Life Without Words: Wyatt's Story

  The last time Wyatt went to the beach, he had just turned one. He wasn’t walking yet, just starting to crawl a little. At the time, we didn’t have an autism diagnosis yet, but we already knew he was a little behind in some areas. Even so, we were so excited to take him on his first beach vacation. There’s something about the idea of the beach with your child that feels magical.... the sand, the waves, the sunshine, the memories you imagine making. The road trip down went great. Wyatt did really well in the car, and we even stopped to see some family along the way. Everything felt like it was going exactly how we hoped it would. Then we finally made it to the beach. I remember setting him down in the sand for the first time, and almost immediately realizing… this might not go how I pictured it. I’m planning on attaching a photo to this post because you can literally see the disgust written all over his face. He hated the sand. At the time, Wyatt’s main way of self-soothing was rub...

  I sat in the parking lot at Wyatt’s school this morning, hands on the steering wheel, bawling my eyes out, while trying to steady my breathing before I opened the door. Wyatt goes to a school specifically for autistic children. You would think that would make it easier. And for many families, maybe it does. I watch teachers walk children in with what looks like ease. Backpacks on. Hands held. Quick hugs. Smooth transitions. That isn’t our reality. Our mornings begin long before the parking lot. They begin with me catching him before he runs toward the road. They begin with coaxing, negotiating, redirecting, and sometimes physically carrying him to the car while he fights a world that feels too loud, too unpredictable, too overwhelming. By the time we pull into school, I am already exhausted. When someone comes outside to get him, it is never a simple drop-off. He throws himself to the ground. His whole body says no. Sometimes they/I have to carry him in. And I stand there, heart ...

  I wish there was an instruction manual for raising a child with autism.   One that told me exactly what to do. One that reassured me when I lie awake at night wondering if I’m failing him. One that answered the constant question looping in my head: Am I doing enough?  I worry all the time that Wyatt’s sensory needs aren’t being met. That I’m missing something important. That there’s a piece of the puzzle I just haven’t figured out yet. But the reality is.. there can never be a “catch-all” instruction manual for autism. You’ve probably heard the quote:  “ If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person .”  And it’s true.  What Wyatt struggles with may look completely different from what his friends struggle with, even when they share the same diagnosis. Autism isn’t one-size-fits-all, and neither is parenting it. Lately, things have been hard. At all hours of the day, Wyatt will scream at the top of his lungs and sometimes thrash his enti...

  I never would’ve guessed that a silly, late night Temu purchase could ripple into something so meaningful for our family. I was scrolling one day and came across a cute crewneck sweatshirt for Sophia. It featured all the characters from  Inside Out 2  with the words,  “Today I Feel…”  splashed across the front, surrounded by every bright, colorful emotion. It was one of those impulse buys... cute, harmless, forgettable. Or so I thought. When it arrived, I put Sophia in it to go pick up Wyatt from school. The moment Wyatt saw her, he stopped in his tracks. He was completely amazed. He couldn’t stop staring at her sweatshirt, his eyes fixed on the characters like they were something familiar… or important. Not long after we got home, Sophia spilled juice all over it, so I took it off of her to wash later. Before I could even think twice, it was in Wyatt’s hands. And it stayed there. For nearly a week, he carried it with him everywhere... laying it out carefully,...