The Parking Lot Prayers of an Autism Mom

 

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 breaking, wondering why everything feels so hard for him.

And if I’m honest.... I'm wondering if I’m strong enough to handle this.

There’s a grief that comes with parenting a child with autism that no one prepares you for.

Not grief for who he is. Wyatt is extraordinary. He is intense and brilliant and deeply himself in a way most of us will never have the courage to be.

But I grieve the ease.

I grieve transitions that don’t feel like battles.

I grieve bedtime that doesn’t involve lining toys up just right.

I grieve the screaming when they’re not positioned exactly how his brain needs them to be.

I grieve the hours spent staring at a picture of Envious from Inside Out 2 because it regulates something inside him that I can’t see... and the meltdown when my phone finally dies.

And then there are the neurotypical children his age.

I need to say this clearly: I do not think my child is less than.

But I do wish things came easy for him the way they seem to for others. I wish the world didn’t feel like an obstacle course designed against his nervous system.

That wish doesn’t diminish who he is.

It just acknowledges how hard it is.

I think I managed the weight of this better before I started not feeling well. Doctor's appointments almost every day. My dad and mother-in-law have been amazing with helping me with the kids while I get to all these appointments so I could feel better. 

But then my dad's cancer came back. I feel so guilty pushing my children onto him during my doctor's appointments... I know he doesn't feel that way, but it feels like it to me. The world feels like it stacked its heaviness all at once.

Autism is not a single hard moment. It’s the accumulation. The constant vigilance. The advocacy. The explaining. The anticipating. The preventing. The comforting. The holding it together in public and unraveling in private.

And when your own body is tired…

When your heart is stretched thin between your child and your parent…

When you don’t get to collapse because someone always needs you…

It feels impossible.

There are mornings I sit in that parking lot and silently ask,

“Am I strong enough for this?”

But here’s the quiet truth I don’t always give myself credit for.... 

I show up anyway.

I catch him before he runs into the road.

I carry him when he can’t walk.

I charge my phone so he can regulate.

I hold him through the meltdowns.

I keep loving him through the hard.

Strength doesn’t always look like grace.

Sometimes it looks like surviving the drop-off.

Wyatt does not need to be easier to be worthy.

But I am allowed to say this is hard.

Both can exist at the same time.

I love my son with a fierceness that scares me sometimes. I would move mountains for him. I already do... every single day.

And if tomorrow morning looks just like today?

If he throws himself on the pavement again?

If I question myself again?

I will still show up.

Because being his mom means stepping into the hard...even when I’m tired, even when I’m scared, even when I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

Maybe strength isn’t about not breaking.

Maybe it’s about breaking... and still walking him to the door.