Someone Stronger: How Autism Changed Me

I was over at Sam Wessel’s site, watching the trailer for the United States of Autism, when I was suddenly overwhelmed by a tidal feeling. It was a combination of  many things. Pain, wonder, agony, awe, hope, despair, empathy…a wave of emotion over what’s happening all around America as the numbers of kids with lower functioning autism rise.

I never wanted this to be an autism family. I clung to incorrect or limited diagnoses for most of my daughter’s early life: she was cranky, then spirited, then hypersensitive, then had sensory processing issues, all temporary, all fixable, all just waiting for relief.

And then: 

Autism.

Like a large sword, it hung over my family’s head. I didn’t want to be one of those people who’s daughter would never speak or sleep or be potty trained or could barely read or do math. I didn’t want another child condemned to IEPs and aides. There is no “oh, look how wonderful autism is!” It’s not. It robs her of skills other children her age embrace. It denies her friendships she should have. There’s no extra cognitive abilities. It’s a burden, plain and simple, and improvement is hard to come by.

But.

BUT.

BUT.

It’s been a blessing in disguise.

I look in the mirror and I’m not the woman I was. Even with Amelia’s diagnosis, there was something that held me back from changing and growing. There was some part of me that, when I stopped fighting the truth, laid down and gave up.

Autism has changed me.

That woman looking back at me is someone new. She can fight. She can stand her ground. She can embrace new politics. She’s opened doors she didn’t think she could and avoided the ones that were too easy because she knew, in her heart, they were wrong. She’s stepped out on the precipice and taken the steep, narrow road, despite her fears.

I love this new woman. She’s not always right. She makes mistakes and many missteps. She still has nights feeling like the worst mother who ever lived but her heart knows that’s as far from the truth as you can get. She’s tired, and she often forgets to take care of herself, skipping showers, sleep, meals.

But she’s beautiful. And fierce. And unstoppable. And has more hope in her heart than she ever knew existed.

 That warrior mama is me.

I have not done this alone. There have been communities and moms and friends and doctors and practitioners and expert advice and books and groups and conferences and helpers who have pushed me along.

But there is Someone stronger behind me too, and He’s all that matters. And every mistake, every misstep, He has shown me that those are mere hiccups, there to teach and train and mold me into someone stronger.

So thank you, autism. Your tricks may have hardened my irascible heart, but God has softened my stance and sharpened my weapons. Even as we live with you, we will not live UNDER you.

I write this, reader, to give you hope. To provide your heart with the trust that things can get better, even if what gets better is only you and not so much your child.