A Mother’s Journey Through Autism

When I first held my daughter, she was so tiny and small—a package from heaven given to me. Her steel gray eyes, her fine hair, and her strong lungs filled the hallway with her cries. I held her close for hours, days, and nights, but her little soul could not settle in the darkness.

As months turned into years, I struggled to meet her needs. Her words came slowly, then stopped. She drew into a world where I didn’t belong. I watched her play alone, lining up toys along the window sill. If I tried to move her, she would scream, kick, and collapse in exhaustion, curling into a ball under her crib.

The Daily Battles

Eating became a challenge. Bathing, brushing teeth, and getting dressed felt like battles—Dad and I pinning her down like “two big mean bears.” Clothes suffocated her, stores triggered screams, and strangers’ stares made me feel like a bad mother.
I cried constantly. Dad thought she might be deaf, but hearing tests proved otherwise. So why couldn’t I reach her? Why couldn’t I hold her hand or give her long hugs?

The Diagnosis

Doctors said she was delayed, but I knew something more was happening. I pushed for answers, and eventually, the word I feared most was spoken: Autism. My little girl was non-verbal, shy of three. At 39, I wondered how I could take this on. Who would help us navigate a world so cruel at times?

Learning and Fighting For Hope

I went back to school. I worked hard to understand Autism and find the right help. We were blessed to meet our “knight in shining armour Krista Zambolin Consulting in Maple Ridge, who introduced us to ABA therapy just before Breanna’s third birthday.
Therapy filled our home for hours each day. The screaming, the follow-through—it felt cruel at first. But then, one day, she turned to me, spoke, and called me “Mom.” Tears of joy ran down my face.

Breakthroughs and Joy

Slowly, Bree began to grow into the world around her. She looked into my eyes. She hugged. She played with her brother. She laughed at the park.
Now, at 12, she talks nonstop. She acts, sings, and plays piano beautifully. On stage, she shines—a sight I once thought I’d never see.

Living with Autism

We still face storms. Bree masks her struggles during the day, living in a “yellow zone,” pushing through sensory pain and social fears. At home, she finds safety—alone with her piano and books, recharging for tomorrow.
Autism is part of her life forever, but she is strong, fierce, and determined. Yes, she can be messy and unorganized, but she has learned how to live in this world while keeping her safe space at home.

Gratitude

Today, Bree gives me hugs. She talks my ear off about her day. I smile, I listen, and I thank the Lord every single day for the gift of hearing her voice.
This is our journey. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. And Bree—my miracle girl—reminds me daily that love, persistence, and faith can carry us through even the hardest storms.