It started with noticing delayed and unintelligible speech—tiny moments that at first felt like quirks, then patterns, then concern. Eventually those concerns turned into a formal diagnosis of ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). And even though we’re still very much on this winding road of evaluations, therapies, and “wait, what form is this?”, I wanted to share how deeply this experience has shaped me so far.
If parenting a toddler is an emotional roller coaster, parenting a toddler while navigating a new diagnosis is the roller coaster plus the carnival ride that spins you around until you question your life choices. I’ve felt relief, guilt, uncertainty, nervousness, sadness, pride, confusion—basically the entire feelings buffet. Pull up a chair; we’re going through it.
From early on, something about my energetic and wildly expressive daughter felt… different. She mastered sign language by 12 months (seriously, you’ve never seen a baby flash “more milk, please” with such authority), yet verbal communication didn’t attach itself to those signs. She’d sign a full sentence and then say “muh.” Charming? Yes. Concerning after two years of little progress? Also yes.
So I asked our pediatrician for a referral. She agreed—our daughter had delayed speech. Cue the guilt and uncertainty sweeping in like uninvited guests who brought no snacks. Did I miss something? Did I do something wrong? Am I expecting too much? Am I parenting on hard mode without the instruction manual?
Then I ran into the next plot twist: six-month waiting lists at every speech clinic within a 20-mile radius. Six. Months. I wasn’t waiting six months to support my kid—this is the same child who demands a banana immediately and then cries because “it’s too banana.” We need intervention on toddler time. So I found a local private speech therapist, and off we went.
Eight months later, my girl is thriving. She’s using long sentences, asking and answering WH questions, pronouncing tricky sounds, and becoming more intelligible to people who haven’t spent 3.5 years decoding her language like archaeologists. And here enters Pride—loud, glowing, make-you-want-to-high-five-a-stranger Pride. That’s my girl.
But while we were addressing communication differences, another pattern popped up—her fear of certain environments. Doctors’ offices. Clinics. New spaces with lots of noise or unpredictable chaos. She’d freeze, cry, hide, swat the air like ghosts were attacking. At airport security, she shut down entirely and a full-blown meltdown followed. And that’s where sadness moved in. Not sadness about her—but sadness that I didn’t yet understand what she needed to feel safe.
I brought these concerns back to our pediatrician, who gently walked us through the next steps toward an autism evaluation. Over the last three months, we completed intake, evaluation, and received a diagnosis: Moderate Autism Spectrum Disorder.
And that’s where the nervousness and confusion tap me on the shoulder—Will I find the right therapies? Does the school system have the capacity to support her? Will she be treated differently? Will I be treated differently? Am I inadvertently making things harder for her?
While I’m still researching therapy options (and discovering just how many acronyms the autism world requires you to learn), I’ve also started noticing something else: how people respond when they hear the diagnosis.
And let me tell you… if I had a dollar for every “Oh no!” or “I’m so sorry,” I could personally fund her therapy.
Here’s the thing: my daughter being autistic isn’t a tragedy. It’s an explanation. A roadmap. A key that unlocks understanding. Yes, her brain is different from the average toddler’s—but different isn’t bad. Different isn’t broken. Different isn’t less.
She is brilliant. She is hilarious. She is empathetic in ways that knock the wind out of me. She is curious, passionate, imaginative, and observant. She’s still the exact same kid she was before the diagnosis—now we just understand her better.
So if you’re a friend, a parent, or someone in her orbit, here’s what I want you to know:
Don’t be sorry. Be supportive. Be curious. Be willing to learn. Celebrate her wins with us. And don’t treat her like she’s fragile—treat her like she’s who she’s always been: my incredible girl discovering the world in her own way.
We’re still on this journey. And yes, some days feel heavy. Some feel confusing. Some feel like I deserve a medal just for making it to bedtime. But most days? Most days I feel so unbelievably proud—of her, and of us.
Because this isn’t just a story about autism. It’s a story about getting to know my child more deeply, loving her more fiercely, and learning to parent the kid I have—not the kid the world expects.
And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.