Something I hate to admit.
Something that makes me feel—maybe even seem—like a terrible mother.
Sometimes, I see another boy. Another version of mine.
A boy with friends. A boy who jumps into life without hesitation. One who plays sports, cracks jokes, and navigates the world like any other ten-year-old. A child unburdened by dysregulation and anxiety.
A boy without autism.
He lingers like a ghost. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of him in my son. Other times, he takes shape in the kids around us—neurotypical boys his age.
A child free from the hard things this disability brings.
And he is my shame. The quiet, unspoken grief I carry. The whisper that makes me wonder if I’ll ever be the mother I should be.
I love my son completely. I wouldn’t trade him for anything. Autism hasn’t weakened our bond—it’s made it unbreakable. We need each other in ways most people wouldn’t understand.
But still, that other boy lives deep in my mind. A boy free from loneliness. Free to simply be. To laugh with friends. To embrace life without fear. To be a little boy.
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