This morning, as I sent a group text to confirm coffee plans with three other moms — our boys heading to a movie, we lingering nearby — it hit me how light it all felt.
Not because life is easy.
Not because our kids are magically past the hard parts.
But because of who was on that text thread.
We get along, yes. We laugh easily. We’re happy to sit in a Starbucks and talk about everything and nothing while our sons disappear into a theater.
But the real lightness comes from something deeper.
All of our boys live somewhere along the autism spectrum. High-functioning. Brilliant. Complex. Still very much tethered to us in ways typical teenage life doesn’t always allow.
Less driving.
More moms nearby.
More hovering than they’d like.
More worry than we fully admit out loud.
And in this group, I don’t feel less than when I talk about my son.
I don’t feel like I need to translate.
I don’t feel the subtle judgment that can creep in … even from kind, well-meaning neurotypical parents who just don’t live this particular reality.
High-functioning autism is its own strange, specific place in the world for kids and for their parents.
Can they handle sports this year?
Is it the right coach? The right team culture?
Can they handle a traditional school environment?
What supports need adjusting this time?
It’s a constant rhythm of adjusting, nudging, testing, hoping, praying.
Yes, all parents do this.
But this flavor of it has its own texture.
And the gift — pretty rare in my world — is being able to talk about it without bracing yourself.
To laugh about the latest teen outburst.
To name the newest worry without softening it.
To be honest without defending your child or your parenting.
That kind of circle is special.
I wish it for all moms … a place, a time, a group where you can speak freely, laugh honestly, worry out loud, and feel held instead of assessed.
Because sometimes feeling lightness isn’t about fewer challenges. It’s about feeling the joy of being understood.