If Only There Were an Instruction Manual

 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 entire body. The middle of the night isn’t spared. Last night, every few hours, he woke screaming... his body tense, restless, overwhelmed.. long before the sun even thought about rising.

And I just sit there wondering.

What is he thinking about?

What is bothering him so deeply that his body reacts this way?

Is he trying to meet a sensory need?

Is he in pain?

Is he trapped in nightmares he can’t escape?

I wish more than anything that he could tell me. That he could point to the exact thing that hurts, or overwhelms, or scares him. That he could say, “Mom, this is what I need.” Instead, I’m left trying to read cues, patterns, reactions... doing my best to interpret a language without words.

This is the part of autism parenting that doesn’t get talked about enough: the not knowing. The constant mental load. The ache of loving someone so deeply and still feeling powerless to fix what’s hurting them.  I don’t have answers right now.

All I have is love, persistence, and the hope that even on the days it feels like I’m falling short, Wyatt knows somehow that I am trying.