My heart was heavy and I couldn’t seem to shake the overwhelming sadness that had enveloped me since my last post on Monday. I didn’t even know where to begin to explain the weight that I felt pressing on me. It felt like everything was crashing around me.

When we first were given E’s diagnosis, I was in such shock that my immediate reaction was denial. It was a defense mechanism; I was very pregnant with D at the time and it was my mind’s only way to cope. For months, I convinced myself that even if E was on the spectrum, she was probably only mildly autistic and intense speech therapy could most likely solve the issue.

Once D was born and we all emerged from the newborn fog, I took a good look at E and realized that speech therapy alone wasn’t going to cut it for her. She needed more intense behavior therapy and coming to that realization made my heart feel like it could crumble all over again. I feel like it was at that point that my mind put up yet another defense mechanism – the idea that, okay, even if E was going to require lots of help and support she would eventually learn to adapt and progress enough that her symptoms wouldn’t hinder her quality of life too much. That hope was what has kept me going for the past year and a half.

Lately, though, in light of watching her at our church’s VBS program and just observing the other autistic children who are in her early intervention preschool class, I started feeling like that hope might not actually become reality. It was thinking about those dashed hopes that made my entire body – heart, mind, soul – feel like it might break. I didn’t know what to do.

E’s behaviors are starting to seem more uncontrolled than they were in the past. Lately, her favorite thing to do has been either running from us in parking lots or covering her ears whenever we try to tell her something. Yes, part of that might just be normal 4-year-old behavior, but maybe part of it is more than that. She’s never been much of a trouble maker; her autism was only difficult in that we couldn’t communicate with her effectively. But now, she’s yelling in public, running around, throwing things, and just in general behaving very oddly.

Today, she ran away from me in the parking lot again, yanking her tiny hand out of my grasp with such force that I was taken off guard. I couldn’t handle it; her running, my concerns for her, her inability to understand why I wouldn’t want her to run off … it was all too much. I gripped her wrist, got down on her level, and growled, “HOLD. MOMMY’S. HAND.” She immediately started crying.

I don’t know why I’m sharing that little gem of a parenting story with you other than to maybe exhibit how burnt out we all were are. She’s been behaving all sorts of strange, I felt like I didn’t know how to handle her behaviors anymore, and we’ve both been crying all week. To think that things may never improve from here is a dark prospect. It put a cloud over my eyes; I couldn’t see or think straight. It seemed as though all I knew was despair.

A little bit before dinner time today, I was given the opportunity to get out for a bit of solo down-time. I really needed some me time after the week I had and was grateful to get out and just worry about myself. I’ve heard it said that retail therapy can work wonders for a depressed mood. Several hours later I was on my way home with two shopping bags next to me but I still felt down. I couldn’t shake the funk I was in.

But stepping into my home, being greeted by the sights and sounds of my two babies getting ready for their bath … I finally felt my spirits lift. How could I look at their laughing faces and naked butts as they streak down the hallway and not feel immensely grateful for them? God knows what He’s doing, doesn’t He? There’s nothing about E that isn’t exactly the way that God intends her to be. I don’t know what the future holds, and it’s still heartbreaking to think about my little girl never learning to make friends or communicate with us but …. it’s okay. It can be okay, even if it doesn’t look like the kind of “okay” that I envision for E. She’s here with us, she’s physically healthy, and she’s loved; I can’t not be thankful for the blessing that she is when I reflect on all the things we’ve learned since having her. God is using this for His glory; He’s writing His story and ours through these trials and moments of sadness. We’re going to be okay. For the first time all week, I finally feel okay.