What People See vs. What’s Really Happening
There’s this thing that keeps happening when you’re parenting an autistic child.
You’re at a family gathering, or talking to someone at the playground, or just going about your day. Your child is smiling, maybe playing happily with others, and someone says:
“Oh, she’s doing so well!”
“She’s just a little shy, right?”
“All kids go through this kind of thing.”
And you feel it. That quiet pang in your chest. Because what you want to say, but rarely do, is:
You’re only seeing a sliver of it.
You’re not seeing the hours we spend softening transitions or the mental gymnastics we do to avoid a spiral. You’re not there for the whispered reminders in the car, the five-step routine we repeat every single bedtime, or the way we prep for something as simple as a toilet stop.
We’re not trying to fix her. We’re just doing our best to shape the world around her a little so it doesn’t feel quite so sharp. We’re outparenting autism, not to erase who she is, but to meet her where she is.
And it’s exhausting. And beautiful. And invisible to almost everyone else.
When Your Truth Gets Dismissed
But it’s not just me.
A friend of mine has a toddler around the same age as Gracie, and she keeps finding herself in these impossible conversations. She’s always trying to explain why her days feel so heavy, why everything feels bigger than it should, why she’s constantly running on empty. And over and over again, people brush it off.
“Oh yeah, mine did that too.”
“He’ll grow out of it.”
“It’s just the age.”
Or worse, someone jumps in with a “that’s nothing, wait ‘til you hear about my kid” moment. Like parenting is a competition instead of a deeply personal, deeply felt experience.
I get it. People mean well. They want to soothe, to normalize. But sometimes, in the rush to make things feel less heavy, we make people feel like they’re being dramatic. Or overreacting. Or just plain wrong about their own reality.
The Power of Believing Each Other
What if we didn’t do that?
What if we just believed people when they said this is hard right now?
What if instead of trying to relate or fix or explain, we said things like:
“That sounds really tough.”
“Tell me more about what that’s like for your family.”
“That sounds like a lot to carry.”
It’s not much, but it changes everything.
Because here’s the truth.
Every parent is carrying something.
Every family has its own quiet work happening behind the scenes.
And when we choose empathy over comparison, curiosity over commentary, we make space for something real.
Why I Built Wild and Becoming
This is part of why I started Wild and Becoming.
Not to be a perfect parent or pretend I have it all figured out. But to create a space for people like us. The different thinkers. The deep feelers. The wild dreamers. And yes, the tired parents doing the invisible work day after day.
A space where we can say what’s true without being doubted.
Where we don’t have to tidy up our experience to make it easier for someone else to digest.
Where we can sit beside each other and say,
I see you. You’re not alone. This is hard, and you’re doing it anyway.
Because sometimes the most powerful thing we can offer each other is simply that. Belief.
A Place for Us
If you’re parenting an autistic child or walking beside someone carrying an invisible weight, this space is for you.
Let’s build something gentler, wilder, and more true. Together.