April 22, 2024.
August was three.
But honestly, that day didn’t start in April. It started when he was about a year old and I began noticing he was behind. He started Early Intervention at 16 months, and from then on therapy appointments just became part of our weekly routine. Like preschool… but with more assessments and fewer goldfish.
We waited almost a year for a full evaluation.
A whole year of wondering.
A whole year of “maybe.”
A whole year of trying not to Google things at 11 p.m. and absolutely Googling them anyway.
By the time we finally had the three long days of testing — several hours at a time — Dakota and I were emotionally exhausted. We were there for every session, nodding like we fully understood everything, while internally spiraling.
We had suspected autism for a while. But suspicion still leaves room for denial. A diagnosis does not.
When the report came, I didn’t want to read it.
Reading it made it official.
Autism Spectrum Disorder.
Level 3.
Very substantial support.
Intellectual impairment.
Severe language delay.
Those words felt…clinical.
I didn’t even really know what “Level 3” meant. I just knew it didn’t sound like “oh, you’ll barely notice.”
Seeing phrases like “severe” and “very substantial support” attached to my three-year-old felt unreal. On paper, it looked terrifying. In real life, he was still the same little boy who lined up his toys and laughed at the exact same part of his favorite show every time like it was brand new.
I’ll be honest — I was having a full menty b.
Not because I didn’t love him.
But because I didn’t know what this meant.
I didn’t know anyone walking this road.
I didn’t know what the future would look like.
Ignorance had been easier. Before the report, I didn’t know how severe it was. Now I did. And that knowledge felt heavy.
The drive home was quiet. There were tears. Dakota was steady beside me — which is impressive considering I was in the passenger seat fighting for emotional stability. He carried us that day.
Reading the full evaluation later was its own experience. Seeing my baby “scored” in black and white hit differently. Clinical language has absolutely no bedside manner.
My faith felt shaken. I had questions I didn’t know how to ask and prayers I didn’t know how to pray.
But here’s what I know now:
It didn’t change his laugh.
The diagnosis didn’t change August.
It didn’t change the way he reaches for me.
It didn’t change the way God sees him.
It gave us language.
It gave us direction.
It gave us a starting point.
April 22 was heavy.
But it wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning of learning how to advocate fiercely, love intentionally, and trust God when the plan looks nothing like the Pinterest board I had in my head.
If you’re in that waiting season — or sitting in a quiet car after an appointment pretending you’re fine while absolutely not fine —
I see you.
April 22 changed our story.
But it didn’t break it.
August, always.
August, Always 