Tomorrow, Daniel turns 19.
Nineteen.
That strange in-between place where people legally become adults but still can’t seem to fold a fitted sheet or figure out what to do with their lives-which, let’s be honest is most of us. But for us, this birthday isn’t a quirky milestone with a shared beer and a nostalgic montage of baby pictures set to Good Riddance (Time of Your Life). It’s something else. Something heavier. Something I didn’t quite prepare myself for-even with all my professional training, over a decade of autism intervention implementation under my belt, and a job title that includes words like “executive” and “director”.
Nineteen looks different here. So different.
This is the age where I once imagined Daniel walking across a graduation stage, eyes squinting in the sun, diploma in hand. A “we made it” moment. I could already hear the music swelling. But instead, I watched his best friend graduate without him. A friend he’s known since the very first day of Lighthouse. A friend who was meant to be standing beside him in that moment. I smiled. I clapped. I cheered. I spoke. And then I went to the car and cried behind my sunglasses like a dramatic Netflix mom who forgot their kid’s lunch and her own identity.
That’s the thing about these milestones. They’re sneaky. They creep up when you think you’re doing just fine and whisper, “Hey, remember that dream you had? Yeah….about that.”
And if that wasn’t enough of an emotional rollercoaster, I also sold my cottage, my favourite place in the world-the place that held years of memories, laughter, scaped knees, and plans. I made the decision with a clear head and a very murky heart, because it’s what’s best for Daniel. It’s always what’s best for Daniel. But still-ouch.
Now here comes the part no one wants to talk about: the grief that lives alongside joy. The guilt of wondering, “He seems happy….right?” while a quiet voice inside whispers, “But this isn’t what I wanted for him.” It’s a constant negotiation in your brain-and let me tell you, that brain is exhausted.
I don’t always talk about the hard stuff. Most of us don’t. Because it’s easier not to. Easier to post a smiling photo, write #blessed, and pretend we’re not holding a whole universe of emotion inside our ribcages.
But here’s what I know:
Daniel, in all his uniqueness, his intensity, his beautiful unpredictability, had made me stronger, braver, and-let’s be honest-so much weirder in the best way. I’ve opened an entire autism centre because of him. I’ve become a Provincial Trainer. I’ve sat across from rooms of professionals and parents and told them the truth about what this journey really looks like. And through all of it, this boy-this now almost man-has taught me more about love, resilience, and adaptability than any training every could have.
So no, we’re not where I thought we’d be. We’re not packing for college or debating part-time jobs or sneaking beers under the deck (okay, maybe he’s not). But we are celebrating. Because he’s here. Because he’s happy. Because I made hard decisions that gutted me, but gave him more. And because nineteen deserves to be honoured-even when it doesn’t look like what you imagined.
To all the other parents out there holding joy in one hand and grief in the other-I see you. It’s ok to feel both. It means you’re loving deeply and honestly.
Happy 19th Birthday Daniel, you are the best plot twist I never saw coming. And I wouldn’t change a thing-except maybe the paperwork. There’s always so much paperwork.
