Mornings in the fall are subtle reminders that how things begin isn’t always how it ends. As the sun rises the frost thins, the leaves fall gracefully in silence, making a nest of colors beneath, unwilling to decay. Motherhood is like spring. We envision flowers blooming as our womb expands like accordions ready to sing. We guess the lyrics of the song and dance in the illusion of all the unknowns. We live in the symphony and speed past the breaks.
That is the fallacy of dreams. Craving the touch of sun rays while leaping the sweat, wrinkles, and burns. We love to laugh but dislike laugh lines. We want the goodness without the mess. Being a mother to a diverse child is like Autumn. The third season that was thought of last. An ambivalence of slow mornings with unpredictable afternoons. We don’t call it fall because our children are not a decay.
They are the transition between the two seasons most people skip, think of last. Everyone focuses on the beginning or the end of the story. The rising and falling action are the building blocks, the resilience, the bones of the resolution. We just happen to live in these moments daily. We build, destroy, and rebuild thoughts, words, actions, and patience.
Some stories are meant to be left without a resolution. Some stories are meant to be
rediscovered daily. Some stories are meant to be heard with our eyes and not our ears. That is what being neurodiverse means. A field full of colors and holes, ideas that spark the globe, and a gaze that last a short while. Being a mother to a neurodiverse child is accepting that all stories are conversations that open in different ways and some never makes sense in a single dimension.
We build together a continuous puzzle with new pieces to the same masterpiece. We learn that sounds can be fearful, and silence can be comforting. We get back to simple because there is so much to cuddle within the crevices of small spaces. We let go of the labyrinth that normal has many meanings and neurodiverse has only one.
Our children are subtle reminders that fall is not poetic because of spring, instead autumn is a graceful harvest that must be seen with a warm heart and an unwavering open hand. The beauty is in the mystery, it’s infinite, it’s bright, it’s diverse and unapologetically divine.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider becoming a sustaining member to help us remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month and reflect your financial comfort.