The Day I First Heard the Word “Autism”

JayJay sits quietly, surrounded by toy tigers, lions, and cheetahs — his silent protectors. Mama Love stands close by, offering calm and comfort through the storm.

The Day I First Heard the Word “Autism”

I didn’t grow up knowing about autism. It wasn’t something I had ever learned about — not at school, not in my family, not in my early parenting days.

That all changed one day, in a preschool director’s office.

But before that day came… there were signs.

JayJay was in preschool, and I was trying to hold everything together. I worked about 30 minutes away, and the school would call me — often.

His cries during diaper changes were so intense that I was told the other children were getting upset. He would scream, shout, and cry for me in a way that pierced through everything. It wasn’t whining — it was fear. Panic.

One of the caregivers once said that the scene during diaper changes looked like the staff were hurting him, because it took three people to hold him down just to change him. I was mortified. Heartbroken. Confused.

So I did what I thought I had to do:

Even though I was working, I agreed to drive back to school every single time he poo’d — just so I could change him myself.

I stayed with him longer each morning at drop-off, hoping he’d feel safe. I wanted to believe it would get easier. But I watched as he gathered toy tigers, lions, cheetahs — fierce animals — and lined them up in a circle around himself.

I asked him, “What are they doing?”

He said, “They’re protecting me.”

That moment crushed me.

I began to wonder if something terrible was happening at school. Was someone hurting him? Was something happening that he couldn’t tell me? I was spiraling in fear, all while trying to hold it together completely alone — with no family support and no answers.

Then came the phone call.

The director of the preschool asked to meet with me. I still remember the feeling in my stomach that day. I thought maybe he had done something wrong, or that maybe we were going to be told he couldn’t stay at the school anymore.

But instead, she said something I wasn’t expecting.

“I think you should have JayJay assessed by the district.”

I didn’t even know what that meant.

I remember feeling insulted.

What was she trying to say? That my child wasn’t normal?

I walked out of that office confused, overwhelmed, and heartbroken in a whole new way.

I didn’t talk to anyone about it.

I didn’t even know who to ask.

I cried, thought, doubted, and cried again.

And then — after days of wrestling with my fear and pride — I made the decision.

I would get him assessed.

Because something inside me knew that even if I didn’t understand it, he needed help — and he needed me to listen, even when I was scared.

This post is Part 1 of JayJay’s diagnosis journey.

In my next post, I’ll share what happened during his assessment — and the call I got from the psychiatrist that I’ll never forget.

If you’ve ever felt alone, confused, or unsure about what you’re seeing in your child… I see you. You’re not alone. And you don’t have to have all the answers to take the first step.