Have you ever found yourself standing in the shower or pulling clothes from your closet and suddenly started crying?
Not necessarily because something terrible happened. Not because of one specific event. Just an overwhelming rush of emotion that you’ve been carrying for so long that it finally spills over.
Sometimes it’s heavy sobs. Sometimes it’s just quiet tears.
This morning, it happened to me.
Instead of pushing it away, I grabbed my journal and started writing. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty. I knew it might not even make sense. But I needed to get the thoughts out of my head and onto paper before they disappeared back into the chaos.
Afterward, I dried my tears, took a deep breath, and started my day: breakfast, homeschool lessons, laundry, dishes, and everything else that comes with raising a family.
But the emotions were still there.
And when I started digging into where they came from, I realized the answer wasn’t as simple as I first thought.
My children have autism.
That isn’t new. My daughter was diagnosed at just 18 months old, and we’ve been navigating this journey for nearly nine years.
Since moving to Belgium, our world has become much smaller. We homeschool. We spend our days together. We travel as a family on weekends. We have meaningful conversations, routines, and adventures.
But we are also alone—a lot.
One of the highlights of our week is homeschool swim on Fridays. It’s one of the few opportunities we have to regularly connect with other homeschooling families and one of my children’s favorite activities.
Today is Wednesday.
And I’m already dreading Friday.
Two weeks ago, during swim, something happened that has stayed with me far longer than I expected.
My eight-year-old son struggles with sensory processing and fine motor skills. Getting dressed and undressed can be incredibly challenging for him. We’ve practiced. We’ve worked on it after baths. We’ve made progress.
But he still struggles.
And when frustration builds, it can quickly turn into a meltdown.
To help him succeed, I bring him into the changing room with me. The facility doesn’t have family bathrooms. Each changing room contains individual stalls, but everyone must walk through a common area to reach the pool.
That day, as we were walking through, a swim instructor stopped me.
She told me he couldn’t be there.
I explained that he has special needs and struggles with dressing independently.
There was no discussion.
No alternative solution.
No compassion.
No attempt to understand.
Just: “He can’t be here.”
Thankfully, my son didn’t understand the conversation.
But I did.
And it lingered.
For days afterward, I found myself asking the same questions that many parents of children with disabilities ask:
Am I doing enough?
Am I helping him become more independent?
Should I push him harder?
Should I make him do things on his own even if it causes distress?
Do I keep advocating for what he needs, even when others don’t understand?
How do I balance other people’s expectations with my child’s actual abilities?
Back in the United States, we used family bathrooms. It was never an issue. It never required explanation or justification.
Here, that option doesn’t exist.
We’ve spoken to staff. We’ve tried to explain.
But from their perspective, the rules are the rules.
As I sit here writing this, my son is happily exploring countries on his LeapFrog globe and asking me which places I like best—a conversation we have almost every day.
And that’s when I realized something important.
The real problem isn’t the woman at the pool.
The real problem is what that interaction brought to the surface.
My children are not developing at the same pace as their peers.
Academically, they do quite well. In some subjects, they even excel.
But communication? Delayed.
Fine motor skills? Delayed.
Emotional maturity? Delayed.
My children are eight and ten years old, but socially and emotionally, they often connect more naturally with younger children. They enjoy toys, shows, and interests that many children their age have already outgrown.
People don’t always understand that.
Sometimes children don’t understand it.
Sometimes adults don’t either.
And that can leave them standing on the outside looking in.
Over the years, neither of my children qualified for social skills groups because their communication challenges didn’t fit neatly into the criteria. They were not verbal enough for most programs, and still struggle significantly in real-world social situations.
They fell into that difficult middle ground.
And if I’m honest, that worries me.
Because at the end of the day, special needs parents want the same things every parent wants.
We want our children to find their people.
We want them to experience friendship.
We want them to be happy.
We want them to discover purpose and fulfillment.
We want them to be successful—whatever success looks like for them.
My children live in a space that can be difficult for others to understand.
They can travel internationally.
They can complete grade-level work.
They can make their own snacks.
They can refill their water bottles.
To a casual observer, they may appear completely independent.
But they couldn’t effectively communicate the details of an emergency.
They couldn’t clearly explain what happened if someone was hurt. (This includes themselves)
They couldn’t confidently advocate for themselves in a crisis.
Within minutes of meeting them, most people realize they experience the world differently.
And that’s where the fear creeps in.
Inside our home, we understand their communication. We know how to interpret what they mean. We adjust. We accommodate. We support.
The world doesn’t always do that.
And sometimes the pressure of wondering how much progress I can help them make—and whether it will be enough—feels incredibly heavy.
It makes me sad.
It scares me.
It overwhelms me.
But what I’m learning is that these feelings don’t make me a bad parent.
They don’t mean I love my children any less.
They don’t mean I’m ungrateful for who they are.
I love them fiercely.
I would do absolutely anything for them.
I’ve long since left behind the pity train.
But the pressure I place on myself still exists.
The worries about their future still exist.
The fears still exist.
And maybe that’s why the tears come when I’m standing alone in the shower or folding laundry.
Not because I don’t believe in my children.
But because I love them so much.
And sometimes loving someone so deeply means carrying worries that have nowhere else to go.
So if you’ve ever found yourself crying over what seems like nothing, perhaps it isn’t nothing at all.
Maybe it’s simply the weight of loving someone with your whole heart.
So maybe the tears weren’t really about the woman at the pool.
Maybe they were about every future friendship I hope my children find.
Every skill I’m trying to teach.
Every door I hope will open for them.
Every fear I carry when I imagine a world that doesn’t always understand them.
The truth is, parenting children with autism often means celebrating incredible strengths while simultaneously worrying about the challenges that remain.
Both can be true.
And perhaps that’s the lesson I needed this week.
Not that my fears are gone.
Not that the future is suddenly clear.
But that love and worry can coexist.
Hope and uncertainty can coexist.
And I can continue moving forward while carrying both.
So on Friday, we’ll go swimming.
We’ll pack our towels.
We’ll navigate the changing room.
We’ll face whatever comes.
And then we’ll do it all again next week.
Because that’s what parents do.
We keep showing up.
And if you’re a parent of a child with autism, special needs, or developmental delays, maybe you’ve felt this too.
Maybe you’ve questioned whether you’re doing enough.
Maybe you’ve worried about the future when everyone else seems focused on the present.
Maybe you’ve carried fears you rarely say out loud.
If so, I hope you know you’re not alone.
The tears don’t mean you’ve lost hope.
They don’t mean you’ve stopped believing in your child.
Sometimes they simply mean you’ve been carrying a heavy load for a very long time.
So today, if you’re carrying that weight too, consider this your reminder to give yourself a little grace.
The future doesn’t have to be solved today.
Our job isn’t to have all the answers.
Our job is to keep loving our children, keep advocating for their needs, and keep showing up—even when it’s hard.
One day at a time.
One challenge at a time.
One victory at a time.
And sometimes, that is more than enough.
