Life turned us upside down in one day.
Not a slow unraveling — a sudden spin.
A forward drop from choices made, and the blind jabs thrown in the dark.
They held the muleta flag — waving red until the day of Jake’s disenrollment.
Their cape-work actions were all show, all misdirection.
A final performance behind conference room doors.
The sudden slam of the IEP meeting door.
Knocked to our feet.
Holding onto the walls.
Dizzy and shaken from the years of low blows.
The all too normal systematic stacks
against autism families.
The reason I write the words that I write.
You could say we saw it coming.
We had our fair share warning.
They saved us a warm seat meant for normalized whiplash reactions.
A warmed seat of those who came before us,
The parents, the supporters, the devoted caregivers.
A seat for families who face impossible decisions.
Families who turn their heads left, then to the right.
When choices fall short of worthy direction.
Families who are judged. Who lost battles center-stage in rigged rings.
Who gave it all to advocate for what was right.
Who bowed out in exhaustion, flushed from the heat.
Parents who came to realize that their top-of-lung reactions were nothing but words.
Only left with a sore and raspy voice.
The rigid systems always hold the full the advantage.
This is how they are designed.
Regardless of right or wrong.
Regardless of intuition.
It was better to walk away while we still could.
Walk away for safety. For their authenticity.
Walk away for them, for us, for me.
And still…the fight somehow remains.
Though it has turned and shifted.
Trapped in system stacks.
Back to the DDA waiting list. His right. His needs.
Our future shaken. The DDA eligibility.
New departments. New unanswered calls.
New meeting dates, Microsoft Teams.
Jake lost his autism waiver.
It was gone by the end of one single day.
He lost the help we waited eight years for.
All the hard work. All the hope.
Scattered fast. On the floor.
His right, his protection, his future, and his someday.
The school system dropped the ball…
or maybe we did too.
I couldn’t tell for sure.
The sharp “what now” screamed out.
A scream of disappointment and anger and too much on repeat.
For all the families who just know.
You are far from alone.
These words are not just my own.
As for strength?
We had thicker skin this time.
A devised plan.
Chin up. Full stand.
We had contacts and those who knew the terrain.
Stepped into deep water — we could almost tiptoe stand.
I waited again for the callbacks.
Mailed out blue stapled packets.
Met with the service coordinators.
I was already informally trained
how to say the right things,
how to stress what mattered most.
I researched. I reached out. I searched the most.
I checked every single box inside every rigid line.
Then came the silence.
The ball passed in our court.
No connection. No clarity.
An echo of more closed doors.
They asked about school.
About agoraphobia.
As if this wasn’t a disability.
As if they didn’t already hold the proof.
What now?
I felt heat rising in my throat.
A fire of frustration, of knowing too much.
Stuck in the spin.
The upside-down of it all.
For days, maybe weeks,
Until something finally shifted.
It knocked me to my feet…
It was Jake.
He was here.
We were here.
We were here all along.
We were laughing.
He lit up the room.
A soft Saturday glow.
Peeling back the chocolate on a donut he only eats on a weekend afternoon.
Talking Celtics and Knicks.
Making silly faces with phone filters.
Wrapped in too many pillows.
A clear blue Saturday.
Not a single cloud.
Everything moved slow.
And the comfort of home.
This was it.
The reason we let go.
The reason we stepped away from it all.
The small things that matter.
The power of now.
To the parents, the caretakers, and those who try the most…
Take the time, slow down.
Breathe…
Laugh when you can.
Gratitude is now.
You are far from alone.
We walk this path.
For love…
For them, for us, for you.
