An invisible struggle: a mother’s heart in a judging world

My son is nine, with bright eyes and a smile that could melt glaciers. He loves trains, puzzles and the way sunlight dances on water. He also lives with autism spectrum disorder. To the world, he appears to be ‘normal’ — a term I have come to resent. His invisible disability means that when we step out of our safe, quiet home, we enter a minefield of misunderstanding, judgement and stares.

On good days, we manage grocery runs or park visits with only minor hiccups, like a dropped fidget toy or a sudden need to run in circles. However, on tough days, when his sensory world overwhelms him, dysregulation takes over. It’s not a tantrum; it’s a storm in his nervous system. He screams, a piercing cry that echoes through stores. He hits, punches or flops to the ground, his body seeking something, anything, to anchor him. I kneel beside him, whispering, redirecting, shielding him from the world’s gaze, but the weight of strangers’ eyes is crushing.

They don’t see autism. They see a ‘badly behaved’ boy and a mother who ‘can’t control’ him. ‘What a terrible boy,’ they mutter. ‘She needs to discipline him properly,’ they say, loud enough for me to hear. Once, a woman scoffed, “Shocking behaviour,” as my son wailed in a checkout line, his hands flapping, overwhelmed by fluorescent lights and beeping scanners. I wanted to scream, “He’s not terrible! He’s trying so hard!” Instead, I bit my lip, tears stinging and focused on getting him to the car.

I dread leaving the house. Every outing feels like preparing for battle. Will the lights be too bright? Will a stranger’s perfume set him off? Will I have the strength to ignore the comments? I’ve tried explaining, “He has autism; he’s struggling,” but too often, I receive blank stares or dismissive nods. Some days, I feel like hiding under a rock, shielding us both from a world that doesn’t understand.

Yet, I can’t hide. My son deserves to live, to explore and to be part of this world. So, I pack his sensory toolkit, brace myself and step out. I’m learning to let the stares slide, focusing on his needs over their ignorance. I’ve found small victories: a cashier who smiled without judgement and a stranger who offered a kind word. These moments are rare but precious, reminding me that compassion exists.

To those who judge, I wish you could see my son’s heart — his resilience, his unique way of seeing the world. I wish you knew how hard he fights to navigate a world not built for him. I urge you to pause before commenting because your words cut deeper than you know.

We’re not perfect; we’re human, navigating an invisible struggle. If you see us in the midst of a meltdown, offer a smile instead of a sneer. It might just give me the strength to keep going.

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