Dear Oliver,
As I sit down to write this letter, I know you may never read it, and perhaps that’s for the best. There’s so much on my mind that I want to share with you, but at just 7 years old, I fear it might be overwhelming. So, instead of keeping it to myself, I’ll let the world in on my thoughts.
If I could wave a magic wand, I’d change some things to make your life easier. But my role isn’t about altering the past; it’s about ensuring your present and future shine as brightly as possible.
I often think about the silent battles you face each day. I can’t fully grasp the confusion you experience or how your mind interprets the world around you. The way you stim for days and then seem to pause for weeks leaves me puzzled, and I feel powerless when I know you’re struggling but can’t figure out how to support you. I wish I could step into your shoes, but I realize I can’t understand your feelings until you can express them to me.
It breaks my heart when I see kids teasing you. Their behavior makes me furious, and I strive to enlighten them about you, hoping to foster understanding and support. My greatest wish is that you remain blissfully unaware of their hurtful comments. You are the most joyful child, and I won’t allow the unkind opinions of others, especially those who should be your friends, to cloud your happiness. Just last week, I had to explain to a child why you speak differently after witnessing him mock you. You were oblivious to it, but it shattered my heart. After our conversation, I had to hold back my tears until we were safely in the car. I try to maintain a strong front for you, but sometimes that facade just crumbles.
Since you turned one, it’s been just you and me. I regret that your father isn’t a part of your life, and I’m sorry it took me a while to help you understand why. You’ve noticed that other kids have dads, and that’s been tough. But guess what? We’re doing just fine together. You and I have each other, and your amazing Grandma is always there for us.
I know we clash over your eating habits. I get it; chips and candy sound tempting, but I have to make sure you’re nourished. Those meal replacement drinks I insist you have? It’s out of love, and I hope one day you will see that I’m just looking out for your health.
I love you dearly, but there are times I struggle with autism. I hate the challenges you face in silence, the constant worry that looms over me, and the fight for resources to help you thrive. The judgment from those who only see one outburst in public is infuriating. To those people, I say: step back and educate yourselves.
Every day, you amaze me with your strength and resilience. You can be incredibly stubborn (a trait you inherited from me), and while we sometimes spar for supremacy, Oliver, you have my entire heart. Nothing will ever change how I admire you.
Love always,
Mama