down, I knew there was more. We tried everything. Even daycare — even though his dad was home, we decided the social interaction might help him grow. And for a little while, it did. His words came more, his world seemed bigger. But then the behaviors came back. Harder. Hitting. Throwing. Aggression at daycare and at home.

    Still, I told myself: Once his speech improves, everything will get better.

    When it came time for the autism evaluation, I almost cancelled. I almost convinced myself it was unnecessary. He’s just a boy. He’ll be fine. He’s perfectly normal. But a little voice inside me said — better to know.

    And so we went. And to my relief, it actually went well. A small tantrum, but quickly redirected (a huge win in my book). I left thinking we’d be told to just keep up with speech therapy. That it was nothing more. That he was fine.

    But then came the words that shifted everything.

    Autism.

    The air felt heavy in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe. My mind went a million places at once. How did we get here? Will he be okay? How can I protect him from a world that doesn’t always understand?

    The truth is, I can’t protect him from everything. And that terrifies me. But what I can do — what I will do — is love him fiercely, advocate for him, and make sure he knows just how incredible he is. Because he is.

    This is where my story — our story — really begins. Not with fear, but with hope. Not with limitations, but with possibilities. Because my son is more than a diagnosis. He is joy. He is love. He is mine.

    Today’s Lesson

    Fear may have started this chapter, but hope is what carries it forward.

    What I’m Holding Onto

    My son’s joy — because it shines brighter than any diagnosis.