Today, I am a businesswoman and the mother of four grown sons, including a set of twins. Two of my boys were diagnosed with moderate to severe autism when they were very young: one of the twins at 23 months and our youngest at 18 months.
I was five months pregnant with our youngest when we learned that one of our twins had autism. Our eldest son, adopted at birth, was three years old—feisty, curious, and ready to explore the world. Life was crazy and fun, with three toddlers running around the house and another baby on the way. But I had begun to notice differences between the twins. While one was happily reaching his milestones, his brother seemed distant and rarely joined in play with the other two boys.
Sometimes, he had a faraway gaze that left me uneasy. It was difficult to explain that feeling to anyone else. My concerns were met with reassurance: “It’s just first-time parent worries.” “You shouldn’t compare twins.” “We have other family members who were slow to talk—just give it time.” “He’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”
As time went on, my worries grew. My son spent an unusual amount of time lining up Matchbox cars, turning them upside down one by one, all in neat little rows. He repeated the process over and over. If anyone tried to join him, he would drop to the ground, inconsolable, until that person moved away. Then he would begin again.
He walked on his toes and carried unusual things in his hands. The objects themselves did not seem to matter, but one absolutely had to be yellow and the other red. Strips of paper, toy letters—anything that fit his red-and-yellow requirement. He kept these little “travel items” in his hands all day, even while eating or playing with other toys. He would run around our kitchen island, high on his toes, making piercing, high-pitched squeals.
At Moms’ Club playdates, I spent much of my time keeping gravel and wood chips out of his mouth. At other times, he clung to me like a baby monkey, sometimes for hours, refusing to let go. At the beach, he gripped me so tightly that he left welts on my neck, terrified when I tried to let his feet touch the sand. He began crawling a month after his twin, and for the first month, he crawled backward.
Even his pacifier went into his mouth upside down. No matter how we tried, that was how he wanted it. I used to think a horse and chariot could come through our living room and he might not notice. So much seemed to pass him by, and I did not yet understand how to reach him.
Meanwhile, his twin was laughing and playing with his older brother, exploring, babbling, and looking for every opportunity to be the center of attention. The differences became more apparent to me every day.
After visits to the pediatrician, I would feel an enormous sense of relief. He told me my son was meeting his milestones and was on track. When I raised the possibility of autism, he said my son was “way too social.” I wanted so much to believe him.
But at night, the worry returned. I sat at the computer searching for “autism symptoms,” and the descriptions did not quite fit. Then, one night, I searched for “toddler and autism symptoms.” There was my son, right in front of me.
I was alone in the middle of the night, staring at the screen. I began buying books about autism. Through Catherine Maurice’s Let Me Hear Your Voice, I learned about applied behavior analysis, or ABA.
At first, I could not imagine my son needing the 30 to 40 hours a week I was reading about. Surely, I told myself, a few hours would be enough. I still remember reading about the diagnosis of Maurice’s second child while my youngest son kicked gently inside me. It brought a quiet, creeping worry that I could not shake.
The day of the diagnosis is etched in my memory. My suspicions were confirmed: our son was “on the severe end of the spectrum.” It felt like an out-of-body experience. On the drive home, I kept asking my husband, “Is this a dream? It is, isn’t it?” I looked back at our little boy in his car seat, trying to understand what this meant for him and for the future I had imagined.
When we got home, my husband and I held each other tightly, and he cried. It was the first time I had ever seen my husband cry.
As we began to absorb the news, we also began to act. Shortly after our youngest was born, we started an intensive ABA program. We found an exceptional provider in Northern Virginia, where we were living, and our son began making wonderful progress. Knowing that another child in the family could also have autism, we watched our youngest closely and cherished each day that seemed to bring reassuring signs of development.
The therapy was expensive. Our insurance would not cover it, so we paid out of pocket. But we could see the changes in our son, and to us, it was worth every penny.
For the first time, we could see a way forward. He still needed therapy, but his progress gave us hope that he might eventually attend school without an aide. Then our youngest began to regress.
Our twin’s development had slowed, and he had gradually become less engaged with the people around him. With our youngest, it was different. He had been developing as expected, and then things began to change. He used to run to the door when my husband came home from work. Then, one day, he didn’t. We both knew something was wrong.
Having a second child diagnosed with autism was surreal. This time, we knew where to find help. We had seen his brother’s progress, and we had reason to hope. But now we faced a problem we did not know how to solve: how to pay for it.
We had already been scraping by and drawing from college funds. The cost of ABA for two children exceeded my husband’s take-home pay. We could not do this without help. We moved, sight unseen, to a small town in New England known for having strong funding for ABA programs. Years later, after the boys’ ABA therapy ended, we were able to return to Northern Virginia.
We were fortunate to find the resources to build and fund an in-home program. We found an exceptional BCBA and hired talented, enthusiastic people to provide 30 to 40 hours of individual therapy each week for each child. My husband and I interviewed staff, hired people, let people go when necessary, juggled schedules, and handled payments. We managed the whole program ourselves. It was daunting, but we learned, and eventually it became second nature.
We pieced together enough support to make it possible, although we still paid a substantial amount ourselves.
When the boys entered preschool, their ABA therapists went with them. With that support, they learned to join in on the playground, participate in circle time, and take part in everyday preschool activities. They thrived. Even teachers who had experience with children with developmental delays remarked on how much progress they were making.
Continuing that support in public kindergarten took more work. We were in a small school district with limited experience allowing private ABA therapists into the classroom. With help from our BCBA, clear documentation of progress, and an open-minded special education director, we were able to continue the program at school.
Our son kept progressing. His classroom support was gradually faded during first grade. As he prepared to enter second grade without that extra help, we had a much easier conversation with the school about our youngest, who was starting kindergarten that year.
What we lived through changed the direction of my life. I left a fulfilling career as a special agent in federal law enforcement to pursue work that had become deeply personal. I attended Simmons College, earned a Master of Science in Behavior Analysis, and started a company providing ABA services to young children with autism.
Today, that work has grown to include two companies in New Hampshire and one in Virginia. I work with skilled, dedicated people who care deeply about the children and families we serve. I bring my training to that work, but I also bring the memory of being a mother at a computer in the middle of the night, trying to understand what was happening to her child.
My boys are grown now. One of the two little boys whose futures once felt so uncertain has graduated from college and built a fulfilling career. The other is a junior in college in Virginia, where he is studying, among other things, Chinese. When I think back to where we began, those are words I could hardly have imagined writing. I am proud of the young men they have become, and I am profoundly grateful for the people who helped them along the way.
I share our story because I know how much it can mean to hear from another parent who has been there. No two children are alike. ABA is not a magic answer, and every child’s needs, progress, and future will be different. Our sons’ experience is our family’s story, not a promise about anyone else’s outcome.
What I want for every family is the chance to find the help their child needs, to be heard, and to have people beside them who care. I remain determined to help children reach their own fullest potential. For some families, a milestone may be college or a career. For others, it may be hearing “Mommy” or “Daddy” for the very first time.
I know how much those words can mean.
“I share our story because I know how much it can mean to hear from another parent who has been there.”
