Until my son Luca was about 18 months old, I thought I had this parenting thing down.
He was my first baby – bright-eyed, curious, and meeting his early milestones more or less on time. He was affectionate with us, loved books, and could recite entire songs from The Wiggles. I had zero reason to think our life would be anything other than ordinary. Maybe even charmed.
But by his second birthday, things started to feel… off. The tantrums were intense and unpredictable. He would scream if the tag on his shirt touched his skin, line his toys up with laser precision, and melt down at the slightest change in routine. He didn’t respond to his name. He had words, but they came and went. He would go on to speak relatively normally, but often simply chose not to. Sometimes I could see him – really see him – and other times, it was like he vanished into his own world.
I brought it up with our family doctor, then our maternal child health nurse, then a speech pathologist. They all said the same thing: ‘Every child develops at their own pace. Let’s keep an eye on it.’
But I knew. Deep down, I already knew.
Luca was diagnosed with level 1 autism spectrum disorder, previously known as Asperger syndrome, just after his third birthday.
Level 1 is the type of autism where a person can speak and function independently in most settings, albeit with some difficulty initiating conversations or understanding social cues. They may have sensory issues and prefer familiar routines, and will usually need help with social skills and adapting to change. People with this kind of autism will be different, but can go on to live full lives.
But at the time, I didn’t focus on his potential. Instead, I feared his limitations.
Luca was my first. He was affectionate, loved books, and could recite entire songs from The Wiggles. I had no reason to think our life would be anything other than ordinary (stock image)
I was 39. The moment I heard those words, something snapped inside me. Not out of disappointment – I wasn’t ashamed of him. I was terrified. Terrified I’d miss the window of early intervention.
Every article I read screamed ‘early intervention is crucial’ – the earlier the better. Brains are plastic, prognoses are better. You can change the trajectory, they said.
So I became obsessed with changing the trajectory.
I hit Google like it owed me something. I joined every forum, downloaded every podcast, and read every book, blog, and parent testimony I could get my hands on. And when I tell you I left no stone unturned, I mean it.
In the eight years since Luca’s diagnosis, I have spent more than $70,000 on therapies.
Some were evidence-based – speech therapy, occupational therapy, psychiatry. Others… less so. We tried craniosacral therapy, biofeedback, bioresonance scanning, a sensory deprivation tank, supplements shipped from obscure corners of Europe, restrictive diets, hyperbaric oxygen chambers that cost more per session than our monthly mortgage repayment.
Each new therapy came with a promise – usually from another desperate parent online – that this was the thing that unlocked speech, that improved eye contact, that helped their child ‘come back to them.’
And I wanted that. Desperately – even though Luca’s autism was nowhere near as severe as some of the other children out there. And I believed it was my job to fix it, to fix him.
One day, when Luca was about seven, and after spending tens of thousands of dollars on questionable alternative therapies, I took him to a local sensory gym. It was transformative
I became that mother. The one who always had a folder of research under her arm. The one who politely (then not-so-politely) challenged paediatricians. Who compared notes with other parents like we were training for a clinical trial.
And slowly, people began to pull away.
My husband, gentle and grounded, tried to keep pace with me but eventually burned out. Friends stopped inviting us over. I was intense, defensive, exhausted. I wasn’t fun to be around – I knew that. But I didn’t know how to stop. My entire identity had become Project Luca.
Then one day, when he was about seven, I took him to a local sensory gym.
It was funded by the NDIS, the National Disability Insurance scheme in Australia. It was very bare-bones, just a room in a gym centre. It was just down the road, actually.
I’d heard other parents talk about how these spaces could help kids regulate their nervous systems through movement, pressure, swinging, jumping, spinning. Plus it was physical exercise. So I figured, why not? I’ll add it to the list.
But something happened in that gym. The first time Luca climbed into the Lycra cocoon swing, I watched as his whole body softened. He smiled – a real, unguarded smile – and started to hum to himself as he spun gently back and forth.
‘This is fun!’
I could have cried. No therapists pushing goals. No outcomes to measure. Just Luca, in a room that made sense to his body. And he kept asking to go back, using his words clearly, week after week.
It was the first time I saw him joyful in a space that didn’t try to change him. That let him be who he is, at his own pace, with no expectations attached. He was just a kid – moving, playing, laughing.
And it broke me a little, in the best possible way.
Because I realised how much time – how much of his childhood – I had spent chasing a version of him that didn’t exist. A version I didn’t need.
Autism isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s not a tragedy. It’s a different way of experiencing the world. One that I was too busy trying to fix to appreciate.
Looking back now, I can see that my panic wasn’t really about Luca. It was about me – about my own fear, my need for control, my discomfort with uncertainty. I told myself I was doing it for him. And I was. But I was also doing it for the version of motherhood I thought I was supposed to have.
If I could go back to the mother I was in those early days, I’d tell her this: ‘Breathe. He’s okay. He doesn’t need to be rescued – he needs to be seen. Loved as he is. Supported, of course, but not changed.’
I still carry guilt. About the money. About the pressure I put on him. About the joy I could have soaked in, had I not been so consumed by ‘fixing’. I sometimes wonder if I’ve caused him more trauma than I prevented – if the appointments and protocols and constant sense of urgency left scars I can’t see.
But I also know this: I’m doing better now. We both are.
Luca is 11. He’s quirky, kind, funny, and whip-smart. He has a thing for insects and facts about space and climbing anything he legally can. He still has challenges, like any child with level 1 autism. But he’s not broken. He never was.
These days, our life is slower. Softer. I say no to a lot more therapies. We prioritise connection, not correction. And I finally understand that the most powerful intervention wasn’t a machine or a supplement or a protocol. It was a swing in a sensory gym. A space that helped him feel safe in his own body.
Luca’s not the one who changed. I am.
As told to Rebel Wylie. Thessa Langford is a pseudonym. Names have been changed.
