September 2024
Relief. That’s exactly what I felt. I had known for months that this diagnosis was coming, but when it was finally confirmed, the validation was oddly comforting. It’s not the kind of news any parent hopes to receive, but it felt like a missing piece of our puzzle—a key to unlocking more resources for him. But then came the real question: Where do we go from here?
At first… absolutely nowhere. We stuck to the status quo—like some unspoken agreement that if we didn’t look directly at it, it might disappear. Was I too busy? Definitely. Was I also completely overwhelmed and mildly paralyzed by decision fatigue? Also yes. Taking the next steps felt like trying to start a marathon while still tying my shoes… and also realizing I’m wearing flip-flops.
I did what any overwhelmed mom does—I froze. And then I procrastinated with great passion. Told myself, “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.” Tomorrow turned into next week. Next week turned into “oh look, it’s been a month.” Very on brand for someone also a little neuro spicy.
When I finally pulled myself together (had a minor panic spiral followed by a caffeine-fueled research binge at 2 a.m.), I started digging. Late-night Google rabbit holes, doom scrolling Facebook groups, deciphering government websites that felt like trying to crack the Da Vinci Code. “How do I unlock services? What do these acronyms mean? Why is everything in Comic Sans?!”
And the answers? Well… they were equal parts helpful and soul-crushing. Yes, there are resources. That is if you live in a big city with endless options. Specialized schools, therapy centers, support groups… all conveniently located about 100 miles away from our small town. You know, just a quick four-hour round trip while also working and parenting. No big deal.
Then came the real gut punch: the state scholarship that could actually help us access the services he needs is only available to private schooled or home educated students. Oh cool, cool, cool. No pressure. Just decide between educational support and, you know, things like a second income, health insurance, and the ability to pay for groceries. Casual.
That’s when the word homeschooling entered the chat. At first, it was a joke. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we just homeschooled? Haha. Ha… ha?” And then slowly, it stopped being a joke. The hypothetical started sounding… less hypothetical. The late-night conversations with myself got real. “How would this even work? Who needs a steady income anyway? Or sleep? Or sanity?”
I cycled between cautious optimism and sheer panic roughly 43 times a day. On one hand, the thought of pulling him out of a system that clearly wasn’t designed for kids like him felt like a breath of fresh air. No more behavior charts. No more calls from the school. No more trying to convince anyone that he’s not being “defiant”—he’s overwhelmed.
On the other hand… hello, terror. This isn’t just a change in schools. This is a total lifestyle change. A full family upheaval. It’s questioning everything about how we live, work, learn, and survive. Plus, it means becoming the one thing I swore I’d never be: his math teacher.
But even in the panic, there’s this little whisper in my gut I can’t ignore: “What if this is exactly what he needs?”
A place where he doesn’t have to mask. Where stimming isn’t shamed. Where he can take sensory breaks whenever he needs them. Where learning isn’t about fitting into a mold—it’s about making the mold fit him.
Of course, that whisper is immediately followed by another: “But what if you totally screw this up?” Thanks, anxiety. Super helpful as always.
So here we are standing on the edge of this massive decision. I wish I could say we have it all figured out, but spoiler: we don’t. Some days I feel like “Heck yeah, we can do this. We’ve got this.” Other days I wonder if I’ve completely lost my mind. Honestly, it’s probably both.
Either way I have to ask myself, are we doing the right thing?