We moved states, changed schools, and crossed our fingers that this “big change” would actually help.
And then—boom. Eli made more progress in one semester than he had in years.
But don’t get too excited… the next chapter wasn’t nearly as smooth. 👀
If I could go back, I’d give that version of me a big ole hug and tell her that this no diagnosis will define Eli as a person, but they will define who you become as a mom. Stronger. More resilient. More determined. You’ll learn to question, to push, to fight, to advocate.
Every diagnosis will feel like another storm, but each one will build something more in you too – a thicker skin and a courage that you didn’t know you were capable of.
We thought we’d found the perfect formula – the perfect combination of spectacles, medications, IEP goals, tutoring, and therapy sessions.
For a minute, it worked beautifully, but this new routine was sitting atop a wobbly foundation. A patch at best.
A patch that would inevitably rupture.
I will never, never forget Eli’s first day of kindergarten. We had always struggled at school drop-off with Eli. Like – big time. He would start crying the moment we pulled into the parking lot. After we moved back home from Chicago, we started to fall into a pretty good groove. The tears were still…
The week before an IEP meeting, my brain runs through every detail, my chest churns with anxiety, and I rehearse what I’ll say a hundred different ways. By the time the meeting starts, I’m already bone-tired — and yet, I know I have to show up fully for my child. Here’s what really happens behind every IEP.
