The Month of May

The month of May.

Graduations. Proms. Senior pictures. College plans.

This month is hard in so many ways.

First, there’s Mother’s Day. Our Mother’s Days often look and feel different. Different journeys. Different worries. Different realities. While many moms are celebrating milestones, I think many of us are also quietly carrying grief that nobody sees.

Then there’s graduation season.

At work and in everyday conversations, coworkers and acquaintances are busy planning prom, shopping for dresses, touring colleges, deciding on dorms, talking about majors and futures.

And here I am…

Worried about trusts.

Wills.

Benefits.

Guardianship.

Possible group homes.

Planning for a future that looks nothing like the one people assume.

My son doesn’t fit neatly into programs.

He never really has.

We recently got denied from a young adult program for autism because he doesn’t have that diagnosis.

And I sat there thinking:

Okay… but then where does he fit?

What box do I check?

What category do I place him in?

Because his diagnosis is a very rare syndrome—one that comes with complex medical needs, cognitive challenges, and a whole lot of things that don’t fit neatly into a drop-down menu.

Rare feels lonely sometimes.

Because people understand what they know.

And they often don’t understand what they’ve never seen.

I’ve become very good at zoning out conversations this time of year.

I nod.

I smile.

I say all the polite things.

But sometimes, if I’m honest, I’m numb inside.

And then there are the family questions.

“What college is he going to?”

Sometimes I wonder if they’re trying to be kind.

Trying to include him.

Trying to make conversation.

Or trying me.

I honestly don’t know.

And maybe that sounds harsh, but if you’ve lived this life long enough, you understand.

Because after years of explaining, educating, advocating, and preparing people…you get tired.

The month of May feels emotional because it shines a spotlight on all the roads our families aren’t traveling.

The expected paths.

The traditional milestones.

The plans we once imagined.

And while I’m feeling all of this, there’s another truth too.

I am grateful.

I’m grateful my son had a wonderful school experience.

Grateful for the teachers and people who saw him.

Grateful for the friendships.

Grateful for every accomplishment that may not look traditional but mattered deeply.

And now we’re standing in the space of:

What now?

What comes next?

Honestly, I don’t know.

That part is scary.

But if this journey with Randy has taught me anything, it’s this:

The most beautiful things in our lives have rarely come from the plans we expected.

They came from detours.

From chosen family.

From unexpected people.

From doors we didn’t even know existed.

So maybe the next chapter won’t look like college acceptance letters and dorm shopping.

Maybe it will look different.

Maybe it will look uniquely his.

And maybe that doesn’t make it less meaningful.

Maybe it just means we are writing a different story.

And different does not mean less.

So if May feels heavy for you too, if you’re smiling through conversations while carrying a thousand invisible worries, know this:

You are not the only parent wondering, What now?

We may not have all the answers.

But we’re still here.

Still showing up.

Still loving fiercely.

Still writing the story.

And that counts too.

— Elsie