I want you to know that you do not need permission to be a mess. But I am going to give it to you. Be a mess. Fall apart. Let yourself feel vulnerable. It may be hard, but do it anyways.

I know it is hard to let go. To admit that you do not have it all together. To look your life head on and feel afraid and alone. I know that you question yourself. I know you question everything. I know that you are tired from trying to wrap yourself around everything. I know that you wonder if you are enough.

You are enough. And I know that because I am enough too.

I give you permission to let your emotions get the best of you from time to time. To fall apart when the lack of control makes you feel weak. To mess up. To say and do the wrong things sometimes. To stop being everything for everyone. To start being only what you need. Not all of the time, but enough of the time to help you heal the pieces inside of you that feel broken and lost.

I see you. I know your pain and your anger and your fear. I know you hate the journey, and not the life. I know you feel guilty sometimes. I know that you would choose differently if the choice was yours. I know how it makes you feel to think that. To feel that.

I know you feel like you need to suck it up. To be braver than you know how to be. To look forward with hope and wonder. To stand against the fear and the pain weighing you down.

Do not suck it up. Do not push your feelings aside. Do not try to outrun them. Because you cannot. And you never will.

Feel everything. Feel it in all of the places inside of you. Feel the joy and the wonder. But feel the pain and the fear too. Let yourself live inside of all of the emotions. They are an important part of this journey. And an important part of you.

Because you are brave. You are walking a journey that many could not walk. You are doing it every day. And you rarely complain. Not really. Not the way you want to. You are brave and strong and you are nailing it. Even when you do not know that you are.

You are enough. Today. Tomorrow. And in all the days are ahead.

Breath. Love yourself. And remember that you do not need permission to fall apart. Fall. Fall fast and often. If you do not fall, then you cannot rise. And I think we learn the most about ourselves from the way that we rise.

Sometimes I am sad. I feel anger and fear. Sometimes I am lonely. Numb and hopeless. Sometimes I fall.

And after the fall, when I am all done feeling the things I needed to feel, I rise. I look forward, but not too far. I breath. I love myself. And I go. Another day on this journey that has no end.

Three years ago my son received an autism spectrum disorder diagnosis. He was two years and ten months old at the time. I still remember every single detail of the day.

I remember lying restless in the guest room of our dear friends awake hours before the alarm. I remember that I lost my cell phone and we were nearly late for the appointment. I remember that my son thought we were embarking on a magical adventure. I remember the people we spoke to and the rooms we sat in. I remember the fear and worry and exhaustion. I remember a lot of things about that day. But there is always one detail that pops into my memory first. The memory of my beautiful boy with his big smile and a bright yellow balloon.

The journey to an autism diagnosis is not for the faint of heart. I am by no means faint of heart. I consider myself to be a pretty strong person. I have a good sense of who I am. I have known pain and loss in my life. But nothing could have prepared me for our journey. A journey filled with questions and waiting lists. More pre-screenings and evaluations than I can count. Hearing tests and speech assessments. Pediatricians, specialists, behavioralists, occupational therapists, speech pathologist, and psychologists. And this was all pre-diagnosis. For ten months our life was a journey to diagnosis. And endless quest for answers.

We were consumed with milestones and early indicators. The word “typical” quickly became a bad word in our house. Against my better instincts I googled everything that popped into my head. Once I even googled “does my son have autism?” As if google was a magic 8 ball able to answer the questions burning inside of me.

And as we walked into the testing facility three years ago my heart beat out of my chest. I lost myself in all of the possible outcomes. I looked at my two year old boy, still my baby really, and I saw the man he would become. I could not stop myself but wonder all that would stand between now and then.

It was a long day. There were moments of joy as we watched him run around the hospital as if it were an amusement park. There were moments of fear as we tried to see him through the eyes of the evaluation team. After all, how could they possibly capture all there is to know about him in a seven or eight hours? There were moments of sadness and exhaustion and anger too. We felt it all.

And before we went into the final meeting he pulled us into a gift shop and motioned towards the balloons. We let him choose a balloon as a reward to our big brave boy. As tired as I felt, I could not imagine how he must be feeling. He looked at the bunch of balloons and pointed towards a bright yellow balloon. A smiley face balloon.

And as we walked into that conference room he trailed behind us,that smiley face balloon flying high. And as they said the words no parent can ever be prepared to hear, that smiley face balloon zipped and bobbed around the room with my son. And as I fought back ten months of pain and tears, that smiley face balloon stared back at me.

And just 3 feet below that joyful balloon stood a joyful boy. No different in that moment than any moment before. Wiggly, smiley, and filled with joy.

The course of our lives veered that day; as it does many days as parents. I often refer to the autism diagnosis as the map to the journey we were already on. And if you ask my husband, I am not great at reading maps. But I am learning. Each day I know a little more about our journey. Each day I know a little more about my son.

And there are certainly moments of hopelessness along the way, but there are moments of pure bliss too.

I think that smiley face balloon was an ironic reminder that life does not have to be perfect to be wonderful. But it does have to be wonderful.

People often ask what it is like to parent a child on the autism spectrum. And the truth is that this is a complicated question with an even more complicated answer.

It is both wonderful and awful.  It is both exciting and terrifying. It is both fulfilling and draining. It is the biggest and longest and hardest game of give and take that I have ever played. Except, this is not a game. This is my life.

In this life I have learned to juggle the feelings of being rooted in one spot and  completely detached and drifting at the same time. This is a feeling I know well. I call it “pivot”.

Pivot is my way of life. It is how I navigate the hurdles and obstacles that we encounter along our uncertain journey. Pivot is how we are able to celebrate the wonderful moments. Pivot also helps us to prepare for the hardships. Pivot is how I learn to be strong enough and wise enough and swift enough to be all of the things that I need to be. All of the things I want to be. Pivot helps me to be a mother; to parent a child with special needs. And pivot understands that this is not all that I am. Pivot is the way I manage to be a mother and a wife and a friend and an employee.

Pivot is about having one foot firmly planted in something; in anything really. Pivot is placing that foot down with strength and confidence. Pivot is knowing that the planted foot is rooted deep inside of the core of who I am. It is the piece that keeps me connected; despite the bumps and hurdles I will inevitably face. Pivot is fighting to keep that foot planted in every moment of every day. It is knowing what is at stake and fighting like hell to hold my ground. To stare fear and worry and uncertainty in the eye. To push that planted foot down deeper and deeper. To rise time and time again.

Pivot is allowing the other foot to roam free. To remain agile and ready to react. The other foot is not rooted in anything. It knows that from one moment to the next it can go quickly in a million different directions. The other foot has made a home in the unpredictable chaos that swirls all around it. It knows better than to get too comfortable in one spot. This foot is not about balance or stability or feeling centered; this foot is about survival.

You see that is what it means to pivot. You keep one foot firmly planted while the other foot moves about.  And, it is not always pretty. In fact, in some moments I am certain that I look completely ridiculous pivoting around my life. But my pivot is not about anyone else. I do not pivot to look good. I do not pivot to give the illusion that I have it all together. I do not pivot because I have run out of things to try. I pivot because pivoting is the only way I can be all the things I need to be.

And pivot is certainly a physical metaphor. There are moments when I physically need to hold my ground and brace for impact. But there is an emotional aspect of pivot too.  I pivot on the inside, maybe even more than I pivot on the outside. Emotionally, it is important to root inside of the things that are real. Love, relationships, strength, courage. I find the real things inside of me and root myself to them. My internal pivot is all about being mentally tough enough to overcome something that is hard. So much harder than I ever thought it could be.

My love for my son is my proverbial “planted foot”. I am rooted in my love for him. He is the center of this world along the spectrum; and we all pivot around him. I keep him in my focus as I struggle to hold my ground. I let myself feel overcome by love and hope and fear and wonder. I keep my gaze pointed directly at my son. I channel my focus to him; I connect myself to him and my love for him becomes the core of my pivot. And with each day I root myself more deeply into my connection to him. And each day that connection makes me strong enough to keep going.

And in my emotional pivot my other foot flies free. It follows high and low and in and out and fast and slow. It is as unpredictable as the journey it travels. And in so many  moments I am thankful for both feet. The one that steadies me; and the other that readies me.

I pivot every day. One foot firmly rooted in the things around me that are real. The things that make me who I am. They keep me centered and focused. They keep me present and alert. I keep the other foot loose. Ever ready to spring into action. Acutely aware that every moment can change on a dime.

I learned how to pivot to survive something that I did not feel strong enough to face. And now every day I pivot all around my life. Rooted. Focused. Present. Agile. I pivot, and you can too. Root yourself in something real. Stand your ground. Do not back down. And not matter what life throws your way; pivot.

JS