During pregnancy, I spent 9 months anxiously awaiting Brantley's arrival. While stubbornness and a passion for riding four-wheelers seemed inevitable, I contemplated how else the mix of Joel and I would present. Would he adopt my outgoing nature or Joel's reserved demeanor? Would he have a love for baseball and tractors like I envisioned? Would he follow in his fathers footsteps or would he embark on some technology driven career? Regardless, my unborn child carried a multitude of hopes.
And then Autism walked in and said “Hold my beer”.
The moment I heard, a room full of doctors say they had enough documentation to diagnose Brantley with Autism Spectrum Disorder, I felt my dreams collapsing under the weight of a ton of bricks. It seemed as if the aspirations I held for my 13-month-old son were not merely being set aside but over.
Seven years have passed since those life-altering words reshaped my existence. Over time, I've developed acceptance—not only of his diagnosis but, more importantly, of him.
I am often told that I handle Brantley's diagnosis with such positivity, but I don't see it that way. I am not always positive about our situation. In fact, I believe that mourning the dreams you had for your child is an inherent part of the process. Even seven years later, the grief occasionally resurfaces for me.
Witnessing friends and family celebrate milestones like getting a driver's license, getting married or having children of their own hits me differently—not with jealousy, but with a tinge of sadness. It's a sorrow for Brantley, recognizing that he won't experience those typical rites of passage.
I won't deny that I also experience a sense of sorrow for myself at times. Parenting a child with developmental disabilities, like Autism, is challenging. As parents to children with disabilities, we invest so much and inevitably miss out on a lot.
This past summer, my Facebook feed was flooded with photos of children playing in baseball tournaments and I thought back to my initial hopes that we would be spending our summers at the ball park while Brantley forged friendships and a work ethic on the diamond. I started to wallow in what it would be like, if we didn’t have Autism in our lives, if Brantley was neurotypical.
My thoughts crumbled under the weight of that familiar ton of bricks, reminiscent of the ones that crushed my dreams seven years ago. It served as a stark reminder that Brantley is exactly who he's meant to be—funny, sweet, and stubborn. A little boy with a smile that can light up a room. The best riding buddy I could ever ask for. He's simply Brantley, the same one I dreamt about and loved for nine months before he was born. He is dearly loved, just as he was before. The only difference is my hopes are different, they are based on goals that meet him where he is not those of my dreams.
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