No. 020 - The Hardest Part Was Never Autism.

Twenty letters. Twenty Thursdays. Twenty pieces of my heart scattered across these pages. When I wrote my very first letter, I made myself a promise. I would always tell you the truth. Even when it was uncomfortable. Even when it broke me. And after twenty letters, I think I am finally ready to tell you one of the hardest truth I have ever carried.

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People often ask me what the hardest part of raising two autistic boys has been. Most people think they already know the answer. They think it is the diagnosis. The therapies. The uncertainty. The sleepless nights. The meltdowns. The endless appointments. It is not. Not even close. The hardest part has never been autism. The hardest part has been the cruelty.

Autism has never laughed at my boys. Autism has never stared at them. Autism has never whispered about them while they were standing right there. Autism has never spoken about them as if they could not understand. Autism has never made them feel like they did not belong. People have. Nothing prepared me for that. Not the diagnosis. Not the books. Not the doctors.

Nothing prepares a mother for the first time another child laughs at hers.

Or the first time someone talks about them while they are standing right there understanding every single word.

I have more memories like these than I wish I did. A private school that quietly withdrew my son’s place because they did not accept disabled children. Teachers referring to the handicapped child before realizing I was his mother. Children laughing at the sounds Luca makes. Neighbors running the other way, calling my boys the crazy neighbors. Parents pulling their children closer when mine walked toward the playground. Adults asking me what was wrong with them instead of saying hello.

If I am honest, none of those moments broke my heart because children were cruel. Children are still learning how to see the world. What broke my heart was realizing someone had already taught them where to look.

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Children are not born afraid of children like mine. They are born curious. They watch us before they know what to believe. They borrow our words before they have words of their own. They borrow our expressions before they understand what they mean. They learn how to see by watching where we look. Who we welcome. Who we avoid. Who we quietly walk away from.

I have never blamed the child who laughed at mine. I have only wondered what he had already been taught before he ever met them.

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My boys have spent their entire lives working harder than most people will ever know. Working to communicate. Working to regulate their bodies. Working to understand a world that was not built with them in mind. Working every single day to find a place inside the world your children were simply born into. And somehow we still expect them to do all the changing. I do not. I have never wished for my sons to become someone else. I have wished for a world that would stop asking them to.

People often notice the things my boys do differently before they notice who they are. They see the flapping. The jumping. The sounds. The movement. I wish they could see what I see.

The little boy who laughs until he cannot breathe when bubbles float through the air. The one who memorizes things I never even noticed. The one whose heart has never cared whether someone is rich or poor, important or invisible. The little brother who notices sadness before anyone else does. Who celebrates every tiny victory as if it were the greatest miracle on earth. Children who experience the world differently.

But never less deeply.

They are not extraordinary because they are autistic. They are extraordinary because they are children. Children with dreams. Favorite songs. Favorite foods. Favorite people. Children who deserve to grow up believing this world has always had a place for them.

To the mother reading this: one day your child will meet a child like mine. Maybe at school. Maybe at the park. Maybe standing in line for ice cream. Maybe somewhere neither of us can imagine yet. Before that day comes, please have the conversation.

Teach your child that not every mind works the same way. That not every child speaks with words. That some bodies move differently. That some children need more time. Teach them that curiosity is kinder than judgment. Teach them that different has never meant less. Teach them to see the child before they notice the difference. Because no child should have to earn their humanity. No child should have to earn their place in this world. That responsibility was never theirs. It has always been ours.

And it begins with a mother teaching her child how to see another child ✨

I would love to know who you are and what brought you to Luz & Santo.