Have you ever had a moment that completely reshapes your perspective on life? A few months back, I attended a wake for a child, and the impact it had on me was profound. I find myself thinking of that little one and her family every single day. This experience opened my eyes to how I perceive autism in my own life.
I can no longer claim to know what true grief feels like. I’ve written about the grieving process that comes with discovering your child is autistic, and I’ve read countless articles that discuss mourning the child you envisioned before autism changed that picture. But I realize now that I truly don’t understand grief. My child is here—making a delightful mess, playing with toys, and enthusiastically singing “Bird Is the Word” for the umpteenth time today.
Sure, he needs several reminders to chew his food properly or to treat our pets gently. He can become frightened just by seeing me open the cabinet where the blender is kept. But he’s present in my life. We share laughter, sing together, and I can tiptoe into his room at night to kiss his forehead while he sleeps.
Life hasn’t unfolded as I had envisioned, but then again, whose does? The lives we sometimes envy are filled with their own unexpected challenges. What I often feel—self-pity, frustration, disappointment—doesn’t equate to grief. I’ve decided to stop using that term in relation to my acceptance of my child’s diagnosis. It’s not a grieving process; it’s a process of acceptance.
To equate my experience to the loss of a child is an insult, and I won’t do that anymore. I refuse to mourn for someone who is still here with me. Yes, I face challenges that are more demanding than I anticipated, but I am grateful for them. There are parents out there who are truly grieving for a child they can no longer nurture. They are the ones who deserve to mourn a life that has been taken from them.
I’m not suggesting that you should share my perspective. All I ask is that you listen to my journey. If your child is still with you, consider yourself fortunate. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel sadness, anger, or frustration about your circumstances—it’s completely valid. I felt it deeply when I embraced a mother who was preparing to navigate a lifetime of medical hurdles for her daughter, only to find herself at a funeral home saying goodbye.
I’m not claiming to have the right answers for everyone; this is simply my truth. Perhaps you’ll resonate with it, or maybe you won’t. It’s important to acknowledge when we’ve misjudged something and to pivot towards a healthier mindset.
For more insights on acceptance and parenting, check out some of our other posts, like this one on the process of acceptance in parenting. If you’re considering home insemination, I recommend visiting Make a Mom for reputable insemination kits. An excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination is also CCRM IVF.
In summary, I’ve realized that instead of grieving, I choose to embrace the beautiful, messy, and chaotic life I have with my autistic child. Acceptance has become my path forward.
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