I often say that a lack of verbal communication does not mean a lack of intelligence—especially when it comes to children with autism.
Today, Ella Grace reminded me of that truth in a way I did not enjoy.
Not even a little.
She attempted to problem-solve something simple. Something rooted in personal hygiene. Something I had encouraged her to do independently. What she created instead was a situation so catastrophic it felt like I had been deployed into a battle I did not sign up for.
And listen… I survived it.
Barely.
I came out the other side changed.
A veteran.
A former prisoner of war—of love.
Afterward, I gave her a bath. She fell asleep like nothing happened. Took a peaceful nap. The kind of rest that tells you someone in this situation is unbothered.
Later, as I retold the story to her daddy—still visibly shaken—this child woke up, looked directly at me, and laughed in my face.
Laughed.
The audacity.
The confidence.
The absolute clarity that she knew exactly what she had done.
And here’s the part that humbles me every single time: even in my lingering shock—borderline PTSD—I was still in awe of her.
Because what looked like chaos to me was problem-solving to her.
What felt like failure was her reaching for independence.
What exhausted me was her mind working overtime.
Was it a success?
No.
Was it progress?
Yes.
Motherhood—especially neurodivergent motherhood—will have you feeling like you survived a war and still need to cook dinner afterward. It will leave you with stories that sound exaggerated until you realize they are simply lived experience. Stories about brilliance that doesn’t arrive politely. Stories about intelligence that doesn’t announce itself neatly or verbally.
Today, I celebrate Ella Grace—not because it went well, but because she tried.
And I celebrate myself too—because I handled it, resolved it, and lived to tell the tale. She laughed.
Mommy healed.
And tomorrow… we try again.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
