Believe – Even when unsure
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. Their praise lands like a whisper, but the critiques thunder. Even though I witness so much courage and progress, some days all I can hear is the quiet reminder that, despite the victories, they’re still trailing behind — and that’s a weight I carry more often than I’d like to admit. And after a while, all that noise starts to cloud even my own beliefs about what’s real—what's true.
Yes, people tell me my kids are exceptional—that they’re one-of-a-kind, full of unique strengths. But honestly? Sometimes I find it hard to believe them. These supposed strengths don’t always feel like strengths, especially when stacked against what the world praises as success. Too often, their uniqueness feels less like something celebrated, and more like a consolation prize—acknowledged, but not truly valued.
It’s not just how the world sees them, but how they see themselves—and how they choose to move through that world. My growing children want to do things their way now. When I ask them why, especially when I know there are faster, more effective options, they tell me it’s because they want to see how far they can go on their own—without me. And while I know I should feel proud of their independence, there’s this sting of rejection that I can’t shake. There’s also a lingering frustration—if I already know what will work better and faster, why wouldn’t they just take the easier route? But, if I’m honest, part of my struggle comes from the risk of losing control. Letting them go this way means being "on standby," ready to swoop in and save the day if things don’t go as planned. It’s a posture I struggle with—that constant readiness to jump in, to fix, to absorb the impact. I am getting better at it, learning that I don’t have to shut my life off completely or that I may not need to step in right away, but as the kids try to experiment, courageously, and see how far they can go, alone, without me, I’m left to navigate the ripple effects on my life, my time, and my plans.
And deep down, I wonder… is there a part of me that fears they will fail? That, in failing, they’ll be left behind, left alone—just left? Is there a part of me, if I’m truly honest, that doubts they’re capable of reaching for the skies without my help? I did not grow up in a society where you believed anything was possible, given hard work and the right environment and good honest hard work. Instead, I grew up in a world where hard work was a given, but there are things that we cannot change – some people are just less capable of achieving greatness.
These doubts aren’t just about them; they are shaped by the world I came from, the one that raised me with the belief that some people are just less capable of achieving greatness, no matter how hard they try. Now extend that to our kids living with exceptionalities. What I tend to see—what often stands out—are all the constraints. And it’s not just what I see on the outside. There’s a part of me, deep down, that I rarely acknowledge. But it’s there: a belief that even in the best-case scenario, with all the support in place, I still struggle to believe they can.
How about you, my dear reader? Do you truly believe your children are capable of facing, overcoming, and succeeding despite their barriers? Or do you, like me, struggle with doubt? Do you ever feel like a fraud when you say, “I believe in you,” yet inside, a voice whispers, “They can’t”?
But how will we—and how will they—ever know what they’re truly capable of if we don’t let go of our need to control their path, out of fear of pain or struggle to believe? How can we prove ourselves wrong if we don’t allow for the risk of failure, or even pain? Sometimes, I wonder if they sense it too—that neither of us fully believes. But perhaps, just hearing us say those words, “I know you can” and “I believe in you,” is enough to keep them going.
Amidst this tension and struggle, I find myself searching deeper, asking God what He might have to say about this internal battle. What stands out is the tension between two seemingly opposing truths: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14), and, “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10). Yet I’m also reminded that all of us—not just the blind, the marginalized, or the struggling—but all of us have fallen short of God's glory. On our own, we are incapable. My struggle to believe my kids are able is shaped by a world that tells us some are more worthy, more capable. But in God’s economy, no one is—and yet, in Him, all of us are.
Yes, there have been countless times when I’ve had to step in after the facts proved that my children couldn’t (when compared to neurotypical children) —and yet, even after that, it didn’t make it any easier. But there have also been moments of indescribable joy and pride when I was proven wrong—and when they were wrong. Their courage, tenacity, and willingness to embrace failure in order to reach success, no matter how small the task, leaves me in awe. Whether it’s packing for a trip, writing a creative assignment, asking for an extension, calming down after a meltdown, or even calling someone on the phone—no matter what it is, I’ve watched them grow.
It’s okay not to fully believe in our children’s capabilities—maybe that’s part of the journey. We may know them well, but we can’t possibly know everything about what they’re capable of. Some days, we’ll be right, and we’ll witness failure and disappointment. Other days, we’ll be proven wrong, and we’ll see their pride and joy in ways we didn’t expect. In the end, perhaps it’s not about us needing to believe all the time, but about embracing the act of saying it—both to ourselves and for them to hear: “I believe you can do it.” And maybe, just maybe, that whisper of belief—spoken aloud—is enough to open the door to possibilities we never dared imagine.