Yesterday we found out that the aide Sienna has had for the past two years will not be returning as her PCA. I can’t get into the why. All I can say is it was dramatic, and we found out in a way that probably would have broken me wide open three years ago. I would have been sad, defeated, and felt that it was unfair. I would have looked to the skies and said, “Why us? Why again? Why can’t anything be easy?”
But yesterday, I skipped that part and went straight to rage. I ruminated in that rage for a good part of the afternoon. I shed a few tears, mostly out of fear for Sienna. I talked to the friends and family who lift and support me. Then I made the calls and went into planning and problem-solving mode.
Third grade is going to bring new challenges, new teachers, and hopefully a new aide. I confirmed that she has been assigned someone new, but I am not super hopeful. This version of me is more realistic. We don’t pay PCAs nearly enough for the responsibility they carry. On paper, Sienna needs CPR supervision for choking and some self-care support. In reality, her aide was a unicorn. She understood Sienna’s cues, knew when she needed a brain break or the elevator, kept her included with her classmates, and gave me peace every single day.
This nonverbal thing is getting more challenging. I had some tough moments watching Sienna navigate social situations this summer. The gap between Sienna and her peers is now a canyon, but she always surprises me with her strength. When her feelings grow too big, you might not even notice. She turns inward—stoic, withdrawn—finding a safe place where her hands tell a story in her mind I wish I could access. She stims for peace, her way of working through big emotions and pushing forward. Sometimes it comes from stress, other times from joy—a favorite song, a moment of delight. And sometimes it’s her shutting out the noise of language so the solitude doesn’t consume her. It’s beautiful but also devastating to watch, knowing my child is now aware that she can’t always keep up—that she doesn’t quite fit in. Every part of me wants to shield her from that pain.
It’s the hardest part of motherhood: watching your children suffer, yet knowing mistakes and hardship build character. That’s dignity in risk.
The unfair part of this journey used to send me spiraling. Now I know: bitterness doesn’t serve us. Sure, life has hardened me. I’ve been ruminating in the bitter for a while now. The truth is we have been victims of so many circumstances that were unfair and unjust. Some things were due to our own mistakes, while others were because of deception. What I’ve learned over the last couple years is that those emotions are useless. Screaming into the void might help for a moment, but what helps more is problem-solving, action, and a solid circle of support.
Which is why I stepped into action mode swiftly yesterday. I talked to teachers and administrators at her school who reassured me in a way that gave me strength to accept the circumstances we are in. I began to explain the nuance of gestalt language processing. I heard myself rambling and wondered if the technical details were being heard. The truth is, it’s so complicated that I’m taking a class that could take months to complete—learning how to support her and give her the tools to set her voice free. Then this person said to me, “If I can do one thing this year, it will be to give her the tools to speak. I see how smart she is, and I see her being underestimated.” I exhaled through tears, grateful that others believe in her too—people who want to give her the confidence and tools to be seen the way all humans are worthy of being heard and understood.
I anticipate this upcoming school year being another tough one in this motherhood journey. I’ve had to let go of Haley more, to step back and let her find her own way. I wasn’t prepared for how hard that would be. Seventh grade was a traumatic year for me, and I’ve dreaded her reaching it. Haley’s big heart takes on everything. Her emotional intelligence often stuns me, but because she feels so deeply and analyzes in ways most adults don’t, she carries too much. I catch myself explaining circumstances, reminding her it isn’t her fault, while fighting my own instinct to protect both my girls. That self-control doesn’t come naturally; it’s something I’m still learning to draw out of myself.
My mantra this year will be to remind myself that sometimes hardship and pain build character. A younger version of me once said, “It’s the storms in our lives that make us better people.” I need to listen to that mom—the optimistic one who thought she could change the world.
You can teach your kids everything, but at the end of the day, they have to go through it on their own. They have to navigate this world and become independent.
Last night I thought about the grunts and eye rolls Sienna gives her PCA when she wants independence—when she wants the chance to fail, to fly, to just be like the other kids. And I told myself: maybe this transition will be good for her. Maybe it will push her to grow and help her find her voice. My role is to equip her team, hold space for her pain, and then let go—trusting that risk, failure, and even heartbreak are the very things that will shape both my girls into the best versions of themselves.
Leave a Reply