Neurodivergent Space

By Elena Vance.

When my only child was diagnosed with autism at three years old, alongside a severe speech delay, my entire world shattered. My mental health was in complete shambles. I found myself trapped in a state of constant, suffocating vigilance. Every single outing felt like a high-alert mission to manage meltdowns, prevent elopement, and keep him from hurting himself.

But the hardest part wasn’t just the exhaustion; it was the person I felt I had become. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I used to adore children, but suddenly, I couldn’t bear to look at neurotypical kids. Going to the grocery store or a family gathering became torture. I would see other children eating normally, chatting with their parents, and playing calmly, and a wave of intense jealousy and anger would wash over me. I would freeze up, tears filling my eyes, asking myself, Why not me? Why can’t we have a normal life? I hated myself for those feelings. To make matters worse, my own family and cousins constantly watched, judged, and said mean things about him during his meltdowns, telling me he was just “naughty” and that I needed to discipline him. I felt entirely alone, crying myself to sleep every night, wishing I could just disappear.

But slowly, by connecting with an incredible community of parents who truly walk in my shoes, things began to lift. I started to learn how to navigate this heavy load and I am beginning to feel better.

1. I drew a hard line with judgmental family I realized I could no longer subject my child—or myself—to people who say mean things, family or not. My son’s emotional safety is infinitely more important to me than the opinions of aunts, cousins, or even my own parents who refuse to understand neurodivergence. I stopped taking criticism from people who haven’t spent a single day in our shoes. I’ve started setting firm boundaries and limiting contact with those who judge us, protecting our peace fiercely.

2. I embraced “relaxed parenting” in public One of the biggest turning points was letting go of the need to mask my son’s autism just to make strangers comfortable. We have a right to exist in public spaces. Now, when we go to a kid-centered place like a park, I let him be 100% himself. If he wants to flap his hands, stim, or screech with excitement, I let him.

3. I found hope in the future and therapy Hearing from parents of older autistic children—kids who are now 5, 7, or 9—completely changed my perspective. I learned about children who were non-verbal, high-needs, and struggled severely with self-regulation at age three, but who grew to speak functionally, read, write, make friends, and even travel the world after a few years of consistent therapy and patience. It reminded me that this is a long journey, and my three-year-old is going to experience so many of his own epiphanies and “level up” as he grows. Early intervention is a full-time, exhausting job, but knowing that progress comes with time has given me my hope back.

4. I started protecting my own well-being I realized that amid all the therapies for my son, I desperately needed to care for myself too. I am trying to carve out small, readily accessible moments of comfort—whether it’s a quiet walk, journaling, or just finding a therapist who can ask how I am doing. I am also focusing on finding simple activities we can reliably enjoy together, like reading, to build positive, stress-free connections.

Every night when my son goes to sleep, I look down at his beautiful, innocent face. I know that if I don’t accept and advocate for him exactly as he is, no one else will. We are a special breed, this community of parents, and knowing I am surrounded by their shared strength makes the road ahead feel a little less lonely, and a lot more bright.