When you’re raising a child with profound autism, your days are filled with both love and worry. For years, I carried a heavy bag of what ifs.
What will happen when he’s an adult? Will he ever live independently? What will his life look like when I’m gone? And—if I’m honest—sometimes I compared.
I compared our journey to families raising neurotypical children, and even to those with children who were autistic but more independent, more verbal, more capable in ways my son wasn’t. Those comparisons stung. They made the road ahead feel impossibly steep.
But here we are. My son is a young adult now. Today is the tomorrow I worried about yesterday.
And yes, there are still many challenges, but there is also joy, routine, and love. Many of the worries that once felt paralyzing don’t hold the same weight. With time, I’ve gained something that only experience and perspective can bring: the realization that life is never as straightforward—or as bleak—as we imagine in those moments of fear.
One of the biggest shifts in perspective came when we made the move to Colorado a month ago. It wasn’t an easy decision—leaving behind what was familiar never is—but it was the right one.
In Indiana, I often found myself focusing on what we didn’t have: fewer opportunities, fewer programs, fewer ways for my son to step into his adulthood with dignity and purpose. With the move, I now see a broader horizon.
More services, more supports, more chances for him to be part of a community that understands and values him.
Our move was more than a change of address; it was an act of hope. Instead of shrinking into what we couldn’t do, I widened the net to see what was possible.
The comparisons I once made—the longing for “normalcy” has dramatically changed. Because here’s the truth: life with my son, even with its challenges, is still life.
It’s laughter in his unique ways. It’s comfort in the routines we’ve built. It’s love in its purest, most unconditional form. And it’s still time spent together.
I’ve learned that it’s okay to worry about the future. It’s human. But it’s just as important not to lose sight of the bigger picture.
Worry can shrink our world down to the smallest details, the hardest struggles. Perspective widens it again. It reminds us that while our challenges are real, so too is our fortune. Things couldalways be worse—and knowing that doesn’t invalidate our pain, it simply keeps us grounded in gratitude.
So today, I choose perspective. I choose to honor both the difficulty and the beauty of raising my son. I choose to see his adulthood not as a loss of dreams but as a different kind of future. And I choose to hold close the reminder that every moment, even the hard ones, is a gift some parents would give anything to have.
