Find a Quiet Place
These four words hold so much weight for families like mine.
For those doing their best to grasp at hard-to-reach comfort. For those holding up overstimulated nervous systems on the brink of collapse. When meltdowns hit full speed. When trying to slow your child’s panic attack triggers your own. When all engines are revved up—full throttle, out of control.
There is a sanctuary.
There is a place.
There is a quiet place.
It may look different for everyone. It may not even be found yet. For some, it’s an empty closet or a door that leads to a cool, dark basement. For others, it’s an object—a weighted blanket, a swing, a pop-up tent in the middle of the living room floor. It is a quiet place. One that fits—but does not fit all. It’s worth talking about.
Let’s be clear: the quiet place does not prevent a meltdown, nor does it de-escalate one in the moment. It’s about what happens after the storm, when the dust finally settles. Autism parents know this storm well—and we understand how crucial the aftercare is. When that first full, fresh breath of air finally comes, we know the power of a calm space. We understand why it’s needed.
We started taking short car rides with Jake after his meltdowns. He wanted to talk about what happened but couldn’t find the words. They were stuck inside. He wanted to breathe—but didn’t know how. He wanted to pull over, to collect himself in a way that felt genuine and safe. He needed somewhere to go.
It wasn’t long before we found our own special spot. A place with more trees than houses. A quiet winding road that led to a shady patch of stillness. Jake’s quiet place: Breezy Lake.
It wasn’t far—just a quick drive away. After big meltdowns, Jake began asking for “the quiet spot.” We learned—sometimes the hard way—to wait until he was calm enough to get into the car without screaming. Until we had all gathered ourselves.
We’d drive to Breezy Lake and pull over in the shade. I’d gently tell him, “We’ll sit for a few minutes before we talk.” After a while, I’d ask if he wanted to do his breaths. When he was ready, we’d close our eyes and breathe in for eight counts. Then out for eight: “Let it all go.”
Next, we’d wiggle our fingers and toes for eight.
Then shrug our shoulders up for eight, then slowly release: “Let it all go.”
Finally, we’d open our eyes, press our palms together, and bring them to our hearts: “Namaste.”
This was our breathing ritual. Our routine.
Some days, it was the best part of what kept us whole.
After our breaths, we’d talk. Or try to. Often, Jake wanted us to guess what had happened. When he couldn’t speak, we’d gently offer options:
“Was it this… or something else?”
He’d whisper, “Yes” or “Something else.”
And then a sigh of relief would escape. His face would soften. We’d talk about what he could do next time—what he could say. There was healing in letting it go. In naming it. In processing it together—in a quiet place.
There’s a reason for sensory rooms.
A reason for quiet corners.
A reason why behaviors can rise as high as the top floor.
There’s a reason for quiet places.
I drove past a school the other day. The kids were lined up after recess, ready to go inside. I noticed one boy zigzagging at the back of the playground. He was running like he was trying to escape. He wore big noise-canceling headphones—the same kind Jake once refused to wear. The ones that suggest sound is the problem. Maybe for some. But seeing them on him hit me hard.
A young teacher or assistant chased after him the best way she could.
For some reason, this moment dropped my stomach.
The empathy I felt for him hit me like a brick.
Did he have a quiet place?
A sensory room?
A calm space to breathe?
Did he have the words to tell them what he needed—or was the overwhelm too much?
We learn from others.
We understand more after the storms.
We find our quiet places.
We open the doors wide.
We love the most.
