When my daughter was diagnosed with dyslexia a few years ago, it wasn’t a surprise. She had always struggled with reading, and nothing seemed to click despite our various interventions.
But when my husband suggested that we get our middle child tested for autism, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t quite process it. And yet, there was something about his suggestion that made perfect sense.
Our middle child has always marched to the beat of his own drum. He’s a quirky little soul, but one I love fiercely. He thrives on routine. In preschool, his teachers would tell me how he followed the same pattern every day: first, the cars, then the blocks, the sensory station, and finally, the loft. Never in any other order. At home, he’d line up toy cars in elaborate formations, creating traffic jams that stretched from the front door to the back or rows upon rows like a parking garage in New York City.
But beyond these quirks, he is one of the most caring children I know. He was once crowned the “Kindness King” in kindergarten and received a special award for his compassion. And yet, in recent months, things have become more difficult. He’s been angrier, lashing out in ways that concern us. He’s punched holes in doors, and the walls bear the marks of his frustration. His sensitivity to clothing has reached new heights—he refuses to wear anything that doesn’t fit perfectly at the waist or has sleeves that aren’t just the right length. If it’s too hot, too itchy, or too anything, it’s a battle.
His impulsiveness has become more challenging to manage. He’ll eat entire boxes of cookies in the middle of the night or run outside without telling anyone. He sometimes refuses to eat at all, going days without touching food. He’s also incredibly resistant to trying anything new. Homework, which should take ten minutes, can stretch out into hours of frustration for both of us.
I know what you’re thinking—why didn’t we seek help sooner? Trust me, we tried. Every time we brought up our concerns, whether with family, his pediatrician, a teacher, or a school psychologist, we were dismissed. “Your son? No, he’s fine.” But we knew something wasn’t right. And finally, we made the call. As we explained everything to the neuropsychologist over the phone, I broke down in tears.
It’s been a long road, and we’re still traveling, but making that call felt like the first real step forward. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. And I’m holding on to hope we’ll find the answers to help our son.
There’s a mix of relief and uncertainty as we wait for the evaluation and continue to navigate the day-to-day challenges. There’s relief that we’re finally taking steps toward understanding what’s happening beneath the surface, but there’s uncertainty about what comes next. I’ve realized that no matter what the outcome of the testing is, it doesn’t change who he is—his unique spark, his creativity, and especially his kindness.
There are days when it feels overwhelming when the weight of trying to help him regulate his emotions and deal with the unpredictable feels like too much. But I know that getting answers isn’t about “fixing” him. It’s about learning how to support him in the way he deserves and giving him the tools to navigate a world that doesn’t always cater to the quirks that make him who he is.
