Some people wake up to birds chirping, sip their coffee, and read the news. I wake up to my phone buzzing like it’s a Wall Street trading floor and my boss is having a meltdown. Only my “boss” is my 19-year-old son with autism, intellectual disabilities, ADHD, anxiety, and an autoimmune disorder — and he’s texting me like he’s the CEO of a company that I never applied to work for but somehow own half my soul in shares.
The problem is, this “company” is open 24/7 and there’s no HR department to complain to.
The Fog
Let me tell you about the fog. Not the cinematic kind with dramatic music and ominous shadows — this is the parenting a medically complex child kind. It’s a permanent haze made up of exhaustion, worry, and a stress level proven by science to rival that of combat soldiers. That’s right. Somewhere out there is a chart comparing us to trained military personnel and — guess what — we win.
You’d think after 14 years as a provincial trainer in behaviour management and autism intervention I’d have this sorted. Spoiler alert: I do not. I fake having it together because people get weird if you answer “How are you?” with, “I’m one missed med away from a full Greek tragedy.” But no, I don’t have it together. Not even close.
Most days, my ability to concentrate is like my Wi-Fi: weak, unstable, and frequently dropping out at critical moments. Why? Because every neuron in my brain is already committed to:
The Reality Check
Here’s the thing: my entire life is an exercise in risk management. I’m constantly scanning for sensory triggers, social landmines, food contamination, sudden illnesses, unexpected changes in schedule — anything that could send our day off the rails. It’s like trying to defuse a bomb while making dinner and answering work emails.
And somewhere in there, I’m supposed to “practice self-care.” Sure. Let me just grab my yoga mat and meditate between the 3:42 pm text demanding a new brand of juice and the 3:46 pm meltdown because the new brand of juice “tastes wrong.”
The Humble Truth
I’m not superhuman. I’m a parent doing the best I can in a situation that is relentless. My “togetherness” is mostly an illusion held together by dry shampoo, coffee, and sarcasm. And yet — in the middle of the fog — there are moments. Moments where my son learns something new, laughs at a joke, or surprises me with kindness. Moments that make the fog feel a little lighter.
The truth is, I will probably live in this fog forever. I will always be part-medical-manager, part-crisis-negotiator, part-human-espresso-machine. But as long as my son is safe, loved, and has a shot at his own version of success — I’ll keep walking through it.
Even if I’m squinting.
Signing off with my eyes half open and either a glass of wine or coffee depending on the day.
