Unapologetically Embracing Autism: The Real Deal on Caregiver Burnout: A Single Mom’s Take

Let's get real for a minute. Being a parent is tough. Being a single parent? That's a whole other level. Now, throw in raising a kid with autism, and you've got yourself a perfect storm for burnout. But here's the thing – it's okay to admit it's hard. It doesn't make you a bad parent. It makes you human.

My Story

I'm a single mom to an amazing 10-year-old boy named Cortland. He's funny, smart, and happens to have autism. Our life is a rollercoaster of laughs, tears, victories, and challenges. Some days, I feel like I can conquer the world. Other days? I'm lucky if I manage to get us both fed and dressed.

Cortland was diagnosed with autism when he was 3, and let me tell you, that day turned our world upside down. Suddenly, our lives became a whirlwind of therapies, doctor appointments, and IEP meetings. Don't get me wrong – I wouldn't change Cortland for the world. His unique way of seeing things has opened my eyes to a whole new perspective on life. But this journey? It's not for the faint of heart.

What Burnout Looks Like for Me

1. Exhaustion that coffee can't fix

There are mornings when I've had a full night's sleep, but I still feel like I've run a marathon. It's not just physical tiredness – it's a bone-deep weariness that comes from always being "on." Whether it's managing Cortland's meltdowns, advocating for him at school, or just trying to decipher what he needs when words fail him, my brain never seems to shut off. And let's not even talk about those nights when sensory issues keep him (and by extension, me) awake until the wee hours.

2. The guilt trip

Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about a life without therapies and meltdowns, and then I feel terrible for even thinking it. The guilt is real, folks. I feel guilty when I'm not doing enough for Cortland, guilty when I take time for myself, guilty when I snap because I'm at the end of my rope. There are days when I look at other families and wonder what it would be like to have a "typical" kid. And then I immediately feel like the worst mom in the world for having those thoughts.

3. Loneliness in a crowded room

Ever been to a school event where all the other parents are chatting, and you're just... there? Yeah, that. It's not that other parents are unkind, but there's this invisible barrier. They're talking about soccer practice and dance recitals, while I'm trying to figure out how to explain to Cortland's teacher why he had a meltdown over the change in classroom seating. It's isolating, and sometimes it feels like no one else really gets it.

4. The financial juggling act

Trying to balance work, Cortland's needs, and not going broke is like trying to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded. Therapies, special diets, sensory-friendly gear – it all adds up. And as a single parent, every financial decision feels like it has the weight of the world behind it. Do I pick up extra shifts to cover that new occupational therapy tool, or do I spend that time with Cortland? There's no easy answer.

5. Decision fatigue

By the end of the day, asking me to choose what's for dinner feels like solving world hunger. It's not just the big decisions – like choosing therapists or educational approaches – it's the constant small choices. Should I push Cortland to try a new food, or is today not the day for battles? Do I let him wear his favorite shirt for the fifth day in a row because it's a comfort item, or do I insist on a change? Every decision feels monumental when you're trying to balance your child's needs with trying to prepare them for the world.

It's Not All Doom and Gloom

Don't get me wrong – I wouldn't trade Cortland for anything. He's taught me more about love, patience, and strength than I ever thought possible. But pretending it's all sunshine and rainbows? That's not helping anyone.

There are moments of pure joy that make it all worthwhile. Like when Cortland masters a skill we've been working on forever, or when he comes out with one of his brilliantly unique observations about the world. Those moments? They're gold. They're what keep me going on the tough days.

And let's not forget the autism parent community. Finding other parents who truly understand has been a lifesaver. Whether it's sharing resources, venting frustrations, or celebrating victories that might seem small to others but are huge for us, this community has become my lifeline.

Moving Forward

So, what do we do? We keep going, one day at a time. We find our tribe – other parents who get it. We learn to ask for help (still working on that one). We celebrate the small wins. And most importantly, we give ourselves a break.

Here are a few things I'm trying to do to keep burnout at bay:

1. Self-care isn't selfish

I'm learning that taking care of myself isn't a luxury – it's a necessity. Even if it's just 10 minutes of meditation or a quick walk around the block, I'm trying to carve out some me-time.

2. Building a support network

I'm reaching out more to family, friends, and other autism parents. Sometimes just having someone to talk to makes a world of difference.

3. Celebrating progress, not perfection

I'm trying to focus on how far Cortland has come, rather than comparing him to neurotypical standards. Every small step forward is a victory worth celebrating.

4. Educating others

The more I open up about our experiences, the more I find people want to understand and help. It's a slow process, but it's helping to build a more inclusive community for Cortland.

5. Planning for the future, living in the present

While I'm always thinking about Cortland's future, I'm also trying to enjoy the here and now. Those spontaneous giggle fits and tight hugs? That's what it's all about.

Remember, taking care of yourself isn't selfish – it's necessary. You can't pour from an empty cup, right?

To all the parents out there feeling the burn: You're not alone. You're doing a great job. And it's okay to admit when you're not okay.

A Little Motivation

Here's a little something I tell myself on the tough days:

 "In the story of your child's life, you're not just a character – you're the co-author. Some chapters are harder to write than others, but every page turn is an act of love."

Keep writing your story, fellow parents. It's the story that help  next family navigate the diagnosis with hope.