I’ve blamed a lot of my aches and pains lately on being 49½, raising two kids with autism (one profoundly affected), and spending 24 years teaching preschoolers with autism. It felt like a reasonable explanation—of course I’m tired, of course I hurt.

But it turns out… I shouldn’t have been walking around in constant pain.

Thanks to one of my paraprofessionals (also known as my “work mom”) and my personal trainer—who both insisted (read: lovingly nagged) that I see a doctor—I finally got some answers. And now, I have a diagnosis… and a not-so-fashionable accessory to go with it, just like Alyssa.

The truth is, I genuinely thought constant pain was normal. One of my biggest faults is always putting others first. My kids come first. My students come first. My husband, my friends… sometimes even complete strangers. I rarely put myself first. My go-to excuse? “When would I even have time to see a doctor?”

At the start of 2026, I made a goal to focus more on me—my health, my well-being, my needs. It’s still very much a work in progress, but this felt like a step in the right direction.

The good news? My prognosis isn’t bad. Nothing a month in a boot can’t (hopefully) fix.

Here’s to slowing down, listening to our bodies, and remembering that taking care of ourselves matters too.

Happy summer.

Ten years ago this summer, we officially learned that Courtney had autism.

Wow… 10 years.

There were so many unknowns back then. Here we are a decade later, with some of those questions answered, while many others still remain.

Ten years ago, I knew Courtney had autism, but I didn’t know how severe it would be. Today, the severity of her autism still saddens me at times. The unknown has changed. Back then it was, “What will autism mean for her future?” Now it’s, “When will it become too much for me to handle?” It’s a question that quietly lingers in the background on the hardest days.

Ten years ago, we walked into a preschool, received a diagnosis, and hoped our school district would be the place that would educate and support her for years to come. Little did we know that ten years later we would be finishing a legal battle with that same district, and Courtney would be attending a therapeutic school that better meets her needs.

Ten years ago, Joe didn’t want to believe his little girl had special needs. Ten years later, he became her fiercest advocate and the loudest voice in the room, fighting to make sure she received the services and education she deserved.

Our ten-year journey has been filled with laughter, joy, and countless moments worth celebrating. It has also been filled with tears, frustration, bruises, and scars; both visible and invisible.

Autism has challenged us in ways I never could have imagined. It has stretched us, humbled us, exhausted us, and taught us lessons we never expected to learn.

But through it all, one thing has never changed: Courtney is a girl we love with all our hearts. Every challenge, every victory, every setback, and every milestone has only deepened that love.

Ten years ago, we didn’t know what the future would hold.

Truthfully, we still don’t.

But for ten years, we’ve shown up. We’ve learned, fought, adapted, celebrated, cried, and kept moving forward.

And we’ll keep doing exactly that for as long as Courtney needs us.

There was a knock on the door.
Surprise… Courtney’s beautiful new pink adaptive stroller had arrived early.

Wait… but why is there more than one?

Maybe we have to make sure it’s the right fit.

“Courtney, sit in it.”

We start pushing through quicksand to get to the stairs. But with each step, we sink a little deeper. Every time I try to ask for help, the help somehow adds more weight. The stairs seem so close, yet impossibly far away. Still, I keep pushing. Keep sinking. Keep trying.

Then… I wake up.

Phew. Just a dream.

Or maybe a nightmare.

Or maybe… a metaphor for life right now.

The new stroller? Yes, we really are waiting for a new adaptive stroller. Cross your fingers insurance doesn’t decide to play games and approves it quickly.

The multiple strollers? Maybe that part came from the fact that Alyssa currently has a fractured knee, and honestly, a second stroller might actually help me survive some outings right now. Who knows… LOL.

The condo? We don’t even live in a condo. But I’m pretty sure the stairs represented the end of the school year.

I won’t get into everything publicly, but this has been an incredibly hard year at work. Lately, it feels like we are crawling toward the finish line, and the quicksand metaphor fits perfectly.

And school isn’t the only place where I feel like I’m walking through quicksand.

I feel it at home too.

If you know me personally, you know the past six months have been incredibly hard with the loss of my mom. Learning to live without your mom is a “new normal” you never truly get used to.

Then April hit.

In one week, our afternoon nanny and Courtney’s in-home therapist both suddenly quit. In short, they both said they couldn’t handle Alyssa’s “attitude.”

To each their own.

Thankfully, our morning nanny stepped in and took over the afternoon hours. We will forever be grateful for her.

Being without a therapist for Courtney has been hard. It’s becoming more and more obvious that there are times during the day when we almost need two adults in the house — one person keeping constant eyes on Courtney, and another able to give Alyssa the attention she wants and deserves.

Yes, Alyssa is entering her pre-teen years. She’s independent in many ways, and honestly, she’s learning independence faster because of her sister’s needs. But sometimes she still just wants someone to hang out with. Someone to sit with her. Listen to her. Be present with her.

And sometimes… she really needs that.

Meanwhile, Courtney has developed some new behaviors that are wearing me down. She is intensely tactile-seeking right now. Her fingers are determined to explore every possible texture imaginable — soap, sand, Play-Doh, putty, slime, picking apart objects… EVERYTHING.

And slowly but surely, it feels like it’s destroying our house.

AAAAHHHHH.

Wait… maybe that’s the quicksand metaphor.

Maybe in my dream I was trying to walk through one of Courtney’s sensory concoctions.

And yes… for the record… this was an actual dream I recently had.

So, as we crawl toward the finish line over these next few weeks, if you see me, try not to add more weight.

Throw a life preserver instead.

April is Autism Awareness Acceptance Month, and while awareness has come a long way, there’s still a huge gap in understanding, especially when it comes to those who are considered “high-functioning.”

Back in 2024, Alyssa was diagnosed with autism. She is what many would call “high-functioning,” and on the surface, that might seem like a good thing. People assume it means her autism is mild. Manageable. Easier.

But the truth is, in my opinion, “high-functioning” can be one of the most misleading labels out there. What people don’t see is how much of her struggle is hidden, internalized, and often masked.

Alyssa doesn’t usually “look” like she has autism. She can communicate, she can learn, and in most moments, she can blend in. But that’s exactly why so much gets missed. Her challenges aren’t always obvious…they show up in ways that are easy to misunderstand.

They look like defiance.
They look like attitude.
They look like a child who just “won’t listen.”

But that’s not what’s really happening.

When Alyssa refuses to do something, it’s often not about being oppositional—it’s because something feels overwhelming, confusing, or completely out of her control. When she reacts strongly, it’s not because she’s trying to be difficult, it’s because her nervous system is overloaded.

Autism, especially in kids like Alyssa, is a hidden disability.

As Courtney has gotten older, it’s hard to miss that she has a severe disability. She may be in a special needs stroller, her diaper may be visible, or she may make sounds that stand out. Her needs are seen.

For Alyssa and others like her, there’s no cast, no visible marker, nothing that signals to the outside world, this is hard for her. And because of that, expectations are often higher, patience is often lower, and support is sometimes withheld.

People see what she can do and assume she should be able to do it all the time.

But autism doesn’t work like that.

Skills can be inconsistent. One moment she may seem completely capable, and the next, something small can completely derail her. Transitions, social misunderstandings, sensory overload—these aren’t minor inconveniences for her.

As most people know, Courtney wears headphones 24/7. What many may not realize is that Alyssa’s sensitivity to noise is actually even greater.

These are real barriers. And when those barriers aren’t recognized, her behavior gets labeled instead of understood.

That’s one of the hardest parts.

Because behind every meltdown, every shutdown, every moment that looks like noncompliance, there’s a reason. There’s a need. There’s a child trying to navigate a world that doesn’t always make sense to her.

Awareness isn’t just about recognizing autism when it’s obvious. It’s about understanding it when it’s not. It’s about looking beyond behavior and asking, what’s underneath this?

And most importantly, it’s about giving kids like Alyssa the same compassion and support we would offer any other child who is struggling, even if we can’t immediately see why.

Autism doesn’t always look the way people expect. But that doesn’t make it any less real.

And it definitely doesn’t make it any less hard.

Sometimes, the kids who look “fine” are the ones working the hardest just to hold it together.

I don’t feel like I can get anything accomplished in my house. “To-do” lists go untouched because I need to keep a pretty constant eye on Courtney.

Back in the day, if you took your eye off her for more than a minute or two, you’d find her climbing a railing to dangerous heights. Then there was the “poop” phase—I won’t go into details on that one…it was AWFUL.

Even now, at 12 years old, if I leave her unattended for more than five minutes, you might find her playing with soap, getting into Alyssa’s room and destroying a squishy ball, digging into a basement closet and playing with styrofoam, or adding ingredients to putty that definitely shouldn’t be added. Oh…and the non-edible things that she has eaten over the years!

I (or Joe or Alyssa) literally have to check on her every five minutet…and even that isn’t enough. You’ll hear this question often in our house: “When was the last time Courtney was checked on?”

Remember those toddler years? I feel like we are stuck there for life.

So why start a project when I have to pause every five minutes to check on Courtney, and still worry about what I’ll find since the last time I looked?

I’ve said for years that I need to get cameras for the rooms she spends the most time in, just so I can cook dinner without constantly worrying about what she’s getting into. Years have passed, and I still didn’t have cameras…until today.

I have the first one hooked up, and wow, I can already tell this is going to be a game changer. Though I may need to find a way to replace the insane number of steps I used to get from going up and down the stairs all day…hmmm.

Some people might ask, “Isn’t that an invasion of her privacy? She’s a pre-teen, doesn’t she want privacy?”

I wish I could give her more than five minutes of privacy. Rugs in our house have been destroyed because we left her alone for just a minute.

For us, this is just one more way to make our home work a little better. A little more peace of mind, a little more ability to get through the day, and maybe even finish a task from start to end. And honestly, that feels like a pretty big win right now.

You know that getting into everything phase?
Where silence is suspicious.
Where every room scan turns into a risk assessment.
Where you can’t sit down, not because you don’t want to, but because someone is actively opening, dumping, or dismantling something.

People say, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“This phase will pass.”

For Courtney, it hasn’t.

She’s twelve, but she still gets into everything. And not in a cute, curious way, this is relentless, zero-fear exploration that requires constant supervision.

Drawers. Cabinets. Bags. Toiletries.
Food that isn’t food.
If it exists, she’ll find it.
If it’s closed, she’ll open it.
If it’s hidden, she’ll locate it.

Toddler-proofing?
I call it Courtney-proofing.

There’s no “I’ll just run to the bathroom.”
No “She’s old enough, she’ll be fine.”
Because the moment I look away, something is happening.

Sometimes it’s harmless chaos.
Sometimes it’s the kind of moment that makes your heart drop and your adrenaline spike.

People see a twelve year old and assume independence.
What they don’t see is the constant mental checklist.
The vigilance.
The exhaustion of never turning your awareness off.

And yet, this is so deeply Courtney.
Her curiosity.
Her determination.
Her need to experience the world hands on, fully, now.

She’s not being difficult.
She’s being Courtney.

And my job, as hard as it is, is to keep her safe while she explores a world that was never designed for her kind of curiosity.

“Get out, Erin. It will do you good.”
“Take time for yourself.”
“Treat yourself.”

They’re right. It does feel good to get out and enjoy time without kids.

But then I get home…

Within minutes, not only do I feel like I didn’t actually get a break, I’m somehow more stressed than before I left.

Putty in hair.
Stains in the rug.
Dishes in the sink.
Toys not put away.

I don’t blame the sitters. They truly do the best they can.
I don’t even blame the girls.

Keeping up with Courtney is not for the weak. Add Alyssa’s sometimes demanding personality and behaviors into the mix, and trust me, what the sitters deal with while I’m gone is exactly what I deal with when I’m home.

So why do I feel so defeated when I get back after finally taking time for myself?

(The picture is of the chunk of hair I had to cut out of Courtney’s hair due to yet another putty disaster.)

On November 13th, my family’s lives were shattered.
My mom—mother of ten, grandma of many, teacher of even more—passed away. As I’ve tried to navigate this grief, I found myself struggling with how to write about her. It wasn’t until I was scrolling through pictures, especially the ones of her with Courtney, that it hit me…the world lost the Autism Whisperer.

My fascination and love for the autism community started long before my girls were born. My mom was the one who introduced me to the beauty of Autism. While I was in college studying to become a teacher, she was teaching preschoolers with special needs, many of them on the spectrum. Whenever I was home on breaks, I spent as much time as I could helping in her classroom.

I’ve told this story before, but it remains one of the defining moments of my career:
I went on a field trip with her class, and one of her students with significant needs sat on my lap while waiting for his turn. That was it. I was hooked. Something inside me lit up, and from that moment, I wanted to learn everything I could about autism. And I had the best teacher right in front of me—my mom.

Watching her work was incredible. She loved every student who walked through her door with her whole heart. They felt that love too; you could see it in the way she calmed them, how she held them, how she made them feel safe. She had a gift—one I didn’t fully understand until much later.

Years passed, and then my own beautiful blue-eyed daughter began slipping into her own world. With the help of two important people in my life, I was able to accept that my daughter had autism. One of the people who struggled most with that diagnosis was the Autism Whisperer herself, my mom.

To her, Courtney was perfect. And she was. But once the diagnosis became official, my mom let go of the denial and stepped into a new role: Courtney’s biggest cheerleader and her number-one teacher.

My mom was incredible with all of her grandchildren, but with Courtney, you could see her special-education magic come alive again. When I look back at photos now, I can see it so clearly, the look in my mom’s eyes. The look of someone who truly understood, accepted, and adored the autistic world. The look of an Autism Whisperer.

As her health declined over the years, it broke her heart that she couldn’t help me with Courtney the way she once had. I can still hear her voice:
“Oh, Erin… I wish I could help you more.”
And every time, I reassured her that loving my girls was everything I could ever ask of her. And it was.

A few days after she passed, I took the BCBA exam. Something I had worked so hard for, something she was so proud of me for chasing. When I found out I passed, it broke my heart that I couldn’t call her up to tell her. But in that testing room, and in that moment of passing, I felt her with me. I know she was there, cheering me on the way she always did. It was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life.

These last few weeks have been harder than I ever imagined possible. People say there’s nothing like losing a parent, but until it happens to you, there is simply no way to understand the depth of that pain.

On November 13th, I lost my mom.
My friend.
My girls’ grandma.
My mentor.
And we all lost our Autism Whisperer.

Summer break is coming to an end.
As we wrap up the remaining days, I’ve been reflecting on our recent vacations.

For many families, vacation means letting go of routines, trying new foods, and embracing spontaneity.
For us, vacation means creating predictability out of chaos, finding peace in unfamiliar places, and accepting that joy may look different—and that’s okay.

We take the same two trips every year: Mackinac Island, MI, and the Cranston family beach house in Connecticut.

Mackinac Island

Mackinac Island is as whimsical as it gets—no cars, horse-drawn carriages, and fudge shops on every corner. It sounds like a dream.
But when you’re traveling with a child like Courtney—who has severe autism, is minimally verbal, not potty trained, and experiences intense sensory needs—you don’t step into that dream. You create your own version of it.

We go into this trip every year expecting the worst but hoping for the best. Some challenges are predictable: eating dinner separately, with one of us staying in the room with Courtney while the other parent eats; missing activities we’d hoped to enjoy as a family; or watching Alyssa take a carriage ride with Joe while I stayed behind with Courtney, knowing she couldn’t handle that particular outing.

Those moments sting quietly. They remind us that even on vacation, we can’t step away from the caregiving, the advocacy, the constant mental load.

And yet—there’s still magic. Especially when princesses and superheroes are involved.

Courtney lit up when she saw them, asking for each by name—something she doesn’t often do. She hugged Elsa without hesitation. The princesses came to her gently, offering their hands, crouching low, meeting her exactly where she was—no pressure, just presence. Those outstretched hands felt like everything we try to give her every single day: an invitation to join the world without needing to change who she is.

We didn’t do everything on Mackinac Island. We didn’t need to.
We did what worked for both Courtney and Alyssa, and in the process, we made memories that matter.

The Connecticut Beach House

As we do every year, we ended our summer at the Cranston family beach house in Connecticut—a place that feels like a second home. No strangers. No big crowds. Just space to be ourselves.

At the start of the week, Courtney loved playing in the wet sand at low tide. She spent hours digging, feeling the textures, letting the waves wash over her feet. She was calm. She was joyful. She was in heaven.

And then—like so many things with autism—it changed.

After a few days, she no longer wanted to go to the beach. We tried other outings, like family dinners out, but she grew frustrated quickly, wanting to return to the comfort of the cottage—only to then be frustrated there because of the lack of cell service for her greatest coping tool: YouTube.

So, we adjusted. Just like in Mackinac, we split up at times. Joe and Alyssa would go to dinner with his parents while Courtney and I stayed back. It’s not what most people picture when they think “family vacation,” but it’s what works for us.

We found joy in the smaller moments—watching Alyssa meet Courtney where she was, without expectations. Courtney even began asking Alyssa for hugs and tickles, using her voice and gestures to seek connection. Those moments kept our hearts full, even on the harder days.

So what does does vacation look like for us?

Vacationing with a child with severe autism means redefining what “fun” and “relaxing” look like.
It means letting go of the fantasy and embracing our version of reality—messy, beautiful, unpredictable, and real.

(Back a few months ago while we were in the thick of the due process with our local school district, I wrote out my feelings in a letter to the district. Though I had full intention to post it, I kept waiting because I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. As the neighborhood schools finish off the school year and friends post about their 5th graders moving on to Jr. High, my emotions have resurfaced and I have decided what would help is finally posting this. So here it is…)

I remember when I married my husband, who is a graduate from the district, told me how our future kids will be lucky to grow up in one of the best districts in Illinois. So, when my oldest was diagnosed with autism, I sighed with relief because she lives in this district and she will get the education she needs to meet her potential.

District, I remember oh so vividly at the end of her first year of preschool her team shared with us that the district was moving to an all inclusive preschool environment and they would be blending her. I shared how I was certain she wasn’t ready for such an environment but you assured me, this will be the best thing for her. 

District, my husband and I shared our concerns with you as she went into kindergarten to a school that was having the instructional classroom for the first time with a new teacher. A school with so much experience with children with similar needs was 7 minutes away from our house, but there wasn’t room for her. So to a brand new program she went. It’s ok though, she was going to be a part of this other school and their community for 6 years and, again, you assured us, it will be just fine.

District, what do you think would have happened if a regular 2nd grade classroom had 2 different teachers in one year and then the next year 3 different teachers? Yes, that’s right, they would have shown up as a huge group at a board meeting ready to fight and they would have gotten their way. Not a little special needs classroom though that was continuously getting the short end of the stick.

To the two district administrators that promised the transitions were done for a few years. You promised us that Courtney’s needs were finally going to be of utmost importance. As I said before, shame on us for believing that you could keep such a promise. But, District, shame on you for not finding a way to give this one little girl some consistency just for once.

District, you said 4th and 5th grade will go just fine at this new school. There was no need for us to worry because Courtney doesn’t struggle with transitions. Though, again, a newer team, it’s a strong team and all will be fine!

Here we are, District, nothing has been fine. Nothing has gone well. In fact, I’m pretty sure just the opposite. That little girl that was going to be just fine in a blended room in preschool is now too severe to even be educated by your own professionals. Too severe to be included in her home district. Too severe for one of the best districts in the state of Illinois to meet her needs. Too severe to finish off elementary school with all the other 5th graders in the district.

Maybe I’m an angry parent going through that dreaded grieving process. If that’s the case, I have the right to be that parent. And yes, I’ve gone through the stages. I’ve blamed myself over and over and over again. I’ve cried. Boy have I cried. I’ve cried that maybe I should have fought harder for her. But here’s the thing…I have been fighting every step of the way for what I, as her parent, feel is best for her. The one thing she has not gotten in return is her free and appropriate public education that EVERY child has the right to from the district that should be able to provide it.

District, you failed her and you should be ashamed of yourselves. I don’t blame the teachers. I truly believe they tried their best. I blame the district administrators. I blame those who make the big decisions. I blame you, District. 

And to Courtney…you are a ray of sunshine. You are as true as they come. And no matter how hard of a day, you always find a way to make me smile.