Asking for support is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to learn.
Maybe it’s cultural, something about being an American woman comes with layers of conditioning. From an early age, we’re taught to be capable, to hold it all together, to succeed without complaint. To ask for help feels paralyzing, like a confession that you’re not strong enough or not good enough.
But then enter children who need incessant, 24/7 care. Parenting neurodivergent children, especially those with profound, non-speaking autism, is nothing like what we once imagined. It is CEO-level directive work for their education, their health, and their very livelihood. It is living in hypervigilance, pivoting constantly, carrying the weight of a future you cannot predict.
In that reality, the belief that you can do it all alone is not only false, it is unsustainable. Still, asking for help requires laying down your ego, unclenching your grip on all the trappings of being “successful” and “capable.” It means exposing the truth: you cannot physically or emotionally carry this alone.
And yet, help is the very thing that brings relief. More than that, it brings peace of mind and peace of heart.
The first step, though, that ignition energy it takes to make the call for support, can feel impossible. For caregivers, that extra ounce of energy is already rationed so tightly that expending it feels like one more mountain to climb. I know. I’ve been there. Twice.
What I’ve learned the hard way is this: a community of support changed my life. I would do it over again in a heartbeat. Every doctor, every clinician, every loving soul who stepped in to support my children has been an answer to the unspoken prayer I whispered when I was buried under rubble. And when you’re drowning and gasping and yet to the outside world you are just another mother hanging on, it can feel like the depths of your child’s needs are being erased through the world’s lens of “maternal success.”
I can still recall one of the very first meetings I had with Milly’s clinical director at her preschool for autism education. She remains in my life to this day, and we often laugh together about that “deer in headlights” look she sees on parents’ faces during those intake meetings. It’s such a heavy look, weighted with fear, grief, and exhaustion, yet also rippling with anticipation for what could be.
Because in that moment, the parent is no longer the only one with eyes on their child. That shift is complex. Relinquishing your child into the hands of others to be observed and evaluated can feel sterile, clinical, even harsh. At the same time, your intuition as a mother knows that the more hands, the more helpers, the more perspectives, the greater the chance your child has to flourish. Not to be fixed, but to become the fullest version of themselves.
I wish I could say that the “deer in headlights” look faded quickly for me, but it didn’t. What did change was my decision to show up with intention and with agency. I became the mother who was ready, willing, and able to allow those supports to help. That choice – to open the door to guidance and accept the team around us – was what transformed everything.
Sometimes asking for help begins as simply as writing down the questions you have about your child. Staying curious about what support might look like is a powerful first step. It means allowing yourself to wonder, to ask, to open the door to specialists, doctors, and clinicians who can share their perspective and walk alongside you in deciding what’s best for your child.
So often, we are afraid to ask those questions. We fear the truth, or we worry it will be too heavy to carry. We have been conditioned to believe that not knowing is weakness, that admitting uncertainty makes us less capable. But the truth is this: as mothers, we already know the most important thing. Loving our child for exactly who they are, while desiring the best possible future for them, is the foundation of everything.
What are the questions you hold quietly in your heart? Maybe it’s about a behavior you’ve noticed. Maybe it’s a small tic. Maybe it’s the paralyzing worry about why your child is hyper-fixated on one thing or why they are such an incredibly selective eater.
Every single one of those questions is good. Every one of them matters. Because there are no wrong questions when it comes to your child. The desire to understand them more deeply, to see them more clearly, and to honor their uniqueness is not only valid, it is beautiful.
When you think about asking for help, go back to the basics.
What was modeled for you as a child? How did you see and accept support in your own upbringing and young adulthood? How did the people around you demonstrate what it meant to receive help without shame?
Now ask yourself: what does the best support look like to you? Is it something where you pass off all agency, or is it the kind of support where you are incorporated into the planning, the accommodations, and the care itself?
This is what Avela Health provides: “Compassionate autism care to manage behaviors and support your family. Virtual autism therapy built on connection, care, and expert guidance.” I get chills when I read that, as it’s the lifesaver you don’t want to take but desperately need.
For parents of autistic children, receiving a diagnosis is often the first step into an overwhelming new reality. But with Avela Health, that step also comes with a team of specialists who are there for you, who can be on call, who will walk beside you. The relief in that moment cannot be overstated. Suddenly, there are more eyes, more minds, and more hearts focused on your child’s growth. It is no longer just you, carrying the weight of their needs alone.
Support like this allows you to lead your child into becoming the fullest version of themselves, not in isolation, but in partnership with those who understand what it takes.
Asking for help is not weakness, it is survival.
