The last couple of weeks have been hard.
I’ve learned over the years that difficult seasons rarely arrive one challenge at a time. Instead, they seem to show up all at once, demanding more energy, patience, and resilience than we feel capable of giving. There is a certain irony to it. On one hand, getting through several hard things at once can feel like ripping off a bandage. On the other, it can leave you emotionally exhausted and wondering how much longer you can keep going.
People often say that the hard times make us appreciate the good times more. I think that’s true. But when you’re in the middle of a difficult season, it’s okay to admit that it simply hurts. We don’t have to rush to find the lesson or the silver lining. Sometimes we just need to acknowledge that carrying hard things is hard.
One of the biggest things our family has been carrying lately is the decision to send Elliot back to school.
We started exploring second-grade options in early June. What should have been a simple process took several weeks as we balanced school tours, schedules, and Florida’s summer weather. Storms are especially difficult for Elliot. They create a level of anxiety that can make leaving the house feel impossible. Like many autistic people, his nervous system experiences the world intensely. When the weather becomes unpredictable, so does his sense of safety.
So we moved slowly.
We scheduled tours when we could. We rescheduled when we needed to. We listened to what Elliot’s body and behavior were telling us. We gave ourselves permission to move at the pace that worked for our family instead of the pace the world expected.
Eventually, we found a school that feels like it could be a good fit.
In less than a month, Elliot will step into a classroom for the first time in nearly a year.
That sentence fills me with hope.
And fear.
Both can exist at the same time.
The truth is, our previous school experience left scars.
What happened wasn’t just difficult for Elliot. It affected our entire family. When your child has a painful experience at school, you don’t simply move on when it’s over. The worry follows you. The questions follow you. The fear follows you.
For a long time, keeping him home felt safer.
When you’ve watched your child struggle, protecting them can feel like the most loving thing you can do. But sometimes what feels protective can become limiting. As parents, we constantly walk the line between keeping our children safe and helping them grow.
We didn’t begin looking at schools because someone told us it was time.
We didn’t do it because we felt pressured.
We waited until Elliot asked.
That mattered.
It would have been easy to assume he never wanted to return after what happened. Instead, he surprised us. He started talking about school. Asking questions. Expressing interest in going back.
Underneath everything he experienced, there was still curiosity.
There was still hope.
There was still a desire to learn, connect, and be part of a community.
I think that says something important about autistic children.
Too often, people focus on what autistic children struggle with while overlooking their incredible resilience. We see the moments of dysregulation, anxiety, or overwhelm and forget to notice the courage it takes to keep trying in a world that isn’t always built with them in mind.
Autistic children deserve opportunities to learn, play, explore, and build relationships. They deserve environments that presume competence. They deserve teachers who see their strengths alongside their support needs. They deserve classrooms where they are accommodated rather than merely tolerated.
Most importantly, they deserve access to the world.
Not because they have proven they are ready.
Not because they have learned to mask.
Not because they can perfectly fit into systems that weren’t designed for them.
Simply because they are children.
As parents, that realization has helped guide us through this decision.
The fear hasn’t disappeared.
When your child has limited reliable communication, the worries can feel overwhelming. Every parent wonders whether their child will be safe and understood. For families like ours, those worries are often magnified. We wonder if someone will recognize distress before it becomes a crisis. We wonder whether people will see behavior as communication. We wonder whether our child will be supported, respected, and genuinely known.
Those concerns don’t vanish because we’ve found a new school.
We’ll carry them with us on the first day.
We’ll carry them during every transition.
We’ll carry them every time the phone rings unexpectedly.
But we’ve learned something important over the last year.
Fear gets a vote.
It doesn’t get the final decision.
Because Elliot deserves more than a life shaped by our fears.
He deserves friendships.
He deserves opportunities.
He deserves experiences that help him discover who he is and what he is capable of.
He deserves the chance to be part of a community that values him exactly as he is.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what bravery actually looks like.
I don’t think bravery is being fearless.
I think bravery is feeling afraid and moving forward anyway.
It’s allowing yourself to hope after you’ve been hurt.
It’s trusting again after trust has been broken.
It’s believing that one difficult experience doesn’t have to define every experience that follows.
Sometimes courage looks dramatic.
Sometimes it changes the world.
And sometimes courage looks much smaller.
Sometimes it looks like scheduling another school tour.
Filling out enrollment paperwork.
Packing a backpack.
Walking your child into a classroom.
Taking a deep breath.
And trying again.
As a family, that’s where we are right now.
Trying again.
Not because we’re fearless.
Not because we know exactly what will happen.
But because Elliot deserves every opportunity to learn, grow, connect, and thrive.
And because sometimes the bravest thing we can do for our children is believe that a better experience is possible.
So we’re choosing hope.
We’re choosing courage.
And together, we’re taking the next step forward.
