I never set out to be resilient.
I became resilient because I had no other choice.
When my child was diagnosed with autism, the world didn’t stop but mine did. I remember sitting quietly while professionals spoke, nodding as if I understood, while inside my thoughts raced ahead to a future I could no longer clearly see.
Resilience, back then, meant getting through the next hour.
Some days it still does.
There were mornings I woke up already exhausted. Nights when I replayed conversations with teachers, therapists, and doctors, wondering if I said the right thing, or if I should have spoken up more. I learned quickly that parenting an autistic child requires a different kind of stamina one that lives in the heart, not the muscles.
I grieved silently. Not because I loved my child any less, but because loving them meant letting go of expectations I didn’t even know I was holding. That grief came in waves unexpected and unwelcome but each time it passed, it left behind a deeper understanding of who my child truly is.
Resilience slowly changed its shape.
It stopped being about pushing through and started being about listening-listening to my child’s cues, to my own limits, and to the quiet voice inside that said, this is hard, and you’re allowed to say that.
I learned to measure progress differently. A calm moment in a noisy place. A new routine accepted without distress. A look that said, you understand me. These moments don’t make headlines, but they build a life.
There are still days when I doubt myself. Days when I feel invisible next to louder, easier parenting stories. But then there are days when I see my child navigate a world that isn’t built for them—and I realise where my resilience comes from. I’m learning it from my son.
I am not a perfect autism mum. I get tired. I lose patience. I cry in private. But I also show up. Every day.
Resilience, for me, isn’t about being strong all the time. It’s about choosing love when I’m weary, hope when I’m unsure, and grace when I fall short.
This journey has changed me. It has softened my judgments, sharpened my empathy, and taught me that resilience isn’t loud or heroic.
Sometimes, it’s just staying.
