There’s a moment in almost every special needs parent’s journey where something shifts.
You’re going along doing the best you can — juggling school meetings, therapies, meltdowns, schedules, appointments, and whatever curveballs life throws in the mix — and then suddenly, it hits you:
“No one is coming to save us. It’s just… us.”
I don’t say that in a hopeless way.
I say it because it’s honest. And for me, this realization didn’t come all at once — it came in pieces… little cracks in the foundation that showed me just how much weight our family was really carrying.
But there was one moment where everything settled into place, in the most heartbreaking and strangely empowering way.
Let me take you there.
The Day Everything Hit Me at Once
I was sitting in my car in a school parking lot — a place where I’ve cried more times than I care to admit — and I had just finished another meeting where I had to advocate harder than any parent should ever have to.
I remember gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely emotionally wrung out.
My son was in the backseat, softly humming to himself, and our service dog was curled beside him, doing what he always does — grounding him, protecting him, loving him in ways I still can’t put into words.
And in that moment, I thought:
“It shouldn’t be this hard to get the support we need.”
But it was.
And it is.
At the same time, my husband was going through one of the more challenging phases of his mental health journey. Living with bipolar disorder and schizophrenic tendencies comes with layers most people never see — confusion, exhaustion, emotional weight, unpredictable days. I was trying to hold space for him while also holding space for our son… and somewhere in there, trying to hold space for myself.
That day, everything collided.
The school struggles.
The therapy schedule.
The emotional load of caregiving for two people I love.
The weight of knowing the world doesn’t bend easily for families like ours.
And without meaning to, I whispered out loud:
“We’re really on our own, aren’t we?”
Not Alone… But Not Supported Either
Here’s the strange thing:
Even though I felt “on our own,” it didn’t mean we were isolated in a dark corner of the world.
It meant something more nuanced — something so many families will understand:
We weren’t alone in love, but we were alone in support.
We had each other.
We had resilience.
We had that fierce family bond that grows when you’re tested again and again.
But we didn’t have a roadmap.
We didn’t have a “call this number, and everything gets taken care of” list.
We didn’t have a village dropping by with casseroles and offering childcare.
We had us.
And that’s both beautiful and extremely heavy. But knowing we can create our own support system made me feel more confident in our resilience.
The Strength That Comes From Realizing the Truth
Oddly enough, admitting that we were on our own made me feel… stronger. It shifted my perspective from helplessness to empowerment, showing me I could face anything.
Because once I accepted that the system wouldn’t magically provide everything my son and husband needed, I stopped waiting for perfect solutions.
I started building my own.
I learned who to call.
I learned where the hidden resources were.
I learned how to advocate more clearly and confidently.
I learned what my son needed before anyone else did.
I learned what my husband needed during his hardest days.
I learned how to build community piece by piece — reaching out to one person, joining one support group, making one tiny connection at a time — and each step made us stronger.
And slowly, painfully, beautifully… we weren’t “alone” anymore.
We had created our own village.
Why I’m Sharing This
I’m sharing this because I know someone reading this is sitting in their car right now, feeling like they’re carrying the world on their shoulders.
Maybe it’s you.
Maybe you’re staring at therapy paperwork, or making another phone call that goes to voicemail, or trying to comfort a child in mid-meltdown, or worrying about your spouse, or wondering how you’re going to make it through another day.
And maybe you’re whispering the same thing I once whispered:
“We’re on our own.”
If that’s where you are, please hear me when I say this:
You are not failing.
You are not weak.
You are not meant to do this perfectly.
You are doing the impossible every single day — and that is strength. Your efforts are truly remarkable and deserving of pride.
We may feel alone, but we are part of a much bigger community of parents quietly doing the same thing. And piece by piece, we’re rebuilding the system by sharing our stories, supporting each other, and refusing to let our families get lost in the cracks.You’re not alone, friend.
You have us now.
And together, we’ll keep finding the light.
