There’s a phrase people use so casually when raising children: “You have to let go.”
But when your child is an adult with profound autism—nonverbal, vulnerable, and dependent in ways the world doesn’t fully understand—letting go doesn’t feel casual. It feels terrifying.
We moved to Colorado intentionally, guided by the promise of robust adult services, thoughtful programs, and a community that values inclusion. The opportunities available to him now are real, meaningful, and far greater than we had before.
Still, as we begin engaging with these resources, I’m learning that even positive change can stir fear. Not because we regret the move, but because trusting others with the care of a nonverbal adult child is one of the hardest transitions a parent can make.
What if he’s miserable there?
What if the care isn’t as attentive as it should be?
What if someone mishandles him, misunderstands him, or worse—mistreats him?
And the thought that stops my breath every time: What if something is wrong and he can’t tell us?
When your child is nonverbal, you become their voice, their advocate, their interpreter of the world. You learn every expression, every subtle shift in body language, every sound that means yes, no, I’m overwhelmed, or I’m hurting. Letting someone else step into that role—even for a few hours—feels like handing over your most sacred responsibility.
At the same time, another truth presses just as heavily on my heart.
If we don’t find alternatives—if we don’t build a life for him that includes peers, structure, purpose, and experiences beyond us—how will he cope when we’re no longer here? How will he survive if his entire world has only ever been his parents?
Loving him means thinking beyond today.
Protecting him means preparing for a future I pray he never has to face without us—but one he inevitably will.
That’s the impossible tension parents like us live in: wanting to shield our children from every potential harm, while knowing that growth—any growth—requires risk.
I want him to have relationships that don’t depend solely on us.
I want him to feel pride in routines and activities that are his own.
I want him to be seen as more than “someone’s son” and recognized as a person who belongs in the world.
And if I’m honest, I desperately need rest.
Caregiving at this level is all-consuming. It’s physical, emotional, and relentless. Loving your child doesn’t make you immune to exhaustion. Wanting a break doesn’t make you selfish—it makes you human. Still, the guilt can be suffocating. How can I need space from the very person I would give my life for?
This is where I’m learning that releasing control doesn’t mean abandoning responsibility. It doesn’t mean trusting blindly or lowering expectations. It means building layers of support, staying involved, asking hard questions, showing up, observing, and advocating—while also allowing room for him to exist independently of us.
Cutting the cord, in our world, doesn’t look like walking away.
It looks like walking alongside—at a careful distance—ready to step in, but brave enough to step back.
I remind myself that fear is not the same as intuition. That discomfort often accompanies growth. That my job isn’t to eliminate every risk, but to balance protection with possibility.
And perhaps most importantly, I remind myself that my son deserves a life that is bigger than my fear.
This chapter is not about giving up control—it’s about redefining it. About trusting that love doesn’t disappear when he’s out of my sight. About believing that connection can exist even when we’re not physically present. About choosing hope, even when uncertainty feels louder.
I don’t have all the answers yet. I’m still worrying. Still watching. Still holding my breath some days.
But I’m also taking small steps forward—because loving him means preparing him for a world that won’t always look the way I want it to.
And loving myself means acknowledging that I can’t do this alone anymore.
Both things can be true.
