When Family Becomes the Hardest Part of the Journey

I feel the need to share this because I know I’m not alone. I know I’m not the only parent who has walked this path and faced not just the challenges of raising a neurodivergent child—but also the unexpected struggles caused by the very people who are supposed to be your support system.

After joining multiple Autism support groups on Facebook, one thing has become glaringly clear to me: It’s not always strangers who make this journey harder. Sometimes, it’s the people closest to you. The ones who think they know better, who question every decision, who somehow make you responsible for their feelings and anger about choices that don’t even directly involve them.

I’m currently living that.

Imagine, for a second, you didn’t want this person around and made a choice for your partner because you love them, to do it for them, knowing this person isn’t going to be anything you need them to be.

She recently visited us. Those who are close to me know the relationship I have with her is… strained, to say the least. For very valid reasons—reasons so deeply rooted in disrespect that anyone who knows the whole story wouldn’t even entertain fostering a relationship. But, had I known then what I know now—what Maverick’s journey would look like—I wouldn’t have even tried to allow a connection for the sake of appearances or out of obligation. I see so clearly now that protecting Maverick means protecting his peace… and mine. I owe no one any anything.

Fast forward: Maverick just turned 2. She came the other day for her first visit ever with him. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long before the old patterns resurfaced—disrespect, unsolicited opinions, and a total disregard for boundaries. She loves to ignore boundaries. I think some of that is because he doesn’t enforce or instill them with her either and I shouldn’t have to. It’s not my mother. But wanna know what hit the hardest? The way she tried to discredit the doctors, therapists, and professionals who’ve spent countless hours helping my son.

Let me make one thing crystal clear: No one—no one—knows more about Maverick’s journey than I do. Not even his father has put in the hours and the amount of time I have. I’ve been the one in the trenches. I’m the one who made the phone calls, scheduled the evaluations, showed up to every appointment, sat through every session, researched late into the night, and advocated fiercely for my son. I’ll give credit where credit is due—but the credit belongs to me. That may sound self-centered to say but I’m tired of people being selfish and not giving me the credit I deserve as his mother. I know him better than anyone and those same professionals also relied upon me recounting the issues. So now you’re discrediting me, his mother, who has his best interest and the same classification of knowledge and experience. Yes… I have experience…which is why I knew what those patterns were.

What I won’t tolerate is someone who’s met my son for the first time trying to undermine what licensed professionals and I had determined after months of hard work. He has been in therapy for 5 months and this month makes 6. ALL the licensed professionals have stated the same assumptions that I had, and the Developmental Prediatrician gave the exact same diagnosis. I made it clear from the start—unsolicited advice is not welcome. Unfounded opinions about vaccinations, parenting decisions, or what my son “should” be doing are not welcome.

Maverick is not autistic because of a vaccine. Maverick is autistic because he was born autistic. Maverick failed his first hearing exam. They say frequency turns parts of the brain on, and off in some autistic children, and is why some thrive from musical therapy. Guess what one of the therapies Maverick responds to?! That’s right musical therapy. Maverick screamed the entire time of his first bath at the hospital ( the nurse was angry it hurt her ears and made a point to tell us in her 20 years it had never happened to her and he was pissed) and the subsequent ones at home. Hello SENSORY OVERLOAD!

But let me break it down even further, in case anyone wants a glimpse of what my daily reality looks like:

Maverick wakes up when I let him wake up—usually depending on what time we have therapy appointments that day because he does go 5 days a week. I mean he wakes up anywhere from 3-7 times a night. No one would know how many because once again, it’s just me with him all night long. I try to feed him breakfast, and often it’s a battle. Some days he pushes it away. Some days he spits. Then comes the fight to get him dressed, and fix his hair—something as simple as brushing his hair can become a struggle, don’t use water because of his water sensitivities. (this is why I ask people NOT to play in his hair. Most don’t understand ethnic hair, let alone a sensory overload) So most of the time he goes looking like an extra for Gremlins because it’s not worth it upsetting him.

We drive 45 minutes to therapy, where he attends back-to-back sessions. Sometimes there’s a tiny break, sometimes not. I stay flexible, coordinating with the therapists and fitting everything around their schedule because I can—I’m fortunate to work from my phone, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Another 45-minute drive home. Hours of my day tied up, every single weekday. All while working on the go. Many of you know I help my brother with his business and run the Customer Service side. I do that along with my Home Fragrance Business, and while trying to manage a household of 2 teenagers, one very young adult in college, and a neurodivergent sassy 2 year old. My plate is FULL, and not many people could handle it, let alone what I have as extra seasoning.

When we get home, it’s more of the same juggling act. Trying to get him to eat. Playing. Praying he might nap at a decent time—but it’s anyone’s guess. Some days, his nap starts at 3 PM. Some days it’s not until 7 or 8 PM. And if he naps late? Well, now he’s up until 2, sometimes 3 or 4 in the morning. Let’s throw in the stemming, meltdowns, not wanting to take a bath, ripping the nipple from his bottle, and throwing milk all around the floor. The constant running to stand on the couch, opening the refrigerator, and closing it incessantly. No one has any idea how hard this truly is until you LIVE it. Because I have to show up for everyone else on top of all of this.

There’s no rhyme or reason. No magic trick. No screen time overstimulation. He simply can’t calm himself to sleep. And most nights, after his dad has gone to bed, it’s just me and Maverick. Navigating the unpredictability. Trying to stay patient. Exhausted, but showing up.

I know every stim, every sign, every pattern by heart. I know exactly what he wants within the first whimper.

I’ve seen it all.

I’ve fought for it all.

So when family—especially family who hasn’t been present—comes in like a wrecking ball, disregarding the hard work, disregarding the medical advice, disregarding the boundaries, I refuse to stay quiet.

You don’t get to step in for a photo op and tell me how to parent.

You don’t get to tear apart decisions you weren’t here to make.

You don’t get to make something that’s already incredibly hard even harder because you can’t stand not being in control.

If you can’t stand with us as a united front, then kindly step aside. I am raising a son who needs peace, stability, and unconditional support—not opinions steeped in ignorance or control.

To any parent out there going through something similar: You’re not alone. You don’t owe anyone access to your child or your journey. Protect your peace. Set the boundaries. Keep advocating. You are doing enough. Now I know why they said cut those people off and out. You have enough on your plate you don’t need extra friction. You will thank yourself later.