3. Blocking the Noise from Outsiders

I knew I was on my own. This was Maverick’s journey, and truthfully, my partner had no idea what we were up against. You don’t know what you’ve never experienced. And while I had my family and friends, I didn’t have them close by. They didn’t live in the same town, or even the same state. In many ways, I felt like I was walking this road alone.

It’s incredibly isolating when you’re faced with a system that doesn’t seem to care about urgency. There’s so much waiting, so much figuring things out on your own, and constantly trying to find the right resources. It felt like the world was telling me that I had to learn everything on my own, but all I wanted was someone to guide me, to show me the way.

The best advice we received came from our therapist: “Block the noise.” Everyone has an opinion. They all think they know what’s best for your child. The neighbors, the family members, the strangers you meet in the store—they all feel entitled to weigh in. But you, and the professionals working with your child, are the ones who know what’s best. Trust your instincts and block the noise.

Even though I had family and friends who cared deeply for me, I knew that they couldn’t fully understand the challenges we faced. I was on my own with this journey, even with the support I had. No one truly understood what it was like to live day in and day out with the struggles Maverick faced. And that’s where the isolation grew—the feeling that I was the only one who saw the full picture, the only one who understood. I wasn’t in denial of his needs and what was best.

As I began navigating this new world of developmental support, I started to buy all the gadgets. Anything I could get my hands on to see what worked for Maverick, to see what he liked. I dove deep into doing my own research, trying to figure out what could help him, and what tools and techniques might make things easier, and then take it to his therapists. But despite all my efforts, nothing seemed to fix the bigger problem: Maverick was struggling and he needed more.

At this point, Maverick had started speech therapy, but the reality hit hard. He was struggling badly to regulate himself. The speech therapist was a great resource, but nothing could prepare me for how difficult this process would be for Maverick. He was now showing more signs of distress, and it became clear that he just wasn’t doing well outside of his environment. I already knew he struggled with change and unfamiliar situations, but now, I was seeing a whole new side of him.

We couldn’t travel. Even simple outings were exhausting for him. Every trip outside the house, even just a short errand, was a struggle. I had to take him to a routine dental appointment, and the waiting room was a nightmare. He was running back and forth, full of excitement, but also overwhelmed, overstimulated, and unsure of what to do with all the energy. As I tried to calm him, I could see the mother and her two children watching us. Their confused and judgmental stares felt like they were piercing through me. They didn’t understand, and they didn’t care to.

The looks they gave us made me feel like we had seven heads. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and deeply sad. How was I going to protect Maverick from people who simply didn’t understand? How could I shield him from the looks, the questions, the judgment? As a mom, my heart hurt because I knew he couldn’t stand up for himself. This wasn’t something he could explain or defend. And the truth was, that made me angry. I felt like I was watching him struggle, and all I wanted to do was protect him from a world that wasn’t ready for him.

After the appointment, I sat in the car and cried. It wasn’t just the stress of the day—it was the realization that this was going to be an ongoing fight. A fight to protect his feelings. A fight to protect him from being mistreated. And it was a fight that I didn’t know how to win.

As a mother, I’ve always been vocal when it comes to defending my children. If someone says something hurtful or ignorant, I’m quick to stand up and speak out. But this felt different. This wasn’t just about me—this was about Maverick. How could I protect him when he couldn’t defend himself? How could I stop people from saying things like, “Why doesn’t he talk?” or “When is he going to talk?” How could I stop people from making judgments like, “Why does he still have a bottle?” or “He should be sleeping through the night by now.” The advice, the judgment, the unsolicited opinions—it was all so much.

It’s so easy for people to give advice when they’re not the ones living the reality. They don’t see the late nights, the endless therapy sessions, the daily struggles. They don’t understand how difficult it is to support a child who is non-verbal or who has very specific needs. They don’t understand the toll it takes on a mother when you’re doing everything you can, and yet still feel like you’re failing in some way.

But here’s the truth I’ve had to learn: No one can fully understand what we’re going through, because no one has lived THIS story. Everyone’s journey is different, and the struggles we face are unique to us. My son doesn’t sleep on a “normal” schedule, and that’s okay. He eats only about 10 different foods, and that’s okay. He’s non-verbal, and that’s okay. He squeals in excitement, bangs toys together, shoves his hands in his mouth, and loves to push his diaper down just to feel the breeze on his skin—and that’s okay too.

I’ve learned that it’s okay for Maverick to be different. I’ve had to embrace his normal, even when it’s different from what I expected. It took me a while to admit it, to feel okay about it, and to be able to express that feeling. But I’ve come to realize that this is his journey, and I will continue to support him no matter how it looks to others.

I’m done with people who have never even met my son thinking they know what’s best for him. I’m done with the judgment, the unsolicited advice, and the ignorance. I’m done with feeling like I have to explain myself or justify Maverick’s behavior to people who will never understand. It’s hard not to be protective and angry. It’s hard not to want to lash out when people don’t get it, when they make assumptions about my child.

But I’ve learned that you don’t know what you don’t know until you know. And for those who don’t know, all I can say is that this is our story. It’s not perfect, it’s not easy, but it’s ours. And I will continue to protect Maverick’s heart, his journey, and his well-being—no matter what anyone else thinks.