The Little Things That Mean Everything: A Mother's Reflection of Raising a Child on the Autism Spectrum

It’s heart-wrenching to hear the sadness that so many parents of children on the spectrum carry. I know how long the days can feel and how overwhelming the tasks can become. I also understand the deep sense of isolation that comes with it. I’ve come to realize that part of my sadness comes from my journey as a parent and from remembering what it was like to be that child — the one who didn’t fit into the mold others expected. The one who, no matter how hard I tried, never seemed to meet the mark.

Growing up, I could sense my parents’ shame and embarrassment whenever my behaviors didn’t align with what they believed their “perfect child” should be. There were times when they’d rather avoid introducing me to others because it felt more manageable for them if I stayed hidden, reading quietly in a corner or retreating to my room. Those feelings have lingered with me throughout my life.

Fast forward to today; here I am, a mother to a son who, like me, is on the autism spectrum. But when I look at him, I see a precious blessing. On the tough days, I remind myself that God has equipped me with enough patience and tenacity to face whatever comes my way. On the good days, those moments are filled with laughter, joy, and pure love as I watch my son leap and skip around our home. Those are the moments that fill me with gratitude.

I wasn’t allowed to express myself freely when I was growing up. I wasn’t allowed to be me, to show the world who I really was. But with my son, I welcome his freedom. I embrace the moments when he lets his emotions spill out, when he expresses himself so purely, so freely. I wonder, would he be able to do that if he sensed even a hint of shame from me? Would he be so carefree if I carried that same weight of embarrassment that my parents had with me?

You see, our children, whether they’re on the spectrum or not, absorb the emotions we project. They reflect the love, kindness, and understanding we shower on them, but they can also mirror other feelings. A few weeks ago, I was preparing for a presentation, and the anxiety hit me harder than usual because I had just found out that the session would be videotaped. The pressure was on, and I was in full-on preparation mode. I was so busy that I didn't notice right away that my son had gone into my room and made my bed. It was such a simple act that took me by surprise. He had never done that before. He doesn't make his own bed. In that moment, my heart swelled with gratitude. He knew how important it was to me to make my bed every day. I turned to go thank him and saw him standing at my door. I opened my arms, and he leaned towards me for a hug. Truly one of the best moments every. 

There’s a deeper reason for this gesture, though. You see, I’ve faced some health struggles in recent years. When my son was an infant, I had a major asthma attack, and my mom had to step in and help take care of him. When I was strong enough to crawl, she left me alone to care for him. When he was a toddler, I had pneumonia. My parents would not come. They didn't even bring the meal I requested for my son. My son remembers seeing me crawling to the kitchen to get cereal, milk, juice, and water so he could eat without me having to leave my room much. Even now, when he sees my bed isn’t made, it worries him. When my bed is unmade, it means I'm sick.

So, when my son made the bed that day, I knew it wasn’t just about the bed itself. It was about the love and concern he had for me and his desire for me to be okay. He saw my struggles and wanted to help.

Whenever I’m not feeling my best, whether physically or emotionally, my son brings his stuffed animals into the room I'm in to keep an eye on me. That's his way of comforting me, much like the way I comforted him when he was sick. In those small, quiet moments, I see that he understands. He knows the significance of caring for someone, of being there for them when they need it most.

What I’ve come to understand through this journey is that it’s the little things that matter the most. It’s not the grand gestures or the significant milestones. It’s the tiny, seemingly insignificant actions that carry the most weight. The things we don’t often talk about, the moments we usually ignore — those are the times our children will carry with them forever. They may not have the words to express it, but their actions prove that they are paying attention.

Being autistic does not hinder my son's ability to be empathetic, reflecting the love, patience, and care he's received. He’s taught that the power of the little things is what leaves the most profound marks on our hearts.

So, to all the parents out there who are struggling — remember, it’s the little things that mean everything.