This Ain't The Village We Were Promised: A Letter From One Special Needs Mom to Another

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

But what happens when the village isn't really there?

I’ll be honest—I write from a place of privilege. My daughter has a deep village: people who love her, who show up, who stand in the gap when I need help. But motherhood isn’t one-size-fits-all, and the reality of raising a child on the spectrum—or any child with special needs—is that the “village” gets a lot smaller. Sometimes, it feels like it doesn’t exist at all.

And make no mistake, my son is deeply loved but not everyone knows how to hold space for a child whose needs look different. Invitations get fewer. Playdates disappear. The support that flows so freely for some families starts to dry up when your child doesn’t fit neatly into the expectations of others. It’s not always intentional; sometimes it’s just the quiet way people back away when they don’t know what to say or do. But the impact is the same—you end up carrying more.

I think about the school pickup line sometimes. Parents smiling, kids rushing into open arms, schedules and carpools blending like clockwork. For many families, that’s the village in action—the unspoken ease of knowing you’re covered if you’re running late or if something unexpected comes up.

But for me, it’s different. Raising a child on the spectrum means there aren’t as many people I can call if I get stuck in traffic or if my day runs over. Not because people don’t care, but not everyone knows how to care for my son in a way that’s safe and affirming for him. The list of people who get it is short, like me and his dad short, and that changes the way I move through the world. There’s no swapping kids for an afternoon without a hundred extra considerations. There’s no leaning fully on the collective rhythm of the village, because for us, that rhythm is quieter.

And in carrying more, you lean harder. I lean on my daughter more than I want to, and some days I worry about that. She’s brilliant, compassionate, and wise beyond her years—but I fight daily against giving her what so many eldest daughters inherit too soon: the responsibility of holding the family together before they’ve even had the chance to be fully children themselves.

Motherhood is beautiful. But it’s also heavy, and I don't think we talk about that enough. It’s sleepless nights, endless advocacy, and the constant push-pull of wanting to be everything your kids need while wondering who’s showing up for you. The weight of raising a child with special needs is unique—not because it lacks joy or love (those are abundant), but because it often lacks the village we were promised.

And yet, sis, you’re still here. Still showing up. Still advocating. Still loving in ways that defy exhaustion. That deserves more than quiet acknowledgment—it deserves standing ovations. So to every mother carrying more than most will ever know: I see you. You’re not failing. You’re not invisible. You are doing what feels impossible, every single day—and that makes you extraordinary.