As I sit here contemplating our friendship, I can’t help but feel a deep love for you, even though we hardly see each other anymore. We often joke about how busy life has become—both of us navigating our 30s with careers and children. We always say, “This month we’ll finally find the time to meet up,” but it seems those months slip by without us actually making it happen. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s just a fantasy—at least for me.
Life has changed significantly for me. We’re still best friends, practically family, but we’ve grown apart in ways that are hard to ignore. I adore you and your kids, but the truth is, we’re on different paths now. My son has autism, and this diagnosis has completely reshaped my reality. Some days, I’m just trying to hold on.
I owe you an apology. I’m truly sorry for not making plans with you or for always canceling. You know that saying, “It’s not you, it’s me”? Well, this time it’s all me. This morning started at 3:07 a.m. with my son, Cooper. This is a regular occurrence for me. Some days are harder than others, and there are mornings where I feel like I’m barely hanging on.
I realize that I could share all these struggles with you, but I stopped trying a long time ago—not just with you, but with everyone. My life sounds dramatic, and sometimes I feel like I’m just whining. It’s so foreign and confusing that I don’t know how to explain it. When I do talk, you offer helpful suggestions, but deep down, I know they won’t apply to my situation.
Because of this, I often ignore your calls and let your texts pile up. When we do connect, I hesitate to make any plans, and if we manage to schedule something, I often have to cancel. I want you to understand that it’s not intentional. My son’s medical needs can change from one day to the next, and I feel like I have no control over it.
I used to make an effort to balance my old life with this new reality. When Cooper was younger, we could still go to parks and playdates. I remember watching you enjoy time with our friends while I was overwhelmed, running after my son, worried about his needs. The conversations around potty training and preschool felt worlds apart from my focus on therapy and medical care.
The world I now inhabit is filled with doctor’s visits and therapy sessions. It may seem like I’ve given up, but I view it differently. I’ve committed myself to my son, and in doing so, it feels like I’ve had to let go of everything else. The weight of his disability rests heavily on my shoulders, and it’s often overwhelming.
I know I’m not the same friend I used to be. I used to be carefree and fun, but now I feel the distance growing between us, and it pains me. I miss you and the connection we had, and I sometimes sense that you don’t know how to interact with me anymore. Please don’t worry about sharing your children’s successes; I love them as if they were my own, even if it sometimes stings.
I often wonder how I became this different person. The transformation happened the moment Cooper was born. Before that, our lives were intertwined; we were both excited about the future, oblivious to the challenges that would soon come my way.
But then everything changed. I became labeled as an autism parent, and it felt like a weight I couldn’t shake off. The differences between our lives became painfully clear. While your child was meeting milestones, mine struggled. I felt invisible as I watched your child thrive while mine faced numerous challenges.
As time went on, I withdrew. I stopped reaching out, and I know it hurt you. I can sense it when you say that you love Cooper, but the truth is, it’s hard for me to be around the normalcy of your parenting. The preparations for visits become overwhelming—do you have a safe space? What snacks should I bring? It feels like I’m still managing a newborn, albeit a 60-pound one.
Each day, I wake up with good intentions, wanting to reconnect with friends, but often by the end of the day, I’m too drained to respond to your messages. I see your updates about your son’s activities, and while I’m genuinely happy for you, it stirs a sense of longing in me as I navigate my own challenges.
Please forgive me for my absence. Autism is a part of my life, not yours. I appreciate your patience and support more than you know, and I hope you won’t give up on me. It’s my hope that one day I will be able to rejoin you in your world, and we can find a way back to each other.
In time, I believe we’ll be okay. I envision a future where I regain some semblance of my former self, and though our paths may always differ, we can find common ground again.
To read more about navigating challenges like this, check out this resource. And if you’re looking for more information on fertility support, this resource is excellent.
In summary, life has thrown challenges my way that have changed my friendships, but I hold onto hope for the future. I appreciate your understanding and support during this time and look forward to reconnecting.