The Weight of Little Moments

There are things we don’t often talk about when raising a child with special needs. Not the big milestones, the diagnoses, or the therapy sessions—those are the things people expect to hear. I’m talking about the little moments.

The moments that seem small, almost insignificant. Like tiny rocks dropped into a bucket. One rock doesn’t feel heavy. Even a handful doesn’t. But as the days go by, the bucket fills, and suddenly you realize just how much weight you’ve been carrying.

My son is eight years old. He has autism. He is tall for his age, nearly 110 pounds, in the third grade, and nonverbal. For the past six years, we’ve been working tirelessly to potty train him. Despite some small successes, the failures often outweigh the wins. Even with his assistive technology device, communication is hard. He’s learned to use gestures, to use his body, to tell us what he can’t with words.

Recently, he found a new way to say no. He lays himself flat on the ground. No yelling. No tears. Just his body, limp and unmovable—like a seal sliding away no matter how tightly you try to hold on. At home, this can be frustrating but manageable. But in public—at a restaurant, in the middle of the supermarket, or worse, crossing the street—it’s not only overwhelming, it’s terrifying.

One of my deepest fears as a mother has always been the moment my child “outgrows his cuteness.” That invisible line when the world stops seeing him as sweet, harmless, and worthy of patience, and instead begins to see him as a problem or a liability. I fight for him every single day, teaching him to live in a world that was never built for him. But as much as I fight, as much as I love him, I cannot protect him from everything.

This morning, during school drop-off, it happened again. He stepped out of the car and, between the car and the curb, laid down flat. Just like that. The line of cars grew behind us. Parents waited, impatient. Teachers moved quickly, trying to help. And there was my son—on the ground, unbothered by the chaos around him—while my chest tightened with panic.

I rushed out of the car. The teacher who knows him best bent down, trying to coax him up. He didn’t budge. And as I looked around, I caught the glances. Some people looked away quickly, embarrassed for me. Others let their annoyance show. I could feel it, thick in the air. And all I wanted to do was shout: I’m sorry. Please understand.

I wanted them to see that he wasn’t being bad. He wasn’t causing a scene on purpose. This—laying his body on the ground—is his voice. His only way to say no.

And in my heart, I was begging them: Please don’t give up on him. Please see the boy, not just the work it takes to love him. Please keep him safe, even though he’s not tiny and cute anymore. Please choose compassion over judgment.

Because my son is not a burden. He is not a problem to be solved. He is a human being, deserving of patience, kindness, and safety.

And at the end of the day, I can only hope the world loves him enough to help keep him safe when I no longer can.

Why I’m Sharing This

I share this story because so many families live with these invisible “little moments” that carry tremendous weight. If you’re a parent, caregiver, or loved one of someone with special needs, you may know this heaviness well—the panic in public, the exhaustion at home, the fear of how the world will treat your child as they grow.

You are not alone.

Therapy can provide a space to process these fears, grieve the hard days, celebrate the victories, and build strategies that support both you and your child. It’s not about fixing your child—it’s about giving yourself the tools, compassion, and support you need to keep carrying the bucket without breaking under its weight.

Let’s Work Together

At No Problem Too Small LLC, I provide trauma-informed, culturally responsive therapy for parents and caregivers who are navigating the unique challenges of raising children with special needs. Whether you’re struggling with stress, grief, anxiety, or just the isolation that comes with this journey, therapy can give you a place to breathe, heal, and feel supported.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love to talk. You don’t have to carry the weight of little moments alone.

Contact me today to schedule a session.

Caught in the Gray: How to Cope When the World Feels Too Heavy

The post–4th of July slump is real.

For many, the holiday brought fireworks, food, and family. But for others — especially those feeling the weight of the world — it felt hollow.

Now that the smoke has cleared and the red, white, and blue decorations are packed away, the air feels thick with something else: uncertainty. And for me, I’m torn.

I want to escape from everything happening in society — to unplug, to breathe.

At the same time, I find myself asking: What more can I do?

It’s a strange duality — that tension between action and overwhelm, between scrolling for signs of hope and disconnecting to protect your peace.

Struggling to Feel Connected

Lately, I’ve found myself walking a fine line. I want to talk to people — strangers, neighbors, even that chatty cashier at the grocery store. But there’s this unspoken rule: we don’t talk politics at work, at the dinner table, or in public spaces.

Still, as I watch the world unfold online — natural disasters, health crises, grief, loss, and struggle — I catch myself thinking something that makes me uncomfortable:

"Who did they vote for?"

I don’t want to think that. It feels unkind, judgmental. But in today’s climate, even compassion comes with hesitation.

When Compassion Gets Complicated

I’ve always led with compassion and grace. I believe people are inherently good. I believe kindness can cross any divide.

But lately, it’s harder to know who to trust.

It used to be that if we could agree on basic decency, we could be friends. We could work together, laugh together, fellowship together — even if our beliefs didn’t perfectly align.

Now?

The divide feels deeper than ever.

And it’s not just political — it’s spiritual, emotional, human.

People are celebrating policies that rip healthcare from families.

They’re cheering for disconnection and cruelty.

And in the comment sections of social media, debate has turned into war.

Drowning in the Noise

Every day, it feels like something new pushes against our limits:

A tragedy on the news

A political decision that hurts someone you love

A scroll through social media that turns into emotional quicksand

An ad that somehow heard your private conversation

It makes you want to unplug completely.

And yet — the guilt creeps in.

Guilt for not doing more.

Guilt for needing rest.

Guilt for looking away when so many people are still suffering.

Navigating the Gray Area

So how do we function in this world?

How do we stay kind, discerning, supportive — while protecting our mental and emotional wellbeing?

There are no easy answers.

It’s not black and white anymore.

Everything exists in the gray.

We’re all feeling this.

We’re all asking these hard questions.

And many of us are quietly wondering what comes next.

You’re Not Alone — And You Don’t Have to Navigate It Alone

If this post–holiday haze has left you feeling emotionally raw or uncertain, you're not broken — you're awake.

It's okay to feel overwhelmed.

It’s okay to be exhausted.

It’s okay to want both peace and action at the same time.

You don’t have to have all the answers.

But you can have support.

Let’s talk.

Let’s create a space where you can process these feelings, reconnect with your truth, and move forward — even if the world still feels off balance.

Reach out to schedule a session.

You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to need help. And you're allowed to heal.

When June Doesn't Feel Like a Celebration: A Reflection for Parents of Neurodivergent Children

June often brings an air of excitement—end-of-year ceremonies, graduation caps, honor roll assemblies, and proud social media posts showcasing glowing faces and arms full of awards. It’s a season when families gather to celebrate academic triumphs, milestones, and new beginnings.

But if you're like me—a parent of neurodivergent children or kids with disabilities—this season can stir up a different kind of emotion. One that’s tender, raw, and sometimes even heavy.

The Quiet Ache Behind the Smile

My children have never been the ones who bring home ribbons or trophies. Their names aren’t usually called out for awards or recognition. Sometimes, they’re simply listed among those being promoted to the next grade—and while others may see that as ordinary, I know the extraordinary effort it took to get there.

As a mother of a neurodivergent family, I’ve had to learn that showing up—just being there—is a victory in itself.

Still, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting. I’ve found myself closing out social media, trying to soothe the quiet ache of watching other parents beam with pride while wondering if my child’s hard-fought progress will ever be seen or celebrated in the same way.

And in that quiet, guilt creeps in.

The Guilt We Don’t Talk About

There’s a whisper that says: Did I do enough? Did I miss something? Is it my fault they’re struggling?

And yet, when I pause long enough to quiet that noise, I remember the truth:

They’re doing the best they can. And so am I.

We’re walking a path that’s not always visible to others. And while the world may measure success in certificates and applause, I’ve come to measure it in courage, resilience, and the small moments of connection that mean everything.

Transitions Are Tough—And That’s Okay

June doesn’t just mark the end of a school year—it marks a transition. And transitions are hard, especially for kids who already have to navigate a world that often wasn’t built with them in mind.

It can be exhausting. For them. And for us as parents.

If you’re reading this and you feel unseen, please know that you are not alone.

Community Matters. Support Matters. You Matter.

Being a parent to a child with mental health needs, learning differences, or other disabilities is not for the faint of heart. It requires strength, vulnerability, and the willingness to seek support.

At No Problem Too Small, we offer a space where your feelings are valid, your efforts are recognized, and your child’s story matters. We’re here to walk alongside you—whether you're struggling with transitions, guilt, fear, or simply trying to make sense of your role in this journey.

Let us support you in supporting them.

Because you shouldn’t have to do it all alone. And because every child deserves to be seen. Especially yours.

Looking for support?

Connect with us today to learn more about individual therapy, parenting support, and family guidance.

📞 Contact: 720-588-8451

🌐 Website: www.noproblemtoosmallcounseling.com

📍Serving clients via telehealth in Florida and Colorado

When the Tribe Fades: A Story of Friendship, Loss, and Healing

I sit here on my couch, looking out the window on a beautiful spring evening. The sun is setting, the breeze is gentle, and everything is still. It reminds me of evenings years ago—when I would be out with my friends, laughing over appetizers and cocktails, sharing our lives, our wins, and our worries. I had my tribe. My people. My circle of belonging.

Back then, we talked every day. We did life together—errands, dinners, deep talks, and spontaneous laughs. I felt purpose. I felt accepted.

Fast forward to today. The group chat is silent. The phone doesn’t buzz like it used to. And more often than not, I wind down my evenings alone with a book or a quiet show.

It wasn’t always this way. When I first moved to Florida, I longed for friendship and belonging. I missed my “Solid Rock” friends—people I’ve known since I was 14, who love me in all my forms, no matter the miles. I tried to recreate that circle here, but parenting and adulthood made it harder.

Eventually, I became a teacher. In the middle of burnout, we bonded—complaining, coping, and laughing through the chaos. I found connection again. I found my second tribe.

But when I left teaching to pursue my dream of becoming a licensed therapist, everything changed. Without our shared struggle, the connection crumbled. Cracks I hadn’t seen before became impossible to ignore.

Some friendships ended abruptly. Others just faded. And I was left wondering—what happened? Was it me? Was I too much? Too sensitive? Too different?

So I sought therapy. I journaled. I read. I dug deep. And slowly, with time, I healed.

Today, I still miss those bonds. But I’ve learned to embrace my own company. I read more. Walk more. Spend intentional time with my family. And I hold onto the lifelong friendships that are still thriving, even from a distance.

And maybe most importantly—I’ve made peace with the truth that not all friendships are meant to last forever. Some bonds are built on shared pain, and when the pain fades, so do the ties.

To anyone reading this, who feels like they’ve lost their circle, their people, their sense of belonging—please know:

You are not alone.

Life changes. Friendships shift. But healing is always available.

And there is always space to begin again.

Soraya W. Orr

LMHC State Florida
LPC. State Colorado,
M.S, M.S.E.d
IEP/Parent Educator