Life Without Words: Wyatt's Story

  Every year, as the holidays creep closer, I feel this familiar knot form in my stomach. Christmas is supposed to be magical, joyful, full of excitement and wonder. But for us- for Wyatt.. it’s complicated. And every year, I find myself stressed and overwhelmed trying to capture even a piece of that magic for him. Gift shopping is one of the hardest parts. There has never been that one toy Wyatt is drawn to at the store. There’s never been a single “special interest” we can follow to make gift-giving simple. Wyatt finds joy in things that don’t fit inside the holiday aisle at Target... music, inanimate objects, patterns only he can see. This week, his favorite thing is fixating on pictures on my phone. He’ll sit for long stretches completely immersed in one image, and if I have to exit out of it, the meltdown comes fast and hard. I’ve printed the same photo multiple times just so he can hold it, stare at it, feel grounded by it. Sometimes it is a toy. I’ll catch him lingering on...

  When your child is diagnosed with level three autism, it can feel like the ground shifts beneath you. Suddenly, there are new words, new expectations, and a lot of emotions ... confusion, fear, sadness, relief, or even a strange kind of calm. Every parent reacts differently, and that’s okay. I remember when Wyatt was diagnosed. The truth is, it didn’t change the way I saw him at all. He was -  and still is - the same person he was before anyone said the word autism. A diagnosis doesn’t define who our children are. It just gives us language and tools to understand them better. For some parents, though, the diagnosis hits hard. It can feel like the future you imagined has suddenly changed shape. But here’s what I want you to remember: your child hasn’t changed. The diagnosis didn’t take away a single part of who they are - their laugh, their quirks, their love for certain routines, or the way they light up when they’re happy. Those things are still theirs. It’s okay to g...

 This weekend marks an important event... the Argonaute Syndromes Conference in Prague, Czech Republic. Families, doctors, and researchers from around the world are coming together to share knowledge, progress, and hope. Financially, we couldn’t make the trip across the ocean, so we had to settle for watching through Zoom. Of course, it’s not the same as being there in person, but I’m grateful for the chance to still feel connected. You may have noticed that I sometimes use different words when talking about Wyatt’s condition, and it might sound a little confusing. So let me break it down: Argonaute Syndromes is an umbrella term for a group of genetic mutations that affect a family of genes called Argonaute proteins. These proteins are essential for gene regulation... basically, they help keep countless processes in the body running the way they should. There are four main Argonaute genes: AGO1, AGO2, AGO3, and AGO4. Wyatt’s mutation is in the AGO2 gene. This particular gene change...

  Some people enter your life by chance. Others feel like they were always meant to be part of your story. For my family, that person is Bonnie. Bonnie is my mom’s best friend from New Hampshire. The two of them first connected back in the 90s, during the early days of the internet ... back when chatrooms felt exciting and new, and long before catfishing and online predators were the concern they are today. In 1997, when I was about 18 months old, Bonnie flew to Ohio to meet our family in person for the very first time. From the moment she walked into our lives, it felt as if we had always known her. The connection was instant, natural, like reuniting with an old friend we just hadn’t seen in a while. That first visit was only the beginning. Over the last 25+ years, our families have woven together in countless ways. We’ve traveled to New Hampshire to see her. She’s come to Ohio to be with us. Bonnie has shown up for everything - every Christmas, every breakup, every wedding,...

 Over the years, a handful of people have suggested some kind of body cleanse drink or “miracle” remedy that’s supposed to cure my son’s autism. I honestly believe most of the time it’s said with good intentions, like they really think they’re sharing something that could help. But here’s the thing: unless you’re an autism parent yourself, please understand - this is not something you should bring up to a family living with autism. Autism is not something that can be “cured” with a funky drink, a supplement, or a fad diet. My child’s autism isn’t a bug in the system that needs to be flushed out. It’s part of who he is. We went through genetic testing. His autism comes from a de novo genetic mutation. That means “from the beginning.” It’s not something I caused, it’s not something he caught, and it’s not something that will ever be erased with a cleanse. When people suggest these “cures,” it can feel like they’re saying my child isn’t good enough the way he is... or that I’m somehow...

 Yesterday I went to a furniture store with my mom. She was shopping for a new couch, and somehow the topic of my son’s autism came up with the salesperson. Do you know what her very first question was? “Oh, what is his fixation? What is it that he’s really good at?” I know she meant well, but I can’t tell you how frustrating that question is. Why is there this automatic assumption that every autistic child is some kind of hidden genius? That they all must have a “special talent” or “superpower” tucked away, just waiting to be discovered? Here’s the truth: for us, it doesn’t look like that. Maybe one day my son will develop a strong interest or talent, and maybe he won’t. Right now, every single day is about survival. The smallest tasks - getting dressed, eating, going to the store - can feel like climbing a mountain. We don’t have a superpower. We don’t have a quirky fixation that makes life feel magical. What we have is hard. What we have is real. And I know we’re not the only fa...

  Wyatt’s vocabulary is slowly growing. Most days he echoes nursery rhymes and hums along to every song like it’s his job. His words aren’t always clear, but you can hear the effort... the way his mouth and mind are trying to meet in the middle. And then, every once in a while, a phrase slips out - crystal clear, perfectly placed... and it knocks the air right out of my lungs. The other night, around bedtime, I heard him say, not super clearly but undeniably, “I wanna go upstairs.” Then, “Go to bed.” Such ordinary words. Such an extraordinary moment. It’s wild how easily those with neurotypical kids can move past the little things - how a simple sentence can barely register. For me, each new word is a firework. He’s given me a brand-new appreciation for the tiniest details of being human. Last night I lay beside him, like I always do until he falls asleep. The room was completely still. I thought he was out. Then, in the softest, surest voice, he said, “Good night.” Clear as da...

  Yesterday we took Wyatt and Sophia to the zoo. I’d been looking forward to it - and dreading it. Autism parents know that feeling well. Your brain starts serving up a buffet of “what ifs”: What if he bolts? What if he melts down? What if people stare? I’ve been in therapy lately untangling how much I obsess over what people think - of me as a mom, a friend, a sister, a daughter. I worry I’ve upset someone. I worry I’m not liked. It’s exhausting. Here’s what surprised me: our zoo trip validated what everyone keeps telling me - most people really don’t care. Not in a cold way, but in a freeing way. I was anxious about using a harness for Wyatt. Full transparency: growing up, I judged parents who used them. It looked like they were treating a child like a dog. Then I had my child - a curious, fearless explorer who wants to see everything and doesn’t always look back. Safety suddenly wasn’t theoretical; it was the difference between a fun day and a missing child report. My mo...

There are dogs you love - and then there are once-in-a-lifetime dogs. The ones who slip into your days like they were always supposed to be there, who understand your people without words. I thought you only get one of those. I was wrong. Somehow, our family was blessed with a twice-in-a-lifetime dog story. Dixie was our border collie–poodle mix, all bounce and goofy joy. She had a way of reading rooms and hearts, but most of all, she understood Wyatt. She knew when his world felt loud and when he needed space. She’d lay across his legs like a soft, living weighted blanket. She’d nudge his hand when his thoughts were tangled. She was his translator and his calm. When we lost Dixie suddenly - she was only two - I was newly pregnant with Sophia. The grief split me open. I cried every day. I was scared the stress would somehow shake something loose that I couldn’t hold together. Losing a dog is losing a rhythm in your home.. this constant, loving heartbeat that holds the days. Without h...

I  never pictured myself in therapy. I’m not great at talking about my feelings, and for a long time I convinced myself I didn’t need to. But recently I realized something hard and honest: if I’m not okay - if I’m anxious, overwhelmed, stepping away to cry, or melting down from sensory overload - my kids see that. And I don’t want their memories of me to be only the moments when I was barely hanging on. Things I've found help me:  Therapy & honest check-ins. Naming what’s hard lowers the temperature in my body. Micro-breaks. Five minutes alone in the back yard. Deep breaths in the bathroom. A song in my earbuds while the kids watch theirs. Safety plans. Preparing calming activities, predictable routines, and safe spaces so we can de-escalate sooner. Tapping the village. Letting Grammie, Grandma, or my husband step in before I’m past my limit. Compassion for my body. Treating bruises and soreness, stretching, warm showers, and rest when I can get it. Boundaries without...