According to my therapist, let’s call her Shira because I used to play with Heman and Shira figurines with my older brother and thought that Shira was a total boss. My therapist is a total boss. Shira explains radical acceptance as fully recognizing and embracing reality for what it is - no exceptions, no judgment, and no resistance. Leaning into what’s in front of us, not trying to change, alter, or better it. If we can accomplish this ridiculous task, our suffering will reduce, and our emotional state will improve. That felt ludicrous to me. There are always improvements to be made. There are always exceptions. Just ask my kids. Especially the 19-year-old who has been hibernating in our basement. Nowhere to go other than up, son! Up and then out.

Three weeks ago, he did just that. He up and moved out into his own apartment, 45 minutes from home. It’s supported, but independent housing for adults with disabilities, and it’s what he wanted. Needed. It’s what my husband and I wanted and needed, too. He wanted out of our vice grip of control, free to do as he pleased, when he pleased, no demands expected of him. We acknowledged that, in order to maintain a healthy relationship, he needed his own space, and so I spent months digging until I found it. Of course, I found it. I always find it. Needles in haystacks are my specialty.

It was a wacky couple of weeks getting him settled, and now that he’s fully living his life in this new town, I’m a mess. My son is living the life he was living in our basement, just in a new apartment. He’s burnt out (more on autistic burnout another day) out of eyeshot of his parents. Nothing has changed, other than his location. Of course, it hasn’t, but my eagerness to connect him to new places, opportunities, people, and communities of belonging has been revived. My energy to “help” him improve his quality of life is unending. And it’s unappreciated at best. He’s happily cocooned, surrounded by his favorite things and his online networks. He can eat what he wants, when he wants, all while standing up and playing on his phone. He doesn’t have to mask anything about himself for days at a time. He doesn’t have to look for my approval when people pop over and talk to him. He’s no longer required to make decisions about going on walks with us or attending Nana and Papa’s Sunday dinners. He’s not asked to take breaks from his virtual reality life in order to plug into the physical world. My world. He’s free. And I’m a mess.

I spent the first few days feeling light and grateful for the shift. I was home alone for the first time in months and didn’t have to anticipate any unpleasant interactions with him. Soon, however, those feelings shifted, and I started randomly sobbing, at odds with myself, at odds with him, more anxious than I’ve ever been, and incredibly confused about all of it. Cue the radical acceptance conversation with Shira. Funny thing, she’s not at all surprised that I’m a mess. She smiled when I told her, the nerve. In fact, she said something like, “Of course you’re a mess. This is grief showing up because you’re seeing the need for radical acceptance for where Rylan is, and you know that there’s no way around it. You have to live through this as you come to terms with what his reality is right now and what that means for you. His reality doesn’t match what you hoped for him or expected of him, and that’s not tidy. It’s a version of reality you need to grieve and let go of.” Damnit, Shira. You’re fired.

None of my parenting Rylan has ever felt tidy, but my inability to embrace exactly what my kid needs right now is crushing any relief or joy I might otherwise be experiencing through this shift. My son needed me to make a list of all the things he’s allowed to feel, do, not do, experience, not experience, talk about, not talk about, eat, ask for….he needs permission to show up the ways he’s showing up, no questions asked, and no expectation for more or different. He’s begging for radical acceptance, and I know that it’s mine to offer him.

I made that list. I wrote down all the things I normally would say, “Nope. He should…” No more shoulding on him. On myself. I cringed as I wrote those damn allowances down, but that’s on me. That’s my cringing, not his. Not the world’s. Certainly not the version of the world that will accept him and envelop him as he is. He’ll find that version of the world, and it won’t be because I’m paving his path in gold. He wants to pave his own path. My job now? Radical acceptance. I certainly haven’t magically found it, but often, the recognition of what’s needed is the first step.

Kristen and I have crafted what we call Top Ten Lists that highlight content covered in podcast episodes over the years. This one feels appropriate today. Click here to find the episode show notes on finding hilarity in the hard, which happens to be our very first episode. Enjoy, and please, try to draw out some laughter today. You deserve it.

Until next time,

Gwen

Before we launch into this entry, let’s tee up with an explanation of how things are going to work for posts like this one. I’m midstream in writing a book that will act as a field guide to parenting neurodivergent children, with extra emphasis on adoptive and foster parents. The book is structured as story-based personal essays followed by two self-reflection sections: “Take 5” offers key takeaways, and “Questions to Ponder” focuses on the adult reader’s relationship with themself, outside their parenting role. Let’s consider this a trial. Do you like it? Is it working for you? Do you want more of it? Tell me all the things, please and thank you.

In 2015, my husband and I spent the entirety of an hour-long session with our marriage therapist, Clinton (a genius who says “fuck,” reminds me to talk less, and my husband to talk more), recalling a parenting moment that left us divided. The moment in question focused on a weekday night, a week before Rylan started 3rd grade. I was a 5’10’‘ knot, the shape I found myself in the week before every school year. Because HELLO, his new teachers didn’t know him. They didn’t already adore him and find his inevitable quirks charming. Yet. There was always proactive work to be done during that pre-game stretch. That night, while I molded myself into a knot, my husband decided to go play racquetball with his buddies. We hadn’t prepared our yearly list of “Rylanisms” for his unsuspecting teacher. We hadn’t sent the obligatory email to schedule a pre-first-day-of-school visit to tour his classroom. We hadn’t purchased Velcro sneakers or rounded up his current go-to fidgets. We hadn’t prayed enough prayers for a smooth and friend-filled year. And he wanted to go slam balls against walls.

I might have used too many words to tell him how frustrated I was, to which he calmly responded, “What do you want me to do, babe? It seems like you’ve got this covered.” Of course I had it covered. I was always the one who had Rylan covered. That was my job. I was responsible for helping him grow into what was expected of him. So yes, he should go work out. I didn’t want him to sit with me and worry in circular patterns, or research, or summarize our son’s needs. He should definitely go hit all the balls.

My 6’4” husband stood at tired attention, a pose he had grown to know all too well. “I’m his dad, babe. I love him too, but I can’t change him.” After a snarky “Right,” from his beautiful bride, he left, defeated shoulders, racquet in hand. Following the tender closing of the garage door, silence blared through our kitchen. I added to the noise with my chippy, always maroon-pink fingernails, rapidly hitting the space bar key as I emailed his new teacher everything she needed to know about our son.

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

At that point in our journey, out of absolute necessity, I had walked away from my marketing career to advocate and “help” Rylan. To be his extraordinary superhero. My eyes were constantly glued to the computer screen in search of answers to questions I didn’t know to ask. I devoured every self-help book on the parenting shelf, researched every school in the state of Colorado, willing to drive hours every day if need be, and explored therapy after therapy after therapy. Decoding Rylan and making sure everyone around him understood his constantly evolving nuances was the goal the night my husband left to hit balls. I rose to the mothering call, falling to the demise of my well-being. Hear me roar.

That Sunday, we sat in the pews at the church we were attending. We’re no longer churchgoers, but more on that another day. Pastor Susie was talking about addiction that hot Colorado morning, and I began the process of tuning out. I had my own messes to sort through, but addiction wasn’t one of them. As my mind drifted to the ground beef we neglected to take out of the garage deep freeze and the pee-stained bathroom floors needing Clorox before dinner company arrived, she threw out the words, “addiction to being a parent.”

I placed my right elbow on the pew in front of me and leaned in. Addiction to motherhood was a thing? Being addicted to your kids is way better than being addicted to crack, though, right? Addiction to motherhood produces healthy, happy kids. Kids who know they’re loved and revered and who feel safe with their parents being in control. In control. Mmmmm…..I looked over at my handsome husband, who appeared unfazed by Susie’s verbal darts. Of course, he wasn’t. My husband wasn’t addicted to being a dad. He played racquetball.

Before this invisible face slap, I was absolutely positive I was following the charge to be my kids’ very best mother. What became immediately clear as my right elbow took the brunt of my weight that morning was that I was addicted to a role I was playing. Addiction to motherhood was suffocating my ability to be a natural mom to both our kids and to do anything but tread water. The treading was ugly, uncoordinated, and incredibly unproductive, but it was all I allowed myself to do. The treading forced our family to float, chins skimming the surface of the water.

Susie calmly stated, “We often have to die to motherhood to truly find ourselves and our spiritual center.” I swear the little lamb resting in the stained glass arms of Jesus behind Susie winked at me at the close of that statement. I was lost, not willing to stop long enough to recognize that Rylan was born beautiful and fully himself. I was exhausting myself, trying to make him “better” and a version of himself he wasn’t ready or meant to be. A version he would never desire to be. I was also missing out on the fullness of the gift of our Reagan. Her unique needs weren’t yet apparent, but that would come.

The divine, what I now correlate with God, had been there with Rylan - in his soul - since he was born, removed from his birth mother’s arms, and placed in mine three weeks later. The divine dwelt in him without my involvement. The divine whispered rockin’ lullabies to his newborn ears, promising security - true security - in the midst of turmoil and immediate trauma. As he was separated from the womb that held him so dear, my voice wasn’t there to calm him. I didn’t invite divinity into that little boy’s heart, but I saw constant evidence of the sweet fruits of his connection to it. That day, I began considering how much I blossomed from who my kids were, outside of my attempts to nurture them into who they would become. I demanded control over Rylan’s journey, and it knocks the wind out of me when I realize how many times I stole joy from both kids over the years.

I wasn’t born to be a mom. My world is bigger than our kids. There are seasons when it’s not possible to think or act outside of the parenting demands that come with adoption and disabilities. I’m in one of those seasons as I write this essay, and Rylan is now 19-years-old. Don’t hear me say that these seasons don’t exist. The concept of being addicted to motherhood was what I needed to pay attention to. The awareness of how easy it is to slip into a “less of me so they can thrive” mode is important. It took dying to motherhood to unveil that truth. It took dying to motherhood to allow our kids to wake up every day as themselves, no ulterior motives. And it took dying to motherhood to validate the importance of playing racquetball.

5 (plus one extra) Tips for How to Avoid Dying

1. Narrow in on 4 goals for your child for the year. With each season, focus on one of those goals, understanding that growth is slow and worth the wait. Hold those goals loosely. If your kid decides to pick up the habit of licking toilets? That goal takes precedent right quick.

2. Narrow in on 4 goals for yourself for the year. And, just like with your child, focus on one of those goals, understanding that you’re a human being outside of your role as parent/guardian.

3. Keep a running list of all the things that bring you joy. Post it where your eyeballs and your family’s eyeballs see it every single day. Do yourself a solid and make sure you incorporate just one of those tokens of joy into each day. Whether it’s one minute or an hour, you’re inviting joy to seep in.

4. Keep a running list of all the things that bring your child joy. See a pattern here? Make sure that all the goal work takes a backseat to what brings that kid joy. Very little growth will happen if we remove their bliss.

5. With the brightest, happiest shade of lipstick, write all the titles you hold dear on your bathroom mirror. Who are you? Best friend, gardener, hula hooper, yogi, sister-in-law, wine enthusiast, falconer, jigsaw puzzler….lipstick those gems to surround your beautiful mug every morning and night, reminding you that “mom” is but one important piece of who you are in this world.

6. You’re getting a 6th on this one! Replicate number 5 for your kid (for all your kids). Remind them who they are, please. It’s so easy to forget.

1. What are three things you believed about yourself as a child? What are three truths you wish you could tell your inner child? Go ahead. Tell yourself now. It’s not too late. Those things are still true.

2. What does “good enough” parenting look like, sound like, feel like, taste like, smell like? Does it smell like a frozen pizza in the oven, sound like Paw Patrol (is he still a dog of importance?) in the background, feel like lethargy, and one firm 10-second hug from someone you love, look like wearing house shoes in public? Most days, good enough is what we can expect. When it’s better than good? Those days are magic. Hold tight to the magic.

3. Think about one or two parents in your life you admire. Whose presence do you find yourself wanting to sit in? What are the traits that draw you to these people? Reflect on what those traits mean to you in this stage of life and why you’re drawn to them.

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The podcast has exceeded what we imagined in terms of your loyalty and interest in our haphazard musings. Knowing that we’ve tapped into a need, we want to continue building community with you in ways we can. We’ve funded the podcast out of pocket, and that’s not something we’re able to sustain consistently. So, while Kristen is paving a path in her writing career (paved with pure gold, by the way), I’m (Gwen) going to show up here. Imperfectly, no doubt. But I’m going to show up anyway. Words are my favorite, and they help me make sense of myself, so writing to you all will be helpful for me and hopefully for you, too.

Kristen and my collective team of neurodivergent young adult children now totals six. If you listen to the podcast, you’re aware that Tim and I adopted our third human this past August, which has added brutiful complexities to our family’s landscape. Silly me, I thought I was on the final downward turn in parenting just two years ago. Rylan, now 19, was planning to go to Florida for college, Reagan, now 15, was smooth sailing, and a third kid wasn’t even a back-of-my-brain consideration. Well, Gwen. You’re a real sucker. Rylan came home from college, not ready yet. Reagan has needed significantly more dyslexia support in high school than she did in middle school, and BAM, welcome your third kid, a legal adult thriving with complex trauma who finally has the family she deserves and desperately needs.

As it turns out, I still know nothing about anything and have struggled to stay vertical many days. Learning how to find grounding in myself has become paramount. I’ve searched high and oh so low for ways to feel spiritually connected.

Stories about 19 years of parenting neurodivergent and adopted kids will be shared here. I’m no expert, but I’ve learned a lot, most of it the hard way. I know what I would do differently and how vital it is to stay grounded in who we are, outside of the parenting role we play. And I also know that staying grounded is a daily practice and one that requires consistent effort and grace for the days when it doesn’t feel possible. I understand the value of laughter and humility. I’ve learned that I’m my best resource, and only when I’m paying attention to myself and the world around me can I show up for my family in ways that will feel productive and life-giving. It’s then- those stunning moments in time- that I’m able to see my kids and my husband more clearly.

Tune in here every week for a story, followed by reflections and questions to consider. I might share books I’m reading that you might love, too. Many of those books will be children’s picture books because I’ve acquired a fondness and appreciation for them in my 40’s. It’s borderline weird, but I don’t care about being weird. I’m hard- pressed to appreciate most non-weird things anymore. So, let’s navigate our weird, our lack of control, and not having all the answers together. It’s way more fun when we do it in community.

Questions to Consider for Today:

1. What is something lovely and true about you that has nothing to do with your role as a parent/caretaker?

2. What can you do today to lean into that lovely true thing about you?

3. What weirdness about your life might you consider embracing more fully?

Until next time,

Gwen