For the past 20 years, I’ve worn the label “autism mom” like armor. It’s been my identity, my purpose, and in many ways, my entire world. From therapies and IEP meetings to navigating meltdowns and advocating for every service possible, I became the planner, the warrior, the voice for two beautiful souls—Ella and Luke—each with their own unique brilliance and challenges.
But somewhere along the way, I lost parts of myself. The woman who once wandered the streets of France. The girl who spoke in fluent French, found joy in books and art, and soaked up beauty with no agenda. That version of me got buried under schedules and diagnoses, under worry and sheer exhaustion.
Until now.
The Shift
It didn’t happen overnight. Maybe it started the day I picked up Joie—a book that reminded me what it feels like to breathe for myself again. Or the moment I realized that my kids, now 20 and 16, don’t need me in the same all-consuming way anymore. There’s still plenty of need, but there’s also—finally—a little space. A crack in the chaos wide enough for me to begin to wonder: Who am I now, outside of them?
Not instead of them. But alongside them.
The Weight and the Wonder
For two decades, my focus has been survival—keeping everything together, holding up a household, being everything to everyone. As a single mom, there are no breaks unless I carve them out with a chisel. Self-care has always sounded great in theory, but rarely practical in my reality. What does it even mean to care for yourself when someone always needs you more?
But I’m learning that reclaiming yourself doesn’t mean walking away from your kids. It means remembering that you matter too.
It means I can read a book just for fun.
It means I can let myself feel joy—even if only for five quiet minutes on the deck.
It means I’m allowed to be a whole person, not just a role.
A Return to Something Familiar
France was a turning point in my life. There, I felt the spark of independence, possibility, and curiosity that I’ve missed. Revisiting that time—through reading, memories, music, and the occasional French podcast—has helped me reconnect with that part of me. Not to live in the past, but to remember that version of me is still here.
She didn’t disappear.
She’s just been waiting.
A Note to Fellow Moms (and Dads!) in the Trenches
If you’ve been lost in the endless giving, if you’ve forgotten your own voice beneath the hum of everyone else’s needs, you are not alone.
You are still in there.
You’re allowed to want things for yourself.
You’re allowed to rest, to rediscover, to reclaim.
There’s no deadline for finding your way back.
Start with one moment. One memory. One little joy.
You’re not just someone’s mom. You’re someone.
