“When God closes a door, He opens a window.” (Author unknown)
As I stood in front of 80 moms at the National Autism Association of North Texas Autism Moms’ Evening Out on May 4th, I was in awe of all the hard work, determination and love that was packed into one room. The inner strength of this group of women was truly inspiring.
As my eyes scanned the room, bouncing from face to face in the crowd, I was humbled by the fact the each of these women had traveled the same road I had...and all had become stronger, braver and more compassionate than they once were. Some were familiar faces that brought back memories from a specific struggle in my autism journey. Others were new faces. But it didn’t matter, we already knew each other.
For each of us had heard those dreaded words, “Your child has autism.” Each of us has stumbled trying to put our child back together again piece-by- piece. And each of us has our own book-worthy story. The stories my differ in the details, but in the end we all want the same thing….healing for our child.

As Autism Awareness Month wraps up, I feel a bit guilty about the bah humbug attitude I have had this year. Maybe it is because I have been at dealing with autism for over seven years, and I just don’t feel like getting in the “spirit of autism” this year.
In the beginning, I remember the rush each April would bring. I had never had a cause before, and it felt good to give back and to do something that mattered. I was going change the world, and I was going to do it all in one month! I helped at a booth at the mall, I gave a huge autism awareness cake to the school, I wrote articles for the school newsletters, wore my "Green Our Vaccines" shirt everywhere, posted all kinds of stuff on Facebook and even stood with a sign in an autism-related protest.
Now seven years later, quite frankly, I am tired of autism. I am tired of the fact that there are endless treatments to try for my daughter, and the guilt that goes along with picking and choosing which to try. If I try one new treatment, what if the other one was the one that was going to work for her? Usually we are doing so many treatments at the same time, how do I know which, if any, are really making the difference? When can I ever rest with the peace-of-mind that I have done everything I can do and just accept who she is?

When I hear the words “circle of life,” my brain clicks to Elton John belting out,
It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life
and I picture Simba’s dad from the Lion King holding him up with pride, presenting him to the entire world. This is so sweet and sentimental, how can you not love it?
One afternoon, the words “circle of life” took on a whole new meaning. The circle of life was not only sweet and sentimental, but could also be downright hilarious.

Sometimes living life with Autism is like living life inside a pressure cooker. It takes every crack or instability in your life and bursts it wide open. The pressure it puts on a family physically, mentally and financially can leave even the strongest person emotionally standing on a ledge, wondering if she should jump.
Right about the time I was emotionally on that ledge, Lizzie decided to put herself physically on top of a ledge. This ledge was about 8 feet long, 3 feet wide and 4 feet tall of solid concrete. It was not enclosed because it was actually the corner of a balcony. The size of the ledge wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the balcony was 15 stories high.

The newsletter from my oldest son's pre-school came home. Sure, the newsletter was a happy color of yellow with cute little pictures of smiling kids on it, but what was typed in dark black letters had the potential to ruin our lives forever! It read, “Due to the increasing number of allergies amongst children, for the safety of our pre-schoolers, we are going peanut free.”
What?????!!!!! How were we ever going to survive? Andrew was the pickiest of picky eaters, and the only sandwich he would eat was peanut butter and jelly. And those delicious mini-Ritz crackers with peanut butter in the middle, how could we possibly go a whole five hours without those? Then there are the mouth-watering Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and the endless delight that peanut M&M’s could bring. My son was going to starve, I was sure of it. I could already picture him running out to the car after pre-school, and I would need to immediately hook him up to a peanut butter IV.
I mean, are severe allergies even real? We never had allergies like this when I was growing up. Was this a case of crazy, over-bearing parents that had nothing better to worry about? How is it even possible for a little peanut to cause so much harm? It is just food.
I was sure my concerns were justified. And then it happened to me.

I walked out of my bedroom in my new skinny jeans (in a not so skinny size) and boots. My husband, Greg, took one look at me and said, “Those boots make you look like a Jedi Knight!” Most days I feel like more like Jabba the Hutt, so I decided to take that remark as a compliment.
Within seconds of hearing that comment, I had a thousand things flung at me. On the left, Lizzie is screaming for me to do her messy hair. Coming at me from the right, Noah is crying because he can’t find his coat, and running full speed ahead directly towards me is Andrew with a serious scowl on his face because he didn’t want to wake up so early. Noah is now wheezing and needs medicine, Andrew is also mad because he is missing his homework, Lizzie isn’t happy with the lunch I packed her, and it has now started raining, so everyone needs rain gear before they can walk out the door to school. Oops! I forgot their library books… I'll run those by school later.
Then it hit me. I don’t just look like a Jedi Knight, I AM a Jedi Knight!!!

There are many rights of passage as a parent. Holding your baby for the first time, seeing your baby’s first toothless open mouth smile, and watching your baby take her first steps. But nothing can compare to the first time you hear the four most beautiful words come out of your child’s mouth: “I love you, Mommy!” Somehow those four words validate every sleepless night, every dirty diaper changed, every missed social event, and every pound of baby weight that tightly grips your thighs, no matter how you try to lose it.
I don’t remember when my oldest, Andrew, said those meaningful four words to me. I would assume he said them when he was between two and three years old. When he did, I took it for granted. It is not that I didn’t enjoy it; I just never thought about it much because it happened without any effort on my part. It was an expectation that comes from the natural progression in a child’s life.
Autism moms don’t talk about this because the very mention of it brings too much pain to bear. All those years of waiting to be validated for physical and mental strain and emotional trauma that consumes the life of a mom with a child with autism. She could be given the Mother-of-the-Year Award and be praised by hundreds, but it doesn’t matter. The only person she wants to acknowledge her love is her own child. She wants to know for sure that her child really does love her.

“The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel.”
— Steven Furtick
While browsing on Facebook (in a diligent effort to avoid cleaning the house or hearing my arguing children), I read that people who spend a lot of time on Facebook are less happy than those who spend more time in person with friends. It makes sense. After all, the right picture or quote can make anyone’s life seem magical, while mine pales in comparison.

Case in point: in the above picture, you can see pure joy on our faces. It was Lizzie’s first ski trip, and it was perfect! We took her up to the top of the mountain, and she grinned ear-to-ear with excitement over this new adventure! It was as if the snow ski fairy had sprinkled Lizzie with fairy dust. As we hopped off the ski lift, she began to ski with ease. She was a natural! At the bottom of the slope, we all gave her a group family hug! We were all smiles! Perfect!
This is all true. At least, that is what the picture shows, right? Ha! I wish.

Rock bottom for me is when I find myself sitting in my car eating a Cinnabon. I am likely wearing jeans that I have not washed in two weeks to keep up the facade that I have not gained the holiday weight, and I am drinking a Diet Coke, of course.
It is time for me to get serious about eating healthy again, which means no more sweets and no more Diet Coke. It has been 525,600 minutes, exactly one year, since I had this same conversation with myself. I guess I will add it to my list of New Year’s Resolutions again.
Having the same goal over and over each year can become demoralizing at the very least. Whether it is a small issue like losing a few pounds, or an enormous issue like a goal that my child with autism never masters, it takes all the willpower I have to not throw in the towel and just accept life as “good enough.”

Team Autism
By Julie Hornok
Being extremely independent has always been one of my best traits, and yet at the same time, one of my worst traits. In my childhood, I tried every type of activity imaginable, but I never found a team that was worth staying on.
I tried soccer, but the thought of getting kicked in the shin wasn’t worth the lack of thrill I felt when someone else kicked a ball through a goal. I tried softball, but somehow standing in the outfield and ending up covered in fire ants took away any joy away from the fact that one of my teammates could slide into home plate. Acting was worth a try, but it turned out to be quite annoying when I said my one line, “I like porridge too,” and then had to sit around watching others talk for another hour and a half. Of course, drill team was sometimes fun, but even being with my friends at something they were good at wasn’t worth listening to the screechy voice of the drill team instructor.
Even with all my childhood lack of interest, I somehow grew up with a strong “can do” attitude. I was a firm believer that with enough will power and hard work, I could overcome anything. The power of positive thinking could and would beat the odds of whatever was put in front of me. And then I met Autism.