For Autistic Pride Day: A Letter to the Mums Who See It Early but Don’t Yet Understand

By Jacs Waggett, for Isabel

I remember sitting in baby groups, the only new mum whose baby never left her lap. While others crawled and explored, mine clung to me like I was her anchor and in so many ways, I was.

Back then, I didn’t have a word for what I was seeing. I just knew I felt different. Isolated. Overwhelmed.

I remember the health visitor gently smiling as she told me I was “just a nervous mum” and that I worried too much. I remember the shame that bloomed inside me when my toddler smeared mess across the walls and how many times I scrubbed both the walls and the guilt.

I remember all the well-meaning adults who told me she was just being “fussy” or “naughty.” That I needed to be firmer. That I was letting her “get away with it.”

They didn’t see what I saw: the overwhelm behind her eyes. The fear disguised as refusal. The distress behind the food aversions and the meltdowns over socks and shoes.

I remember the tension between two young parents, confused and exhausted, trying to get tiny shoes on a tiny pair of feet and how those simple, daily battles eventually wore a hole in our relationship. One small storm at a time.

We didn’t know what we were doing. We were guessing. Arguing. Failing. And then slowly, separating.

Years later, when my daughter dropped out of education and we found ourselves in the trenches, trying to make sense of her deep anxiety and daily overwhelm, we finally received the diagnoses that reframed it all:

Autism. ADHD. PDA. Generalised anxiety.

Names that didn’t change her but helped me finally see her clearly.

After fighting for an EHCP and watching her retreat from a world that felt too loud, too bright, too fast I wrote her an apology. One that came not from guilt, but from a fuller, more compassionate understanding:

To My Daughter - I’m Sorry, and I See You Now

My darling girl,

There are words I didn’t have when you were small.

Signs I saw, but didn’t yet understand.

Moments I pushed through when I should have paused.

I look back now not with shame, but with the ache of knowing more than I did then.

When you clung to me in baby groups and wouldn’t crawl away, I thought I was doing something wrong.

When you cried at textures, sounds, food, light, I thought you were just “sensitive.”

When you couldn’t bear shoes, or loud rooms, or sudden change, I thought I needed to toughen you up.

I wish I had known:

You weren’t being difficult.

You were doing your best in a world that didn’t fit.
So here it is my apology, wrapped in love: I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner.

I’m sorry for every time I rushed you, reasoned with you, or reprimanded you through a lens that wasn’t yours.

I’m sorry for every time you needed support, and I offered structure.

For every time you needed co-regulation, and I gave correction.

You have taught me more about humanity, resilience, and truth than any book, expert, or system ever could.

You are not broken.

You are brilliant.

And I’m so proud of the way you continue to bloom even in wild, uneven ground.

Thank you for your patience. Your courage. Your fierce, beautiful mind.

Thank you for being exactly who you are.

Always,

Mum