How Autism Broke My Blueprint and Built Something New

No one is ever prepared for a life with an autistic person in the family. I sure as hell wasn’t.

I vividly remember the early days when Jayden was in playschool. Back then, we were like any other parents. We thought we had time. We thought life would follow a script: school, friends, birthday parties, milestones—the whole typical journey.

Then one day, Jayden’s teacher gently pulled us aside. She said she’d noticed something was… different. She recommended we take Jayden for an observation.

I remember thinking—Maybe he’s just a little slow. No biggie. He’ll catch up. Boys develop later sometimes. Right?

But when the initial assessment came back, it said three letters we’d never even heard before: SPD.

Sensory Processing Disorder.

And just like that, we were thrown into a world we never knew existed.

I went into research mode. Google became both my lifeline and my tormentor. What the hell is SPD? Is it curable? Can he outgrow it? Does this mean autism? Does this mean… life as we knew it was about to change forever?

Because here’s the raw truth: Sisca and I were ignorant. We lacked awareness of autism and the worlds that orbit around it. Like many parents, we thought stuff like this happened to other people. Not us. Not our son.

But something did change forever.

As time went on, we started seeing more signs. We couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on with Jayden than just sensory issues. We sought a second opinion. And then a third.

Eventually, after more assessments, more observations, and countless hours in clinics, we were handed a new acronym: ASD.

Autism Spectrum Disorder.

There it was. In black and white. No more “maybe.” No more hoping he’d simply outgrow this phase.

And in that moment, our world shifted again.

The Grief No One Prepares You For

There’s a kind of grief that comes when you realize your child might not follow the life you imagined for them.

It’s not the same as losing someone. Your child is right there, breathing, alive, beautiful. But you lose the version of the future you thought you’d have. And that grief is sneaky. It slides into moments you least expect.

Like when you see other kids Jayden’s age chatting away, laughing in groups, making friends effortlessly. And you wonder if Jayden will ever speak your name.

Or when people post milestones online—first words, first bike rides, first spoken words during dinner —and you’re sitting there celebrating that Jayden finally tolerated a new texture in his meal without gagging.

Or when you’re filling out yet another urghhh form for yet another specialist, and the question “Does your child communicate verbally?” feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

Nobody talks about how grief and love can coexist.

I love Jayden more fiercely than I ever knew I could love anyone. But sometimes, I grieve the life I thought we’d have. And then I feel guilty as hell for even admitting that.

Because the world loves to put autism parents on a pedestal. We’re “special parents chosen for special kids.” We’re “warriors.” We’re “heroes.”

Let me tell you—sometimes I don’t feel like a hero. Sometimes I feel like a man standing in the rubble of a life plan that got blown apart, trying to figure out how to build something new.

Jayden, Just As He Is

But let me tell you who Jayden really is.

He doesn’t spin wheels for hours like the textbooks describe. He stims sometimes—small hand movements, moments of stillness, or the way his eyes trace patterns invisible to the rest of us. He loves animals and alphabets. He’s drawn to colors in his own quiet way.

He has his “trusted pal”—not exactly a toy, more like a comfort object he carries everywhere. It calms him when the world feels too loud. And yet, that object can change in the blink of an eye. One week it’s a particular plush animal. Another week it might be a piece of string, a plastic ring, or a battered book.

That’s Jayden. Constant in his unpredictability.

And even in the hardest moments, he’s extraordinary.

Finding the Bright Side

Look, I’m not going to sit here and tell you it’s easy. It’s not. This life can be brutal. It can be relentless.

But Sisca and I have learned to work with what we have. We hold on to routines because they keep our world from going completely bonkers. We carve out small pockets of normalcy wherever we can—a nice dinner away from home, massages to relax, anything that gives us even a brief moment to breathe and remember that we’re still a couple, not just caregivers.

Sisca still manages her self-care in between Jayden’s therapy sessions and routines. Admittedly, it’s not easy. But she finds moments—her quiet coffees, a quick workout, a conversation with a friend—to remind herself she’s still her own person, not just Jayden’s mother and caregiver.

And sometimes, Jayden surprises us. A look. A smile. A calm moment in a place we thought would trigger chaos. Those tiny wins are gold. They keep us going.

The life we have now isn’t the one I imagined—but it’s real, and it’s ours.

I still grieve sometimes. That grief doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. Some days, it’s a dull ache. Other days, it crashes over me like a wave. But then Jayden flashes that quiet smile, and for a moment, I remember why we keep fighting.

This is autism raw.

This is our Unscripted Journey.