I always knew I wanted to be a mum. I had it all mapped out — married by a certain age, first baby by 30, second not long after. And I did it. I ticked all the boxes. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next — for the quiet unravelling of everything I thought I knew about parenting.

It started when my eldest daughter began primary school. Suddenly, the afternoons became a battlefield. What I used to think of as “tantrums” exploded after every school pick-up — screaming, rage and a total inability to communicate what she wanted or needed.  

At first, I chalked it up to her adjusting to starting school, just like you hear most kids go through. Sure, it felt super intense and extreme, but I assured myself it was just temporary. I just needed stay calm and breathe through it.  But then it escalated.

Tasks that were once easy like brushing teeth, choosing snacks for her lunchbox, putting on shoes — it all became a minefield. My bright, happy and independent girl was shrinking under the weight of something I couldn’t see, something I couldn’t fix. She was riddled with anxiety, and I had no idea why. We did what everyone does. We asked the doctors.

“Completely age-appropriate,” they said.
Friends told me, “She’ll grow out of it.”
I told myself, maybe it’s me. I must not be doing this right.

But the truth is — I knew something wasn’t right and I felt it in my bones. The weight of carrying it, the trying, the guessing, the arguing, the exhaustion — nearly broke me. My marriage took a hit. My husband and I were fighting constantly, not because we didn’t love her, but because we loved her so much and felt so helpless. We were drowning and didn’t know how to save each other, so we just fought instead.

Eventually, I reached out to a psychologist. I told her my daughter had anxiety — that was the only label I had to somehow explain what was happening. We worked on parenting strategies, routine changes, emotional coaching... nothing seemed to work. If anything, things were getting harder.

Eight weeks in, I sat across from her completely defeated and said, “We’ve tried everything. It’s not working.” She paused and after a series of questions eventually asked, “Have you ever considered autism?”

That one question cracked everything open. I burst into tears — not out of sadness, but because for the first time, something made sense. For the first time, someone saw what I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Looking back now, the signs were there. My daughter was masking — performing through the school day, trying to blend in, holding it all together... only to completely fall apart the second she felt safe again. Her brain, her emotions and her world were all operating differently.

Suddenly, the meltdowns weren’t defiance — they were exhaustion.

Her need for control over games and role play? That was her way of creating predictability in a chaotic world. Her obsession with monkey bars, her panic over certain foods being on her dinner plate, her encyclopedic memory for things like street signs and billboards— they weren’t quirks. They were clues.

When I finally understood, I was hit by a wave of grief that I was incredibly ashamed of at the time.  It wasn’t grief for her, but grief with her — for how hard this world can be when you’re wired differently. I wasn’t upset that she was autistic. I was terrified that the world wouldn’t make room for her. What if she never truly felt like she belonged? What if I couldn’t get it right? So, I did the only thing I know how to do when I’m terrified — I got to work. I read every book. I binged every podcast. I joined every Facebook group. I became her advocate, her translator, her safe place.

And while some friends tried to be there for us, others just didn’t get it. I distinctly remember someone telling me that “oh, anyone can get an autism diagnosis these days,” and I honestly wanted to disappear. Because this journey isn’t visible. From the outside, my daughter looks fine — bright, capable, chatty.  But no one sees what it takes for her to get through the day. No one sees the fall-out. No one sees me, crying quietly in the car, wondering if I’m doing any of it right.

Every action was driven by fear—fear that my child might not fit in, that missing out on therapies could prevent her from leading a fulfilling life, and fear that we were constantly being judged as parents —I was overwhelmed. This constant state of stress made me feel like I’d aged 10 years in just ten months. Realising that something had to change, I started to look for help specifically for myself this time. 

With the support of the Envisage program, I reconnected with what truly mattered to me, beyond the recommendations of therapists. I was able to remember the joy of family activities and realised how little we did them anymore. We slowly started to prioritise fun over endless appointments, attending social occasions and events only if and when they suited us. I learned to say “no” or “not today” without guilt. The challenges remained, but I felt more confident and assured in my decisions for my family. 

Connecting with other parents in the program who faced similar struggles was a lifeline. Their stories and shared experiences broke my isolation, offering understanding, laughter, and even a shared tear or two. This sense of community became one of the greatest gifts of the Envisage program. 

In just 90 minutes each week, the program helped me find a refreshed perspective—one that helped rebuild my confidence in deciding our family's journey.

Each day still brings its own set of challenges; some we see coming and others knock the wind right out of us. And while the road ahead is still bumpy, we’re finding our rhythm as a family, one beautifully imperfect step at a time. I've learned to let go of chasing "normal" and instead embrace what works. And whilst this isn't the motherhood journey I once pictured, it's one that is raw, relentless and full of fierce, messy love.