Panic to Perspective

There are two pretty significant stories I haven’t told yet. Mostly because they’re extremely vulnerable, multi-part series, and the thought of them living out here forever is… a lot.

One is the story of how I navigated my own neurodivergent pathway. That’s a multi-part series I’m terrified to write — and I’m not quite ready yet.

The other is the very last diagnosis that Eli received. For me, it was very heavy and overwhelming — even after receiving his autism and pathological demand avoidance diagnoses.

You’re probably thinking, what could be more vulnerable and heavy than what you’ve already shared?

Lemme tell ya — but first, the groundwork.

For kids like E to receive special support and resources in the classroom, we have to have a TON of documentation to show exactly what support he needs and the clinical substantiation for why he needs those supports and resources. In the state of TN, part of that means we need a current psycho-educational evaluation.

This is basically a deep dive into how your child’s brain works and how they learn — every three to four years.

It looks at two big things:

Psycho → how they think, process information, regulate emotions, focus, remember, and problem-solve.
Educational → how they read, write, do math, and perform academically.

It’s essentially someone mapping your child’s brain so you can see where the roads are smooth and straight — and where they might need some guardrails.

This usually looks like a psychologist spending time with your child completing structured tasks like puzzles, memory exercises, reading and math activities, and problem-solving challenges while carefully observing how they approach each one. They assess things like processing speed, working memory, attention, and reasoning skills, measure academic performance compared to age and grade expectations, gather input from parents and teachers, and review developmental and medical history. It’s not just about what your child gets right or wrong — it’s about understanding how their brain works and where support might be needed.

So every three years, I call to get on the waitlist of the highly sought-after pediatric psycho-ed psychologist in our area, and (usually) about six months later, we meet with him for Eli’s assessment.

E’s most recent evaluation was done as a rising fifth grader — the same year he would be transitioning from his tiny, safe, private dyslexia school bubble to the (in my mama bear brain) big, scary mainstream public school down the street.

I will never forget the call we had with Dr. Psychologist to go over the results that year.

As I had on several occasions before, I started scribbling down notes — words, phrases, key points I wanted to look into more later. I mentioned earlier that he is a very sought-after doctor in our area. He also works closely with the public schools and school psychologists here. So as he wrapped up, he asked me where E would be going for fifth grade.

He went on to explain this new diagnosis and what we could expect from the school psychologist. The next few minutes passed in a kind of blur as he spoke, and my brain and my pen were going ninety-to-nothing.

He said he knew the psychologist at Eli’s new school → Share the diagnoses. Borderline… what? Just make him comfortable. Huh? In elementary school? Like hospice? What?

The video call disconnected, and all I had left were my handwritten notes and the doctor’s 45-page PDF report. I knew the information I needed wasn’t in the report — it was too clinical. So to Google I went.

I can’t put into words the heat that suddenly filled my cheeks, the immediate overwhelm, and — if I’m honest — the sheer panic I felt when the search results popped up on my screen after I hit enter on the three words that were his new diagnosis -> Borderline Intellectual Functioning…

Otherwise known as Borderline Mental Retardation — until 2013.

Borderline Mental Retardation.

When I saw those words, I didn’t see a clinical range. I saw a label — a harsh, outdated label, I saw every cruel middle school hallway joke. Every insult thrown around carelessly. Every low expectation.

I didn’t see data.
I saw limitation.

And for what felt like an eternity — I spiraled. I feel like any mother would have. Maybe not. But I sure as hell spiraled BIG.

What does this mean for his future?
Will he live independently?
Did I miss something?
Is this my fault?

My brain was racing far ahead of reality.

So I did what I always do — I kept reading. I consumed everything I could get my hands on. And once I moved past the shock of the old terminology and into the actual clinical definition, I felt calm start to settle in.

Borderline Intellectual Functioning (BIF) is not an intellectual disability. It means a child’s overall cognitive ability falls just below the average range — typically with an IQ between about 70 and 85. That range sits between average intelligence and what would qualify as an intellectual disability.

It doesn’t mean incapable.
It doesn’t mean “can’t learn.”
It doesn’t mean a ceiling has been set.

It means learning may take more repetition, more support, more scaffolding. Abstract thinking can be harder. Processing speed may be slower. Academic skills may require more direct instruction and reinforcement.

It’s a description of how efficiently the brain processes information — not a measure of worth, potential, personality, creativity, or heart.

And importantly, it exists on a spectrum. Kids in this range can thrive — especially with early support, appropriate expectations, and environments that match how they learn.

Because I’ve known this child his whole life.

He is funny.
He is perceptive.
He is socially intuitive in ways data cannot measure.
He solves problems creatively.
He memorizes things that matter to him.

A number didn’t change that.
A term didn’t erase that.

What it did do was give us more information. And information — even when it stings — is power.

🪙 Nickel from the Jar:
Sometimes the scariest part of a diagnosis isn’t what it means — it’s what you think it means before you understand it.

Susan