You know that bit at the start of every flight, before you’ve even had time to get comfortable, where the flight attendant explains what to do if the oxygen masks drop? “Put your own mask on before assisting others.” Every single time I hear it, some part of my brain goes yeah, but I’d still reach for my boys first. I think most parents would. It’s instinct.
But the logic is pretty hard to argue with, isn’t it? If you can’t breathe, you can’t help anyone.
I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. Because parenting autistic children — and I say this with my whole heart and without a single regret — is relentless. You are on, all the time. You’re not just their mum or their dad. You’re their safe person, their advocate, their translator, their calm in the middle of the storm. You anticipate meltdowns before they happen, you fight battles with schools and services and people who just don’t get it, and you do all of this while also trying to keep a household running and, somewhere in the background, remembering that you are also an actual human being with your own needs.
And yet, somehow, our own needs always end up last on the list.
I’ve said it myself more times than I can count. I’ll rest when things calm down. I don’t have time. They need me more right now. And look — I get it. I really do. But here’s the thing I wish someone had said to me years ago, when I was running on fumes and telling myself it was fine:
You cannot pour from an empty cup.
I know that’s a well-worn phrase, but it’s well-worn because it’s true.
I want to be honest about what self-care actually looks like in real life, because I think sometimes it gets wrapped up in this image of spa days and scented candles and long bubble baths, and the reality is that most of us are just trying to find five minutes where nobody needs anything from us. And that’s okay. Self-care doesn’t have to be big or expensive or Instagram-worthy. It just has to be something.
For me, it’s been different things at different times. Sometimes it’s been as simple as sitting in my car for ten minutes before going inside after work — just sitting in silence, doing absolutely nothing, before the evening begins. Sometimes it’s been a walk on my own with my headphones in. Sometimes it’s been staying up a little later than I should to watch something completely mindless on Netflix, just because it’s something that belongs entirely to me and nobody’s asking me any questions during it.
None of these things are glamorous. But they matter. They genuinely do.
What I’d gently say to any autism parent reading this is: please stop treating yourself like the person who matters least in your own household. Because if you burn out — and burnout in this community is very real — everyone around you feels it. Not because you’re doing something wrong. But because you are the person holding everything together, and even the strongest people have a limit.
Ask for help when you can, even if it doesn’t come easily. (I know it doesn’t. Believe me, I know.) Let some things go — the spotless house, the homemade dinners every night, the idea that you have to be perfect. You don’t. You really, genuinely don’t.
And talk to people who get it. There is something so powerful about connecting with another parent who just understands — without you having to explain the whole thing from the beginning. Whether that’s in person or in an online group or even just reading something that makes you think yes, that, exactly that — it matters. It reminds you that you’re not alone, even when it feels very much like you are.
I also think the emotional side of this is something we don’t talk about enough. Because self-care isn’t just about rest and sleep and taking a breath. It’s about giving yourself permission. Permission to feel overwhelmed without feeling guilty about it. Permission to grieve the version of parenthood you imagined before you understood what your life was actually going to look like — and I don’t mean that in a sad way, because honestly, I wouldn’t swap my boys or my life for anything. But there’s still a grief that comes with it sometimes, and it’s okay to acknowledge that.
Permission to be proud of yourself. Because you are doing something incredibly hard, mostly without a roadmap, and you’re doing it because you love your child more than anything in the world.
That deserves some credit. Give it to yourself.
If nobody has told you this recently — and I suspect many of you haven’t heard it in a while — you are allowed to rest. You are allowed to need support. You are allowed to have a moment that’s just yours, where you’re not anyone’s anything. You are doing better than you think you are. I promise you that.
Taking care of yourself doesn’t take anything away from your child. It makes you more present, more patient, more you — and that’s exactly what they need from you.
You’re not just raising your child. You’re holding an entire world together.
That deserves a little tenderness. Especially towards yourself.
