For quite some time, I honestly felt like I was failing as a mother.
None of the things in the parenting books were working. My kids weren’t hitting their milestones. The oldest was rapidly approaching kindergarten age and, while we had already decided to homeschool, it was clear he wouldn’t be “ready” in the way traditional checklists said he should be.
My middle child was having daily—sometimes it felt like hourly—meltdowns. And my poor toddler was just along for the ride.
When the doctor recommended therapy for all of them, it felt like a gut punch. In my mind, that meant I had failed. I hadn’t done something I was supposed to. Now they were behind, and it was my fault.
I Felt So Guilty.
The the feelings of failure only deepened when the evaluations came back: all three qualified for speech, occupational, and physical therapy.
I had a vague idea of what physical therapy was—and immediately blamed myself for not making my kids exercise more. I wanted to homeschool, and I couldn’t even get them moving enough to avoid needing PT? What kind of mother was I?
Speech therapy stung too. I had it as a kid, but for a stutter. My kids? They had moderate to severe delays. I hadn’t taught them to talk. We didn’t go out much, so I must have kept them too isolated. And now they were behind.
Occupational therapy guilt hit hardest. At our very first session, I found out that none of my kids could use scissors. They were there for handwriting and self-care skills. I hadn’t even known that was something I should’ve been helping them with. I didn’t struggle with these things as a kid. So what did that mean about me now?
It meant, I thought, that I was failing as a mother.
Then came the referrals. All three of my boys were referred to the Access for Autism Clinic at the local university. My first meetings with the developmental doctor were over Zoom. We went over paperwork, history, testing.
And I remember her saying—more than once—“It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be scared.”
But here’s the thing: I wasn’t sad. Or at least, that wasn’t the loudest feeling.
I Felt Relieved.
And then I felt guilty about feeling relieved.
Relieved that I finally had something to go on. That I wasn’t just doing everything wrong. No wonder none of the parenting books had answers for me—I was reading the wrong section the whole time.
And the guilt came because I realized: the earlier I had gotten them assessed, the earlier they could’ve started getting help. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard for all of us.
The guilt is still there. I try not to be so hard on myself, but the truth is, I’m probably always going to feel like I’m failing as a mother and I’m not doing enough—or that I’m doing it all wrong.
But I’m learning to sit with that feeling instead of fighting it.
Because that guilt? It means I care. It means I want my kids to be happy and to thrive—even if I’m still completely lost on how to make that happen most days.
And maybe that’s enough, too.