When we moved to Colorado 6 months ago, we did so with intention and purpose. We uprooted our lives for adult services, programs, and opportunities for our 22-year-old, nonverbal autistic son, Skyler — with a future in mind that felt supported and possible.
We arrived with concrete ideas of what Skyler needed to be successful. Non-negotiables shaped by years of advocating for him. At the top of that list was 1:1 support — individual attention from someone dedicated to learning about him and truly enjoying their time with him.
So, as we toured adult day programs, hopeful but cautious, we measured everything against that standard. Several programs had strengths but ultimately weren’t the right fit. We kept looking.
Then we found the one.
The environment, the philosophy, the goals, the sense of community — it felt right in every way… except one.
There is no 1:1 support.
I panicked. I questioned everything — our move, our expectations, myself. How could I send my son, who is nonverbal and struggles with patience, waiting, and unstructured time, into a setting without constant individual attention?
And then I paused long enough to shift my perspective.
The very goals we want for Skyler — increased independence, comfort in social settings, meaningful peer interaction — can’t grow in a bubble of constant adult direction. They require space. Opportunity. Discomfort.
For Skyler, this program isn’t a step backward. It’s a step into adulthood.
For his entire life, he’s had 1:1 support — from professionals, but mostly from us. He’s rarely had to wait, take turns, or entertain himself. Now, he’s being given the chance to build those skills and exist alongside peers in a way that prepares him for the adulthood he deserves.
And maybe this program isn’t just what Skyler needs — maybe it’s what I need too.
Since the day Skyler was diagnosed with autism at two years old, he has been teaching me how to be the kind of mother he needs — especially how to let go. This time, it feels different. Calmer. More intentional.
I’m learning to trust him. To trust the process. To understand that independence doesn’t mean abandonment, and growth doesn’t always come from control.
Skyler is stepping into a version of adulthood with more agency and connection. And I’m stepping into a version of motherhood that allows space for that growth.
We’re both learning.
We’re both letting go.
And somehow, it feels exactly right.
