The Patty project

As mums of autistic children, we cry.

Maybe more than other mums — maybe not — but we definitely cry.

Sometimes we cry in public, and when that happens it’s usually because we’ve held it together for as long as we possibly could. The tears come when there’s nowhere left to store them.

Sometimes we cry when we’re alone — quiet tears of worry, concern, exhaustion and frustration. The kind nobody sees.

And sometimes we cry with our children — because they need to know we are human too. That feelings are real. That crying is okay.

Today my mum called me.

She is the grandmother to my children and she remembers my autism journey very clearly. Now she’s a great-grandmother to my daughter’s four children, and because she’s a good person — and a healthy, active senior — she still helps out when she can.

Yesterday was her day with the grands.

It was a tough day.

In that house there is Level 3 autism — minimal speech and a child who prefers to be naked most of the time. There’s ADHD. There’s ODD. And there are a few things still undiagnosed.

That household is a bundle of energy — eclectic, individual, unique… and sometimes very tough.

During our phone conversation, Mum needed a moment to gather herself. I could hear it in her voice — she was crying.

She said to me,
“I remember how hard you had it with your child’s autism. I watched you do it tough for so long, and my fear always was… who will look after him if Patty isn’t around?”

That was always our hope for my autistic child — that he would be okay. That life wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. That he would cope. That he would find his place in the world and live well and independently.

And today, he does.

We spoke about his successes — working, driving, being in a committed and healthy relationship, and living a very independent life (yet still living at home).

Mum cried more tears, but I could tell by her breathing that these ones were happy tears… until they weren’t.

We started talking about autism — the levels, the realities, the things people who don’t live this life often don’t understand. We spoke about how much work went into those outcomes — the appointments, the therapies, the advocacy, the exhaustion, the persistence, and the years of not knowing how things would turn out.

And then I told her that my granddaughter has been assessed as Level 3 autism.

Mum started crying again.

I told her, “We have hope.”

Therapies are starting.

Early intervention is the best way forward.

And this is where we come in — to support my daughter so that she can support her children through their neuro-spicy journeys.

Autism runs through generations in different ways.

But so does strength.
So does love.
And so does hope.

It’s okay to cry.