“Until All the Pieces Fit.” “Autism Is My Superpower.” “Different, Not Less.”
Before my son’s diagnosis, these all sounded like nothing more than cheesy quotes. They were the kind of lines you’d see on t-shirts, bumper stickers, or well-meaning Instagram posts — and to me, they felt hollow. Empty. Overused. Until, years after Julian's diagnosis, they finally meant something. Suddenly, they weren’t just feel-good sayings, they were pieces of my reality. They weren’t just words anymore, they were reflections of my journey, my growth, and my son’s incredible spirit.
Julian Mateo was born in 2019, weighing 6 pounds and 13 ounces. He’s my first and only child; my whole heart. From the moment I held him, I knew a love I’d never experienced before. Every milestone felt grand, everything he did was new and magical. I was so amazed by him. Being a first-time mom, I didn’t have a baseline for what was “typical”, and what might be a sign of something more.
It wasn’t until later that I began to notice something. He had a few words early on, but after his first birthday, the words faded. He stopped talking altogether. Like any Millennial mom, I turned straight to Google. “Why isn’t my toddler talking?” “Is it autism or a speech delay?”
“Could he be tongue-tied?”
There were so many possible explanations, each one leading me down a new rabbit hole of worry. When I brought it up to my mom, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. All of her kids had been early talkers. My in-laws reassured me, saying they didn’t see any “unusual” behaviors in Julian. That was the common theme: reassurance without real answers. But something inside me kept pushing for answers; a quiet, persistent voice saying: Keep looking. Keep asking.
Finally, I made an appointment with Julian’s pediatrician. This was the first of many times I would find myself advocating fiercely for my son’s well-being. I had to speak up, even when I felt unsure of myself.
I asked the doctor, “Should I be worried that Julian isn’t speaking at his age?” He gave a reassuring answer, saying it wasn’t something to be overly concerned about. He suggested we start with a speech therapist who could visit our home and work with Julian. I agreed to that without hesitation, but something inside me wasn’t satisfied.
I pressed further. “Do you think it could be autism?” I asked, not entirely sure of what I was hoping to hear but needing some sort of clarity. After a pause that felt longer than it probably was, he finally agreed. With a reluctant sigh, he wrote us a prescription for an autism evaluation with a child psychologist.
The more the doctor spoke, the more the weight of the diagnosis settled in — but it wasn’t the kind of weight I had imagined. It wasn’t a crushing, suffocating burden. Instead, it was like a shift in perspective. The pieces that had never quite fit before were suddenly clicking into place, and for the first time, I felt a sense of clarity. This was why Julian was the way he was. This was why I had always felt that something in his world worked differently than others.
But then came the parts I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.
The doctor spoke about the future; about how Julian would navigate school, friendships, and maybe even relationships as he got older. She spoke with confidence about what his teenage years might look like, what kind of struggles he could face, and what successes he might find. I wanted to believe her, but a part of me bristled. How could she possibly know? How could anyone know? She was talking about a future that felt so distant, so uncertain. My heart ached as I imagined what his life might be like years down the line. Was it really fair to put such a specific, almost clinical prediction on something so fluid?
As the doctor continued to outline the therapies and interventions Julian would need, I couldn’t help but wonder: what would Julian be like when he was older? What kind of man would he become? Could I ever let go of the picture I’d always had of him as “normal” and embrace whatever his version of normal would be? It was a tough pill to swallow, knowing that I could never truly predict the future, but that I had to trust in the process.
But there was something liberating about it, too. The weight of the unknown was still there, but it wasn’t the same kind of weight I had carried before. This time, I wasn’t alone. We had a plan. We had answers. And even though the future still seemed uncertain, there was a sense of peace in knowing we were doing everything we could for Julian — that we were actively shaping his path, no matter how unpredictable it might be.
While the path to Julian’s diagnosis was nothing short of tumultuous, I’m so glad I pushed for answers. He was diagnosed at 2 years and 7 months, and I truly believe early intervention is key. The earlier you get started, the better the chances for your child to grow and thrive. Still, the reality of it all hit hard.
Yes, we were handed a blueprint; a list of the “right things” to do for our autistic child: ABA therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, behavioral therapy. But the harsh truth is that the waitlists are endless. Getting access to the services Julian needed felt like a full-time job in itself. Searching for ABA providers, making sure they accept our insurance, navigating through waitlists that felt like they might never end... It was exhausting. And it wasn’t just ABA. There were waitlists for everything. Every service, every intervention — everything seemed to be backlogged.
And on top of all that, the world at large is still far from fully understanding Autism. It’s like you’re fighting not only for the right resources, but also for people to understand the unique needs of your child.
But the truth is, it is a lot of work. The systems are often slow, and the uncertainty can be overwhelming. I applied for the Family Support Waiver in February of 2022, and we didn’t get approved until March of 2025. It felt like an eternity. Even with the long wait, the waiver opened doors to so many resources that have made it all worthwhile.
Recently, we were able to secure a caretaker for Julian — someone who helps when I need a break or simply time for myself. I can’t tell you how much of a difference this has made. Raising a child on the spectrum can often feel isolating, like you're walking a journey that few people truly understand. But I’ve learned that it doesn’t have to be that way. There are people out there who do get it. There’s a community of parents, caregivers, and families who know the struggle, who share in the triumphs, and who lift you up when it feels like it’s all too much.
I’m sure you’ve heard it before: “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.” It’s a saying that sounds simple, but it’s incredibly true. Autism is not a one-size-fits-all experience. Every person on the spectrum is unique, and the journey: for both them and for those who love them is deeply individual.
Yes, it’s a lot of work. The waitlists, the searching for the right providers, the endless phone calls and paperwork. It can be overwhelming. But in the end, the reward is greater than the effort. Watching Julian grow, watching him find his voice in his own way, and knowing that he’s exactly who he’s meant to be — that is the reward. The world may not always be equipped to fully understand him, but that’s okay. I don’t need the world to understand him as long as we understand each other.
You will find your people, those who get it, those who walk this path beside you. And your autistic loved one — they will be exactly what they are meant to be in this life. The journey might not always be easy, but it will always be worth it.