To The Mom Crying in the Car Line: I See You

I saw you today.

You were three cars back in the pick-up line. The engine was idling, and your giant sunglasses were on, even though it was cloudy. You were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles were white.

And then, for just a second, the mask slipped. You quickly wiped under your glasses with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, took a shaky breath, and stared straight ahead, willing yourself to pull it back together before the bell rang and your child climbed in.

I don’t know your name. I don’t know exactly what happened today. But if you are part of this community—the community of parents raising neurodiverse, differently wired, wonderfully complex kids—I know exactly what those tears were about.

The Weight of Invisible Baggage

Those tears weren’t about a bad day at work or a forgotten grocery item.

Those were the tears of an IEP meeting where you felt like you were speaking a different language than the administrators. They were the tears of exhaustion after a morning meltdown that left your own nervous system fried before 8:00 AM. They were the tears of seeing another parent judge your child for behavior they can’t control, and having to swallow your mama-bear rage for the hundredth time this month.

It is a profound, aching loneliness to raise a child in a world that constantly tells them—and you—that they need to be "fixed" to fit in. We know that this loneliness affects autistic individuals and their families deeply, often stemming from a lack of societal acceptance. The world isn't built for our kids, and the burden of constantly building bridges falls squarely on your shoulders.

It is heavy. It is relentless. And sometimes, the only place it can come out is in the sanctity of your own front seat at 2:55 PM.

A Digital Hug Across the Miles

So, this is for you. This is a digital hug reaching through the screen to the front seat of your minivan.

I want you to know that your "invisible" struggles are seen here. We see the advocacy emails sent at midnight. We see the patience it takes to navigate sensory overload in Target. We see the deep, fierce love that fuels you even when your tank is completely empty.

You are not failing because you are crying. You are crying because you are human, and you are doing a superhuman job.

Breathe, mama. Wipe your eyes. You are doing incredible work, even on the days when no one else sees it. We do.