Have you ever experienced a moment that completely reshapes your perspective on a significant aspect of your life? Recently, I attended a wake for a child, an event that profoundly impacted my understanding of autism. The memory of that little girl and her family lingers in my thoughts, illuminating the contrast between loss and my daily reality with my autistic child.
I’ve realized that I cannot claim to understand grief in the way many do. In the past, I wrote about the grieving process associated with discovering that your child has autism. Many discussions focus on mourning the expectations of a different child, as if autism has stolen the life you envisioned. However, I now recognize that my child, despite his autism, is very much present in my life. He fills our home with laughter, creates delightful chaos with his toys, and sings the same catchy tune for what feels like the hundredth time.
Yes, there are challenges—reminders for him to chew his food properly, gentle nudges to avoid teasing the pets, and his occasional fear of kitchen appliances. Yet, he is here, contributing joy and moments I cherish deeply. I can share laughter, high-fives in the hallway, and tender moments like sneaking in to kiss him goodnight after a long day that included a funeral.
Life may not have unfolded as I once imagined, but neither does anyone’s life. The lives of those we often envy are filled with their own struggles, unexpected challenges, and disappointments. What I sometimes perceive as frustration or self-pity is not grief; it is a process of acceptance. I refuse to equate my child’s autism with the profound loss of a child who has passed away. Mourning is for those who have truly lost a child; I will not diminish their pain by comparing my experience.
Instead, I embrace the reality that my child is alive and here with me. While the journey may be more demanding than I anticipated, I am grateful for the opportunity to be his parent. Many others do not have that privilege; they are navigating the heartache of losing their child, and they deserve our compassion and support.
I don’t dictate how others should feel, but I hope my experience resonates with those who find themselves in a similar situation. If your child is still with you, then you possess a wealth that others may not have. It’s natural to feel anger or sadness regarding your circumstances—those emotions are valid and should not be dismissed. I recall hugging a mother who was preparing for a lifetime of medical challenges for her daughter, only to find myself at her child’s wake shortly afterward.
I’m not proclaiming a universal truth; this is simply my perspective. Acknowledging when I was mistaken is essential, and moving forward, I choose to embrace acceptance over grief.
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In summary, my journey with my autistic child has taught me to value acceptance over grief. While challenges exist, the presence of my child is a source of joy and gratitude. Every parent’s experience is unique, and acknowledging that we all face different trials is crucial for understanding and empathy.