A Letter to Myself, an Autism Mommy

Dear Me, 

I’m sorry I never think you do enough. 

You go to bed exhausted. 

Sleep restlessly throughout the night. 

In between the 3 A.M.  googling and night awakenings from you child, you still dream. 

I’m sorry you still dream.

It’s never the exact dream, but that pain in your heart feels the exact same. 

Your nonverbal child said, “Mom…”

“…I love you…”

“…I’m good.”

Or worse, your child has a whole conversation with you, as if their voice has always been there.

Then your tired eyes open.

You try to close your eyes again. 

You can’t get back to where you just were, because you never really went anywhere. 

I’m sorry you never go anywhere.

At least not without a strategic plan, your village, and a book bag that’s filled like Barney’s magic bag. 

Don’t forget your escape route either; if things take a turn for the worst. 

The meltdown.

This one was the worst one yet.

I’m sorry people stare.

People stare at your child flapping.

They judge why your child is using his tablet. 

No one offers support as you are literally trying to pick up your child and the pieces of your life together off the grocery store floor. 

I’m sorry you are always picking up

Picking up from the routine your child has left off on. 

Picking up the phone calls from the numerous doctors, therapies, insurance companies, and schools. 

Picking up broken toys, sensory fun that has gone wrong, and your self off the floor. 

I’m sorry you have forgotten yourself. 

More times then none. 

Sometimes I see you there. 

In the mirror. 

You ask why more times then you’d like to admit to anyone; especially yourself. 

You look into your eyes and then into your child’s eyes. 

For a split second you make eye contact.

I’m sorry it feels like a lifetime ago. 

They are a deep dark blue with evergreen in the middle… same as yours. 

You don’t always get to see them as often as you’d like. 

You see your toddler turning into a little boy. 

I’m sorry it gets harder for the world to accept autism as he gets older. 

The same people who used to smile at your nonverbal 2 year old squealing; don’t seem to smile the same at your nonverbal 5 year old squealing. 

You don’t understand why they don’t see what you see. 

Smart. 

Empathetic. 

Loving. 

I’m sorry you can’t make everyone accept. 

But you don’t give up. 

You never lose hope. 

This is why you go to bed exhausted. 

You do more then enough. 

You are enough. 

You create the loving environment that surrounds that child. 

You love that child with every ounce you have. 

I’m no longer sorry. 

I’m thankful. 

I know you get wrapped up in therapies, doctors appointments, and unsolicited advice from strangers. 

You don’t let that derail you from what endless opportunities the future has for you and your child. 

Thank you for not giving up when it seems like the world has. 

Thank you for using your voice when your child can’t. 

Thank you for loving unconditionally. 

Remember, you got this. 

A letter to myself, an autism mommy. 

Written by, Melissa Owsiany 

I’m a nurse, wife and mom to two wonderful boys Zachary, who has autism, and Landon.

Finding Cooper’s Voice is a safe, humorous, caring and honest place where you can celebrate the unique challenges of parenting a special needs child. Because you’re never alone in the struggles you face. And once you find your people, your allies, your village….all the challenges and struggles will seem just a little bit easier. Welcome to our journey. You can also follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our newsletter.

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