In the 1950s, the term “refrigerator moms” was coined by Leo Kanner to describe parents of children with autism. It was a label that hurt deeply, implying that these parents were emotionally cold and distant. Over time, this term has been challenged and discredited, as we now know autism has a genetic basis. But sadly, for many of us “blue moms” (blue as it is the color associated with supporting people with autism or their families), that perception of being cold and lacking warmth still lingers in society. People don’t understand what it’s like to live with and love a child with autism.
I can’t tell you what every parent of an autistic child goes through because each of our journeys is unique. Autism is a broad spectrum, and every child’s needs are different. My little prince, as I call him, has autism, and it is within the spectrum. He is non-verbal yet brilliant, with a high IQ. We blue moms share a common experience—the emotional rollercoaster that requires us to find unimaginable reserves of strength, patience, and compassion. The hardest part? It’s not about understanding our children because we love them deeply. It’s about having compassion for the ignorance of others who think they know what’s best.
My story is simple, yet it’s also long and winding. After being told for 11 years that I couldn’t have children, and after dedicating myself to working in social services, I decided to adopt. But just as I began the adoption process, something shifted within me—maybe I had let go of some karma, or perhaps it was simply fate. I felt it—that tiny heartbeat inside me. I knew it was my son before I even knew his gender and his name.
The pregnancy was a magical time—filled with cravings for Italian food and apple cinnamon tea. I was cautious after those long years of waiting, but I was also filled with joy. The day he was born, the delivery room was full of laughter. I had scribbled a playful message on my enormous belly: “Get me out of here!” Even the doctors couldn’t help but laugh. I remember seeing his tiny hands and eyes and feeling an overwhelming sense of purpose. This little one was entrusted to me, and my job was to love and protect him.
His name means “beloved by the people,” and that’s exactly who he is—pure love. He radiates a warmth that embraces everyone around him. But as time went on, the nursery started calling. They said things weren’t right and that he was different. They questioned our efforts and our choices.
Contrary to their judgment, we were willing to do anything for our son—to give him the best. The comments we faced were unfair. People asked why we were investing in his education if he might never be “functional.” They questioned our parenting choices without ever seeing the meltdowns, the exhaustion, the emotional toll—the guilt of feeling drained because, after all, this is your child, your everything. People asked what beautiful conversations we had with him, not understanding that his words come in touches and smiles, in the repetition of sounds and gestures. And every time you hear them, your soul shatters into little pieces. You withhold screams and wish you could shake them and tell them what it feels when you listen to their comments and hear them believe that they know best and that you are not doing enough.
This, my friends, is just the tip of the iceberg; however, I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world because this journey opened my heart. It has made me understand the struggles of others, helped me connect with mothers facing similar challenges, and made me more compassionate. I live love through my love for him.
Sharing my story isn’t easy, and I know my words can’t always capture the depth of my feelings. But this is the beginning of a process for me—a way to open up, to be heard. So, the next time you meet a “blue mom,” remember that our journey, though different, isn’t so unlike your own as a parent. It’s a journey of love, resilience, and hope.
