Being a mother to children with exceptionalities means I'm constantly reminded of what they struggle with. Their diagnoses carry words like “deficit,” “disorder,” or “delay”— and some days, these labels seem to echo louder than the strengths people remind me are ingrained in them. On those days, it’s like a chorus of restless voices—both in my head and all around me—echoing with what still needs fixing, what’s falling short, what demands more effort. Even when people speak of my children’s unique strengths, what I actually hear is the undertone of deficits, the subtle sighs between their words.

You know what I’m talking about. That deep, gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, soul-shattering feeling when you learn your child had a distressing moment—and you weren’t there.

Maybe you got a ping in your texts. Maybe your phone rang. The second you see the caller ID, your stomach drops. A cold sweat creeps up your back. Your mind races and assumes something bad happened (because you have been proven right many times): What happened? How bad is it?

As parents, we often find ourselves advocating for our children, especially during their school years. Communicating through emails or messaging systems has become a common part of this advocacy. But, how can we make our communication more effective? Is simply being truthful enough? Can being overly diplomatic risk sounding insincere or even condescending? Striking the right balance is key to ensuring our messages are clear, respectful, and impactful.

My son’s mantra is, “I don’t know what I don’t know.” When he first said it, he was referring to the impossibility of responding to something he had never encountered before. In his neurodivergent mind, the world’s expectations felt overwhelming and, at times, shaming.

A beautiful queen named Esther was used by God to save her nation. She was born orphaned, a woman, and a Jew—three strikes against her. Yet, despite it all, God used her to save her people. It is an inspiring story that moves us to action, and its most famous line, “for such a time as this,” has become synonymous with a call to action for many Christians.

This week, my neurodivergent son wraps up his first semester at university—a milestone for our family. His transition from high school to independence has been a monumental journey for us both. Over the past four years, I navigated Individualized Education Plans (IEPs), therapy, and his triggers, redefining what stability meant. Letting him go was both terrifying and liberating.

That’s how I’ve often felt in my journey. Over the years, I’ve been surprised to discover that when I share my challenges, people often respond with, “Oh, us too.” It’s a bittersweet realization—so many of us experience the ups and downs of life but walk through them alone. We grieve alone, feel overwhelmed alone, and even find resolutions alone.