Wake Up Wellness

From the time my son was first diagnosed everyone has encouraged me to find community and get to know other moms who share our experience.

That was one of my main goals with this page, in addition to sharing our story, sharing education about treatments we have personally used, hopefully being an advocate, and creating relatable content.

A year into managing this page I can safely say I see why people don’t do this. I see why people don’t share their stories. I see why people keep to themselves.

Creating this page was the first thing I had been truly excited and passionate about in a really long time. But the longer I do this, and the larger the page gets, the more I’m discovering that I don’t think I’m cut out for this.

The negatives are becoming overwhelming. And I’m so so bummed. I put so much time, work, and energy into building this page. I was so excited about it.

I thought I would be good at, but turns out I was wrong again. I had already done the whole keep to yourself thing. I was a pro at it. But it wasn’t working. I somehow became delusional enough to give this a try. It’s not working either. Might as well do what you’re a professional at.

I’ve been so lost for so long, it was nice to finally feel like I had some direction….but now I’m back to square one. Lost, with no one to blame but myself.

How do you know where to turn, when there’s nowhere to turn?

Maybe this is just a moment of weakness and I’ll give it another shot down the road. I hope so anyway, but who knows.

Thank you to everyone that has followed along.

See you soon, hopefully 🫶🏼

Autism is everywhere.

Does anyone remember the show Parenthood?

I was 14 or 15 when it first came out, and I remember watching it with my mom. One of the children on the show, Max, had Asperger’s, what we would now recognize as part of the autism spectrum.

I think that was the first time I had ever really been introduced to autism.

Maybe it was the first time my mom had been introduced to it in that way, too.

I remember us talking about the challenges Max and his parents faced. We talked about how difficult it must be. How exhausting. How complicated. How much patience it must take to parent a child whose brain experienced the world so differently.

It was a hard concept for me to fully understand.

And although the show did an incredible job of depicting some of the realities of raising an autistic child, six seasons of watching another family’s struggles could never truly prepare someone for living it.

Fast-forward about ten years, and somehow, I found myself standing in Max’s parents’ shoes.

In some ways, our reality was harder.

My son could not communicate his needs to me. He could not tell me what hurt, what scared him, what overwhelmed him or why he was crying. He did not have the conversations, hobbies or obvious special interests that Max had.

In other ways, maybe we were luckier.

Autism was becoming more widely recognized. Resources—although still far from what families truly need—were improving. The world was slowly becoming more understanding. More parents were speaking up. More people were asking questions. More people were searching for answers.

But nothing could have prepared me for how completely autism would weave itself into our lives.

In half of my lifetime, autism went from being something I saw portrayed by a character on television…

to being everywhere.

And I do not just mean “everywhere” because the diagnosis has become so common.

I mean that autism has a way of weaving itself into every nook and cranny of your life, even the quiet, hidden places you never imagined it could reach.

Autism is everywhere.

It’s in every decision I make.

It’s in every meal I cook and every ingredient label I read.

It’s in the grocery cart filled with the same trusted foods week after week.

It’s in the clothes I wear.

It’s in the plans we make.

And in all the plans we cancel.

It’s in the invitations I hesitate to accept because I have to mentally calculate the noise, the lights, the crowds, the food, the exits and the likelihood of a meltdown.

It’s in the explanations I rehearse before we ever leave the house.

It’s in the look my husband and I exchange across a crowded room when we both know it is time to go.

It’s in the walk around the car to the driver’s seat after I buckle both of my children in.

Those few seconds when no one needs me.

When I take a breath.

When I gather myself.

When I sometimes fight back tears before opening the next door.

It’s in the quiet.

And it’s in the noise.

It’s in every cabinet that closes too loudly.

Every blender, vacuum, hand dryer, barking dog and unexpected sound.

It’s in the music playing in the car on the ride home.

It’s in the songs we play over and over because they make him smile.

It’s in the silence when I desperately wish he could tell me what he is thinking.

It’s in every word he has not yet spoken.

And every sound that makes me wonder whether a new word might finally be coming.

It’s in every appointment.

Every evaluation.

Every waiting list.

Every form that asks me to describe my child by checking boxes that could never capture who he truly is.

It’s in the school drop-off and pickup lines.

The teacher conferences.

The IEP meetings.

The progress reports.

The goals written by strangers that somehow become some of the most important sentences I will ever read.

It’s in the lump in my throat when another child his age says something I have waited years to hear from mine.

It’s in the guilt I feel immediately afterward for making the comparison at all.

It’s in every milestone we celebrate long after the world told us it was supposed to happen.

It’s in every tiny victory that other people may never notice.

A new food.

A new sound.

A new gesture.

A new tolerance.

A new moment of connection.

A new thing he can do today that he could not do yesterday.

It’s in the way we celebrate those moments like we have won the lottery.

Because to us, we have.

It’s in the sleepless nights.

The early mornings.

The pacing.

The rocking.

The jumping.

The squealing.

The repeating.

It’s in the bathtub with water that never stops running.

It’s in the rocks covering my back porch.

The doors opened and closed a hundred times.

The same video replayed until every sound is permanently etched into my brain.

It’s in the locks, alarms, gates and extra precautions most families never have to consider.

It’s in the split second of terror when I cannot immediately see him.

It’s in the constant awareness that never fully switches off, even while I sleep.

It’s in every doctor’s appointment where I wonder whether we will be heard or dismissed.

It’s in every symptom I research after everyone else has gone to bed.

It’s in the questions that do not have simple answers.

It’s in every supplement, every therapy, every test and every decision where I wonder whether I am doing too much, or somehow still not doing enough.

It’s in my search history.

It’s in my books.

It’s in the notes on my phone.

It’s in the screenshots I save at two in the morning because maybe this one piece of information will help something finally make sense.

It’s in the date nights my husband and I get a couple of times a year, if we are lucky.

It’s in the conversations we try to have while still listening for movement in the next room.

It’s in the exhaustion that can turn two people who love each other into coworkers simply trying to survive the day.

It’s also in the way we have learned to communicate without speaking.

The way we take turns carrying what feels too heavy.

The way we keep choosing each other through circumstances neither of us could have imagined.

It’s in every relationship, both distant and close.

It’s in the people who disappeared because our lives became too complicated.

It’s in the people who stayed.

It’s in the friendships I no longer have the energy to maintain.

It’s in the family members who try to understand.

And in the ones who believe they understand but do not.

It’s in the unsolicited advice.

The judgmental looks.

The staring in public.

The comments from people who have never spent one full day living our life.

It’s in every time I have wanted to explain, but was too tired to educate one more person.

It’s in the birthday parties that look different.

The holidays that feel different.

The family photos that require different expectations.

It’s in every photograph where I remember what was happening just outside the frame.

It’s in every laugh and every moment of joy.

And it’s in every tear.

It’s in my proudest moments.

It’s in my hardest moments.

It’s in the grief for the experiences I once imagined.

And the gratitude for a child who has shown me an entirely different way to experience the world.

It’s in every thought I have about the future.

Who will understand him?

Who will protect him?

Who will care for him when I cannot?

Will he speak?

Will he have friends?

Will he be safe?

Will he be happy?

Will the world make room for him without asking him to become someone else first?

It’s in every thought I have about the past.

The signs I missed.

The things I wish I had known.

The moments I replay and wonder whether I should have done something differently.

It’s in the guilt that whispers I should have known more.

And in the truth I have to remind myself of, that I was doing the best I could with what I knew at the time.

It’s in my dreams.

And in my nightmares.

It’s in my prayers.

And, if I am being honest, sometimes it is in my cursing.

It’s in the prayers I whisper over him while he sleeps.

The prayers for healing.

For communication.

For peace.

For protection.

For strength.

For the wisdom to know what he needs when he cannot tell me himself.

It’s in the questions I ask God.

And in the moments I have no words left to pray.

It’s in the fear that I am not strong enough for this life.

And in the realization that somehow, every single day, I get up and live it anyway.

Because autism is not a separate part of our lives.

It does not stay inside the therapy room.

It does not end when the school day ends.

It does not disappear during vacations, holidays, family gatherings or carefully staged photographs.

It comes with us.

It shapes our routines.

It changes our priorities.

It stretches our relationships.

It tests our patience.

It deepens our compassion.

It breaks our hearts in some moments and fills them beyond measure in others.

Autism is in the challenges people see.

But it is also in so much that they do not.

It’s in the courage it takes for my son to enter a world that can feel painfully loud, unpredictable and overwhelming.

It’s in the trust he places in me to help him navigate it.

It’s in the way his entire face lights up when he feels safe and understood.

It’s in the pure, unfiltered joy he finds in things the rest of us walk past without noticing.

It’s in the love that does not always look the way I once expected love to look, but is no less real, powerful or profound.

Autism is everywhere.

It is not everything my son is.

But it touches everything we do.

And unless you have lived this life, it may be impossible to explain how something can bring so much fear, exhaustion, grief, beauty, laughter, wonder and love into the same home.

So yes…

Autism is everywhere.

And although I would take away every struggle, every pain and every barrier my child faces in a heartbeat…

I would never take away him.

Because beneath every diagnosis, every report and every challenge is my son.

Whole.

Worthy.

Loved beyond words.

And teaching me every day that a life can look completely different from the one you imagined…and still hold more love than you ever knew was possible.

Autism is everywhere.

Synthetic drugs like folic acid should not be added to food. Especially staple foods like flour. Mass medication of the public is completely unethical and violates informed consent. The dose is completely uncontrolled. Where there is risk, there must be choice.

SIGN PETITION here https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/769589 -content

The NHS warns multiple groups of people that they should not take folic acid - including anyone with CANCER! https://www.nhs.uk/medicines/folic-acid/

"Folic acid is not suitable for everyone. For example, it may not be suitable if:

- you've had an allergic reaction to folic acid or another ingredient used in the medicine in the past

- you have vitamin B12 deficiency anaemia or pernicious anaemia (a condition where your immune system attacks your body's healthy cells)

- you have cancer"