Coffee With Her: A Conversation with My Younger Self

If I could sit down for coffee with her — the me I was twenty-something years ago — I’d probably just start by holding her hand.

Because she wouldn’t want to hear a pep talk. She wouldn’t want to be told it was all going to be okay. Honestly, she wouldn’t believe me anyway. She just needed to feel like she wasn’t failing.

She’d be sitting there, exhausted, holding her cup with both hands just to stop them from shaking — because she hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days. Her eyes would be puffy, not just from lack of sleep, but from crying alone in the dark hallway outside Jordan’s bedroom door night after night.

You see, back then, Jordan didn’t sleep. And when I say he didn’t sleep, I don’t mean he had trouble falling asleep. I mean I would lay on the floor outside his room in case he wandered. In case he bolted. I was on high alert all the time, my body living in survival mode. And that went on for years.

I’d remind her that sleep will come again, even if it’s not in the way she imagines it now.

She’d probably try to brush it off, act like she was fine. That’s what she did back then — held it all together so no one would see just how scared she really was. But I’d tell her it’s okay to fall apart. It doesn’t make her any less of a mom. It just makes her human.

I’d ask her about the decisions she’s holding onto — the ones she replays at 2 a.m. like a highlight reel of guilt.

The therapists she didn’t choose because they weren’t the “right fit,” even when people said she should have just “taken what she could get.”
The IEP meetings where she sat silently, not because she didn’t care, but because she didn’t know what to say.
The moments she raised her voice or cried in front of her kids and felt like she broke something unfixable.

I’d tell her those moments don’t define her. They never did.

Because she was doing the best she could with what she had. And not only is that enough, it’s what love looks like on the hard days.

I’d tell her that one day she’ll understand behaviors differently — that they aren’t bad, personal, or a reflection of her parenting. That Jordan isn’t trying to give her a hard time, he’s having a hard time. And that will be a game-changer. But she can’t know that yet, because she’s still just trying to breathe between meltdowns and routines and appointments.

I’d tell her that there will be days in the future when Jordan lights up talking about rockets, or when he solves at the Wheel of Fortune puzzle before anyone else has figured it out. That he’ll still need the comfort of plush toys into his twenties, and they will bring him comfort and joy — and she will smile every time she sees them on his bed and how he sits them on the dresser side by side so neatly on "clean sheet" day.

I’d tell her that what looks like “weird” to the world is actually wonderful, and she’ll learn to see the magic in it.

I’d remind her that just because life looks different than she imagined, it doesn’t mean it’s worse. It just means she’s going to become a different version of herself than she expected — and she’s going to be really proud of that woman one day.

But more than anything, I’d want her to know this:

You’re not alone.

Even when it feels like no one else understands what your days are like…
Even when the world keeps spinning and you feel like you’re stuck in survival mode…
Even when you’re hiding in the bathroom, crying quietly into a towel so no one hears you…

You are not the only one.

There is a whole village of moms out here who do get it. Moms who also love a child who sees and experiences the world differently. Moms who are trying to hold it all together while their hearts break and rebuild a hundred times a day.

And one day, you're going to meet them. You’ll find your people. You’ll find us.

So to the mama reading this right now who is her — the one who’s still in the early days, still wondering how in the world she’ll survive this chapter — I see you.

And I promise, you won’t always feel this way.

The hard days will come and go.
Some days will knock the wind out of you.
Others will surprise you in the best ways.
But you’ll keep going — because that’s what we do.

We don’t have all the answers, and we don’t always get it right.
But we keep showing up, we keep loving big, and we keep doing the next right thing.

And that, Mama, makes you incredible.

So here’s to coffee with our younger selves.
To holding her hand when she feels like she’s drowning.
To telling her that she is doing so much better than she thinks she is.

And as we embark on Autism Awareness Month — may it remind us that our journey might look different, but it’s still full of love, growth, and hope.

This was written by Shannon Urquiola at Not Your Average Autism Mom.

Thank you for being part of our journey.