Getting the Answers
The day we went in to review J’s evaluation results, I already knew. It was eight days after his third birthday — February 13, 2024.
Deep down, I had known for a while. But knowing something in your heart and hearing it spoken out loud are two very different things.
We sat in a small room while the developmental pediatrician went over the report — strengths first, then challenges. She talked about communication, social interaction, sensory needs, and developmental delays. Even though it was all information I had already heard before, it still stung.
When she said the words Autism Spectrum Disorder, everything around me felt quiet. Not because the world stopped — but because my mind did.
The official diagnosis was Autism Spectrum Disorder with accompanying language impairment, requiring very substantial support (Level 3).
The doctor explained the levels of autism.
The short version:
Level 1 – Very mild
Level 2 – Moderate
Level 3 – Impacts day-to-day life more significantly
J’s level was based largely on his lack of speech. He couldn’t communicate his needs to us. And when there is no communication, everyday life becomes much harder.
I had always known it was autism — but I did not expect a Level 3 diagnosis. In my mind, Level 3 was reserved for children who were impacted in ways J wasn’t. Children with significant cognitive delays. Motor skill challenges. Limitations I hadn’t seen in him.
J was none of those things.
He had strong cognitive skills for his age. His motor development was on track. He was capable, curious, and bright.
And yet — there it was.
It hit me like a freight train.
My son had a disability.
And in my mind, it was worse than I thought.
I cried almost immediately. My husband reassured me. The doctor reassured me too. She reminded me that this diagnosis didn’t change who J was — it simply gave us access to the tools and resources he needed to thrive.
If that was true… why did it hurt so badly?
When you’re pregnant, all you want is a healthy baby. You want everything to be perfect. And even though I know now that “perfect” is an impossible standard — it’s one I still find myself chasing.
I remember zoning out for a moment, forgetting where I was and why we were there. When I came back, reality hit again — this wasn’t a dream. This was our life now. I was a special needs mom, and I had no idea how to be one.
I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to do it.
We eventually finished with the doctor. I asked whatever questions I could think of through the fog. She talked about next steps and told me J had a lot of promise — that his severity level could change over time.
I wanted to believe her.
But in that moment, I didn’t.
The Drive Home
On the drive home, I don’t remember much. I just remember looking at J and crying. He sat in his car seat, happy as ever — completely unaware of what we had just been told.
And then the blame came.
What did I do wrong during my pregnancy?
Did I not eat right?
Was it my antidepressants?
The thoughts came fast and relentless.
This is my fault.
I carried him. I grew him. I gave birth to him. I must be the reason he’s autistic.
Then my thoughts jumped straight to his future.
Will he be able to speak?
Will he live independently?
Will he have a family of his own?
Will the world be kind to him?
How am I supposed to do this?
The fear felt suffocating. And the guilt that followed for even thinking those things made it worse. All I wanted was to protect him — from pain, from struggle, from a world that isn’t always kind.
But this was something I couldn’t protect him from.
I didn’t leave that appointment feeling strong or brave. I left feeling scared, unsure, and overwhelmed. But that day wasn’t the end of our story — it was the beginning of learning, unlearning, and slowly finding our footing. One step at a time.
