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.