You searched through what felt like hundreds of blogs until you found a story that sounded like yours.

Hello. I see you. I understand what you are feeling.

I was you. I am you.

You are looking to me for hope and answers.

I know you are in shock. Even if you knew deep down that something was different about your child you are still in shock.

When I walked out of Cooper’s diagnosis appointment I felt every single emotion possible.

We waited for 7 months for that appointment. The day came. The appointment happened. We got the diagnosis. We left. I cried.

Everything was immediately different yet exactly the same. I was not the same woman that walked through the front door of Fraser.

I was an Autism parent. A special needs parent. I had a label. The words felt foreign.

I was immediately different from other parents. I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead.

I immediately questioned everything I did during my pregnancy. I hated my body for failing this child.

I felt every single emotion possible. As I am sure you do too.

But they are flying at you so fast you can’t actually make out one from another. It’s a flood.

Relief. Sadness. Confusion. Isolation. Fear. Embarrassment. Anger. Desperation. Grief.

I wanted to take my beautiful baby and run away to a cabin in the woods. I think I actually tried to figure out a way where we could move to a remote part of the state.

I wanted to hide. If I hid him this would be fine.

I could outrun Autism. I knew I could. No one had to know.

This is called fight or flight. And it’s the grossest feeling ever. It’s not logical.

I get it friend. You are an autism parent now too. A special needs parent.

You are in a group. A group that you don’t want to be part of. And you feel more alone than ever.

I know how you feel. All these emotions are flying at you and you don’t know how to manage any of it. And to make it worse you still have this super challenging child.

Then add in everything you’ve ever heard about autism from Google and your mother’s sister’s friend’s daughter.

The advice is pouring in. Random friends of friends are emailing you.

Your Aunt is tagging you in an autism post on Facebook. GO GLUTEN FREE. CUT OUT DAIRY. VACCINATIONS, VACCINATIONS, VACCINATIONS, PROBIOTICS, ETC., ETC.

But the oddest feeling of all is how the world keeps going on around you.

You are different. But yet your child is not. They are the exact same child. They don’t know they have a diagnosis.

You feel so confused.

You went to the appointment. You got the diagnosis. You left the appointment. You told Grandma and Grandpa. You tried to answer questions. You cried. You hugged your spouse.

You talked about the unknown future. You drove home. You fed your child dinner. You gave your kiddo a bath. You put him or her to bed. You hopped on Amazon and ordered 5 books on autism.

You joined a special needs parenting group on Facebook, thought about the day.

You spend hours wondering if the psychologist was wrong. You immediately Google, ‘Autism Misdiagnosis’ and find a wonderful blog post about a child cured from Autism.

And you think, ‘This is going to be fine. This will be fine.’

Then your child will completely and utterly throw you for a loop. Or maybe you will see them next to a peer and the blatant differences will scream at you.

This is real. This is happening. And you can’t outrun it.

You will look at your baby and see the exact same child you did pre-diagnosis. Nothing has changed.

All of a sudden you hate the term Autism. You think if you hear it again you might scream.

Can you say it out loud yet? Can you say, ‘my child is autistic.’?

It took me a year to be able to say my son has autism to a group of people. Even to this day it still sounds odd when it comes out of my mouth.

This will sound crazy to you but a day will come when you will tell someone that your child has autism and it will be a good thing. That sounds ludicrous right now. Just believe me.

The day will come and you will say it and you will see understanding in a strangers eyes.

And you will be thankful that you can explain to people why your child is hitting them self in the head. Or rolling on the ground screaming.

In a super weird completely messed up way that word is now your ally. But you aren’t there yet. So don’t think about that please.

If you are anything like me your first thoughts post diagnosis are ‘what now? You need a plan. A focus.

The night after his diagnosis I needed to research. I needed to stay busy. I needed to fix my son.

I want to tell you that I did it all wrong. I put way too much pressure on myself and my marriage and most of all Cooper.

Well, maybe not all wrong. But I was so panicked. I didn’t have the best support system and I isolated myself. Cooper’s dad would say I became a martyr.

So, here is my advice to you as a newly diagnosed parent:

Grieve. Feel every single feeling.
-Go easy on yourself. We all know you still love your child just as fiercely as you did yesterday. This is just hard stuff.

-You were pregnant just like every other mother out there and never once did you pray for a child with special needs. It’s ok to be sad.

-You pictured your child in one way and now you know that may never happen.

Take time to process.
-Nothing is going to change right away. I thought that our lives would change immediately once we had a diagnosis. I was wrong.

-It took months for us to see any services.  There was no medication. No magic pill. Honestly, there was no hope given. By the time we hit the car I was already on Google trying to find out how to fix this.

-As a result I did too much too soon and it left me feeling extra anxious. I was making phone calls and raising expectations and put way too much stress on myself.

Wait to tell people until you are truly ready.
-I told way too many people about Cooper’s autism appointment. I immediately regretted that because I didn’t know what to tell them after. I was scared and sad. I also had no answers.

-I didn’t know how to answer people’s questions. Still to this day people ask me if Cooper is going to talk. Or they ask what his future looks like. HELL IF I KNOW.

-I wasn’t prepared for people’s questions and they made me feel so much worse. I was too sad to help them understand Autism.

Find other Autism parents and resources.

-Build a village around your family. Find the best people to help and support your child.

-Finding other parents changed my life. Blogs helped. Facebook groups helped. I joined an Autism support group. Reach out. Don’t isolate yourself.

Get ready for a fight.

-I know this sounds funny. But it’s true. You are now the sole care advocate for a vulnerable child that most likely can’t communicate.

-You are going to fight battles that you didn’t even know were out there. You can do this.

Grief is not linear my friends. When you love something as much as you love your children you are going to have highs and lows. I still do.

That’s life and you are human.  Starting kindergarten was a toughie for me. It was supposed to be a joyous time in my son’s development and it was overshadowed by the lens of special education.

It’s a journey.

I want to tell you that you have the strength to do this. You will become stronger than you ever thought possible.

Your skin will get so unbelievably thick and you will become the strongest advocate for a vulnerable child. That’s pretty amazing if you ask me.

You don’t have to fight Autism. Or carry the torch against it.

But you do have to fight for the best services possible for this little person that is completely and solely dependent on you.

And good god friend you will feel isolated and alone because of this child.

Build your village. Find the best people and resources that fit your family.

I know it’s not the life you planned for…but I can promise you that you will get through these hard times.

You can do this. You are not alone.

My son is extremely rigid. He can’t transition.  He doesn’t talk. He flaps. He screeches. He hates to be touched by strangers.

He lines items up. He puts everything in his mouth. He doesn’t play with any toys.

As a baby he never slept. Ever. He cried constantly. Endless ear infections, stomach issues, constipation, hearing problems. The list goes on.

He never babbled. To this day he’s never said a word.

I thought it was obvious.

I needed a doctor to tell me what was wrong so I could fix it.

No one ever told me there is an unknown. And it’s worse than knowing.

I remember thinking…look at him. Look at me. Just believe me. Just put my damn fears to rest.

Confirm that he is autistic so we can start to help him.

But it took years.

We were stuck in limbo. We started speech and occupational therapy. Neither of them helped.

One doctor said he could have a speech delay. Another said sensory issues. One doctor said a hearing loss. His pediatrician called him a later bloomer. She said boys develop slower.

No one would say the word autism. It’s like they were scared to say it out loud.

Honestly, I think they really liked me. And my husband and our little family.

They didn’t want Cooper to be autistic any more than we did. Their feelings got in the way.

So, we continued with therapy. All the while paying out of pocket and slowly going broke.

We waited for a breakthrough.

A year went by in limbo. I can still vividly go back to those days and nights of worry.

I would wait for Cooper to go to bed and then I would watch him in the dark and analyze every moment of the day.

He did ‘this’ that WAS very autistic.

And then he did ‘that’ which was NOT autistic.

And then I would add them up.

I spent hours every night finding blogs about kids like Cooper.

I completed autism checklists online. I asked Google about nonverbal children.

Every answer said autism.

I knew it was true. Except no one believed me. Not Cooper’s dad. Not our parents.

His pediatrician gushed about his eye contact. Because of that eye contact she missed everything else.

Teachers went on and on about how sweet Cooper was. He loved hugs and holding hands. He craved and demanded attention and praise.

And they missed the other signs.

Even at his first IEP meeting the teachers failed us. No one wanted to say autism.

They were torn between that and developmentally delayed.

They went as far as going around the room and taking a vote on whether to label him autistic or developmentally delayed.

It was traumatic.

I sat there watching their faces. They refused to make eye contact with me.

I was screaming in my head…just say it you jerks.

Just say it. What if it was your kid?

The vote came 4 to 3 with a favor of developmentally delayed.

I got the final vote.

I looked at them and thought…you failed this kid. You failed me.

You are supposed to tell me what to do. I am just a normal mom who doesn’t know what to do.

And a quiet teacher spoke up and said…’I think you should pick autism. He will get more services. And you will get more help. And if he isn’t autistic it will surface eventually.’

And the tears came.

The room was silent.

Fine. I will diagnose my own son.

Cooper is autistic.

And then I eventually found the right people. The right doctors and therapists.

And I got the help we needed. And the diagnosis that I so needed to hear out loud.

We moved to a new city with a fantastic autism program. The services started coming in. A few years went by.

Time went on. I started to heal. Cooper started to thrive.

We built a village around this kiddo and watched him thrive.

The autism was still there. No words. Severe sensory issues. Extreme rigidity.

But he was growing. We were a team. And we were making it.

And then it happened.

A teacher looked at me and said, “I don’t think your son is autistic.”

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I couldn’t speak. There were no words.

For once I was at a loss. I hadn’t heard that sentence in years.

I felt the sweat on my face.

I looked down and counted to ten before speaking. I had too. I was so angry I couldn’t even speak.

The person went onto say that Cooper was too social to be autistic. He was too loving. He didn’t fit the profile. He obviously had a severe speech delay and sensory processing disorder.

He listed a few other things but I couldn’t listen. I was too angry.

If this person knew what I went through to get to this exact moment in my life they wouldn’t be saying these words.

The countless appointments and time and moments missed. The agony and crying over wondering is he or isn’t he.

How dare he. How dare he play doctor or God with my son.

With my life. With my hope. But most of all with my acceptance.

My son was autistic. It took me 4 ½ years to be able to say that out loud.

Cooper and I were in a good place.

I looked up and smiled.

I told him thank you.

Thank you for getting to know Cooper. For truly spending time with him and creating a bond with him.

But, Cooper is Cooper. Autistic or not. Label or no label. He’s still Cooper.

I asked him to keep fighting for Cooper and raising him up.

That’s what we needed. People that believed in him. Believed in us.

And I left the room. I cried the whole drive home.

There was enough emotion in that once sentence, ‘I don’t think your son is autistic,’ to level me.

I knew in my heart it wasn’t true and hearing it out loud crushed me.

How dare he. Maybe I should’ve been happy. Or hopeful.

But hearing that my son wasn’t autistic had suddenly become just as painful as hearing he was autistic.

We’d come full circle.

I pictured the perfect combination of myself and my husband.

Blonde of course. Chubby little cheeks and fingers. Bright blue eyes.

Then I would think about his personality. Feisty and stubborn. Funny of course. All boy.

I pictured a little boy who loved the outdoors. I had visions of riding bikes, catching fish, and jumping in puddles.

I remember telling myself I didn’t care what my little boy does as long as he is happy.

He can become anything he wants. I will support him.

I was going to be the perfect mother, friends. (Don’t we all think that?) I had plans and ideas.

I knew exactly what I was doing. I had read every book and blog. I had this mothering thing down.

But never once during my pregnancy did it ever cross my mind that I would have a child with severe special needs.

I never factored that in. I’m guessing no one does.

You picture and pray for healthy.

The day we brought our son home I knew something was off. He struggled with sleeping, eating and finding contentment.

He wanted to be held constantly yet he was never happy with me holding him.

By 9 months old he was watching cartoons incessantly…and I was scared to death.

Yet, as an infant and toddler he was meeting all of his milestones. Pointing? Check. Waving? Check. Making eye contact? Check.

But still, something wasn’t right.

I felt it in my stomach. At times my worry was more than I could handle as a mother.

My favorite topic of conversation with friends and family was ‘all the reasons why my son was not autistic.’

And, of course, everyone agreed with me.

His dad said he was fine. So did both of our parents.

Even our pediatrician was certain we just had a late bloomer. She assured me that boys developed later. I shouldn’t worry.

I knew though. I felt it. I’ve talked to other parents who have said the exact same thing.

They knew. And no one else believed them. And the weight of that is debilitating.

The day we got his autism diagnosis I felt every emotion you can imagine. Sadness, guilt, fear, relief, desperation. The list goes on.

Suddenly, we were thrust into a new world and my dreams for the future were put to the wayside.

We were part of the autism club.

My whole world became finding the best possible services and help for my son.

I had no idea what our future held. I would Google autism and adulthood and find wonderful stories of genius children.

They called it high-functioning autism….a term that I made sure to say to people. I felt better for some reason.

It’s like I was reassuring myself.

I’d think…this is going to be fine. So what if my boy doesn’t become a doctor or a lawyer. I settled into a normalcy for a few years.

My son was autistic and this was going to be fine. He was high functioning.

As my son aged it became apparent that his autism was severe. And once again I found myself tweaking my hopes and dreams for the future.

Only this time, it seemed more permanent. Even bleaker.

I was no longer planning for college. Instead I was planning a way to pay for my son’s care for the rest of his life.

At age six he was completely nonverbal. He was not potty trained nor did he have a desire to be. He had zero self-care. He still struggled with sleep.

There were moments when he would hit, kick and head butt me. I felt isolated and alone. I felt scared.

And my dreams once again morphed.

I pray that he learns to tie his shoes. I pray that he learns to use the toilet. I pray that he learns to read.

I pray that he makes a friend. I pray that he is happy and that he can tell me so. I pray that he learns to speak.

I pray that I can be the best mother ever to this vulnerable, amazing, innocent little boy.

I pray that I have the courage to always fight for the best care for him.

So, how, as a mother did I make this evolution?

It’s a very interesting question.

It takes time, friend. For me it took 6 long years with many highs and lows.  I am human.

Let me be clear I am absolutely in love with my son but I went through the grieving process.

I grieved for the little boy I had dreamed of. I struggled. I cried a lot of tears. I worried about his care after he turned 18.

I worried about him living with me for the rest of his life.

I worried about my worry.

And then I came out the other side.

Throughout my pregnancy my dreams for my son all revolved around happiness.

And – don’t worry people – my son is happy.

Every single day is the best day of his life. He is never crabby. He knows no greed. He is loved.  He attends an autism kindergarten class. He loves trains and being tickled and swimming.

He spends every waking hour immersed in learning about the railroad. He squeals with delight when I sing to him and make funny sounds.

His life is simple.

And now, when I look into the future I very clearly see our future. Cooper is living with me.

He is happy. He is healthy. He is loved. And I tell myself that is all I can ask for as a mom.

My son is happy. And he is loved.