Why ABA Drop-Off and Pick-Up Still Break My Heart

If you had asked me two years ago, I would have expected that one day ABA drop-offs and pick-ups would become routine. I imagined that eventually I would get used to it. That it would simply become another part of our daily schedule.

But here we are, nearly two years later, and some days it still hurts just as much.

This morning was one of those days.

My son woke up having a wonderful morning. By the time we arrived at ABA, though, he was happy walking inside. Seeing him smile gave me a sense of relief. I drove away feeling hopeful that today might be a good day for him.

Then came pick-up.

His therapists told me he had struggled during the last hour and was very dysregulated.

Those words probably seem simple to most people, but to me, they carry so much weight.

What happened?

Was he frustrated?

Was he overwhelmed?

Was he scared?

Did he miss me?

The hardest part is that my son cannot tell me.

As parents of children with profound autism, we spend so much of our lives trying to piece together puzzles that have no obvious answers. We become detectives, watching every facial expression, every movement, and every behavior, hoping they will tell us what our child cannot.

Sometimes we never find the answer.

When my son got into the car, he was still agitated.

Instinctively, I offered him the thing that comforts him most: my hair.

I have long hair, and for my son, it has become his security blanket. He will sit beside me and gently run his fingers through it over and over again. It calms him. It is familiar. It is one of the ways he connects with me.

My hair is comfort.

My hair is safety.

My hair is home.

So when he is upset, I lean toward him and let him run his fingers through my hair, hoping it will help his body settle.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Today, it didn't.

And that is one of the hardest feelings to explain.

As a mother, every instinct inside me wants to stay with my child until he feels safe again.

I want to sit beside him.

Hold him.

Let him run his fingers through my hair for as long as he needs.

Help him regulate.

Just be his mom.

But instead, I had to drive him to daycare, kiss him goodbye, and turn around to go back to work.

I left with a heavy heart.

Wondering how the rest of his afternoon would go.

Wondering if he was okay.

Wondering if he needed me.

People often talk about how hard it is to receive an autism diagnosis.

They talk about the evaluations.

The therapies.

The appointments.

The sleepless nights.

What they don't talk about are these ordinary moments.

The daily goodbyes.

The parking lot tears.

The silent drive back to work after leaving your child on a difficult day.

The ache of knowing you cannot always be the one to comfort them.

Those moments quietly pile on top of one another until one day you realize you're carrying far more than anyone can see.

Lately, everything has felt a little heavier.

Maybe it's accumulated exhaustion.

Maybe it's caregiver burnout.

Maybe it's grief showing up again in a different way.

Or maybe it's simply because loving a child this deeply means your heart never stops feeling what theirs cannot say.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've caught myself wondering if I need a little extra help. Maybe it's time to call my doctor and talk about adjusting my antidepressant medication. I'm not sure yet. I'm going to give it another week and see how I'm feeling.

For a long time, I would have looked at that thought as a sign that I wasn't strong enough.

Now I see it differently.

Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is recognize when we're carrying more than we can carry alone.

I've spent years making sure my son has every support available to him.

Maybe it's okay for me to accept that I deserve support, too.

If you're another autism parent reading this, and you've ever cried in an ABA parking lot...

If you've ever driven away wondering what happened during therapy...

If you've ever wished your child could simply tell you what was wrong...

If you've ever had to leave them before your own heart was ready...

I hope you know you're not alone.

I see you.

I understand you.

And I hope you know something else.

The fact that these moments still hurt does not mean you are weak.

It does not mean you should be "used to it" by now.

It simply means you love your child just as fiercely today as you did on the very first day you walked through those ABA doors.

I don't believe a mother's heart is ever supposed to get used to that.

Because sometimes the bravest thing a parent does isn't letting go—it's showing up again tomorrow.

So, to every parent sitting in an ABA parking lot today, carrying emotions no one else can see...

I am sitting beside you in spirit.

We are going to keep showing up.

One day at a time.

Thank you for spending a few moments here with me.

Until next time...

Keep finding beauty, honesty, and hope—even on the hardest days.

With love,

The Honest Autism Mom

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