You may remember me from those long weeks at the dojo—the mom of the boy who adamantly refuses to wear his karate Gi. You were the only one who reached out, the one who actually spoke to me when everyone else turned away. You offered suggestions for when the temperature dropped and my son insisted on wearing shorts. I genuinely appreciated your insights, even if I had already attempted most of them. You even tried to connect with him one day when he was feeling overwhelmed, but he resorted to his classic “ostrich act,” turning away and pretending you weren’t there.
You observed my son gradually becoming more at ease in the dojo. It was a victory for him, except for the fact that his running and flapping around before class was unacceptable. You witnessed my attempts to rein him in, week after week. You might recall the day I tried everything—cajoling, bribing, and forcing him into the uniform—only to have him scream and cry on the floor. Or perhaps you saw the moment he became so frustrated and aggressive that I had to physically restrain him, wrapping my arms around him like a bear hug to prevent him from hurting anyone else in the crowded waiting area. I still bear the bruises from that encounter.
Then today happened. My son, completely oblivious to his erratic movements, accidentally struck your son hard in the eye. As your child cried, mine didn’t even glance his way to see if he was alright; instead, he flopped down like a fish out of water. You comforted your son and sent him back to class. I watched you, tense, as I had to pull my son out of class ten minutes in, while he danced and spun instead of focusing on his moves—moves I know he can execute well. Thankfully, my sister was there, and I could send him to the car with her while his brothers finished the class.
Afterwards, I approached you to apologize for my son’s behavior. “It’s okay,” you replied, but your tone suggested otherwise. “It’s not okay, and I’m truly sorry,” I said back. As I sat down, waiting to discuss with Shihan about possibly withdrawing my son from a class that was proving too challenging for him, I wondered if you noticed the tear that slipped down my cheek.
Your words didn’t quite register with me at first, but then you wrapped your arms around me in a hug—one I felt I didn’t deserve after what had just happened. You hugged me again and reassured me that everything would be alright.
You were right. It is going to be okay. Some days, like today, I feel like I’m falling apart. But every night, I pray for strength to be the parent my child needs. Each morning, I rise with the intention of being that mom. While I don’t wish for my son to fit a neurotypical mold—I love him fiercely just the way he is—I do aspire to equip him with the tools to navigate a world that often doesn’t understand him. That’s my mission, every single day.
Thank you for that hug on a day when I felt so broken. It truly meant more than you know.
Warm regards,
Sophia, Ethan’s Mom