I have never claimed to be a perfect parent, but the love I have for my children is deeper than anything I ever imagined possible. The love I carry for them is the closest thing to perfection in my life.
Most days, my worries are the same ones so many parents have: Did my kid shower? Are they eating enough? Did they do their homework—or even have homework? Are they sick? Do they have good friends? Am I doing enough? And most importantly… do they truly know how deeply they are loved?
I usually keep the heaviest parts of my heart off social media. No one needs to see that level of pain. But recent events have made it clear that I need to share this story—to bring awareness to mental health, and to the overwhelming need for better support within our healthcare and education systems, not only for our “special” kids, but for the parents walking this road with them.
One of my children struggles more than most. Over the years, he has required far more support, advocacy, and time than his siblings. He is considered Level 2 with FSCD and, through provincial and federal approval, has been recognized as a youth with significant delays and high disabilities. Mental health and behavioral diagnoses are invisible. These kids often fall through the cracks because they look “normal” and often behave “normally.” Parenting a child like this can be heartbreaking, because you constantly watch them struggle without receiving the support they desperately need. This has been my reality with my son for over eight years since his first diagnosis.
Those who know us know exactly who he is. He is kind, loving, funny, socially bold, and unbelievably athletic. He lights up a room. And then there is the part that’s harder to see.
He struggles to maintain friendships.
He cannot consistently focus at school or at home.
He has difficulty regulating his emotions.
He experiences violent episodes that can include harming himself, others, or property.
He becomes unpredictable—verbally, emotionally, and physically—for minutes or even hours at a time.
He is in the 10th percentile for executive functioning.
He lives with ADHD, ODD, CD, anxiety, and frontal lobe delay.
Every single one of these affects his mental health. And I spend my life searching for resources, pushing for supports, and advocating for what I believe he needs—because if I don’t, who will?
These challenges are part of my son’s story, but they will never define him. I hope that one day, he can look back and see how fiercely I loved him—even in the moments when my fight to get him help may have confused him or caused him pain.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
This is the first time I am sharing the full details of what happened that day. I have been holding it in, protecting myself from fully processing the trauma. I’m sharing now because I believe it can help someone else—and because my own heart needs healing.
After three months of my son living in a family support home through Disability Services, the day arrived when I would take him to tour an all-boys therapeutic facility where he would live for the next 9–18 months. Making this decision shattered me. I wanted him home more than anything, but we needed help. He needed intensive therapeutic treatment to eventually return home safely—for him, and for our family.
As his mother and primary caregiver, the weight of this decision rested on me. It was a burden I carried for months until I toured the facility alone weeks earlier. When I did, I knew in my bones that this was where he needed to be.
The visit with my son was incredibly difficult. He struggled to regulate his emotions. He was angry that he hadn’t been warned—though he had been. He was anxious, especially because his medications hadn’t been monitored for over two weeks at the out-of-home placement, and he had been secretly stashing them in his backpack. His emotions came out as anger, defiance, and refusal to complete the mandatory tour. The staff were compassionate and rushed him through as gently as possible.
The drive afterward was gut-wrenching. We had a 45-minute drive to a recreation center where he would play sports while his sister attended swimming lessons. The car was quiet. I could feel my own tears streaming down my face, while I could hear his sobs through his turned body and silence. He was confused and hurting about the upcoming move. Eventually, we talked—slowly. We found small things to smile about. When we arrived, he told me he loved me. I felt relief as he closed the door. I would be back in an hour.
Or so I thought.
Forty minutes later, I was packing up my six-year-old daughter when my phone kept ringing from a blocked number. I ignored it—until the calls wouldn’t stop. I answered on Bluetooth as I backed out of the driveway.
It was my son, crying uncontrollably. I could hear wind and traffic. He was not where I left him.
“Mom, I need you to promise me I can come home.”
I couldn’t promise that. I couldn’t lie. I begged him to tell me where he was. He hung up.
Then he called again.
“Mom, I love you so much. I can’t do this anymore. I’m at a bridge. I’m going to jump.”
Writing those words still makes my body shake. The fear was instant and consuming. I didn’t know where my child was. I knew he was emotionally unstable. My daughter heard everything. And the bridge I was driving onto—was that where he was?
There was no time to cry. I called my mom. I called 911. I stopped my car on the bridge. I got out, searching below, gripping the railing, begging police to find my child. My car blocked traffic. Horns blared. My daughter sat in the backseat. I couldn’t comfort her. I was breaking.
A police car arrived before dispatch was complete. I begged them to search the other side. Time blurred. Fear swallowed me whole.
Eventually, I learned it wasn’t that bridge. Not knowing was worse. My mind spiraled—Was I too late? Should I have lied? Could he come home if I found him?
Finally, another call. My mom said, “He needs you.”
When he called again, his voice trembled. He told me he loved me. He said he had to do this. I stayed calm. I begged him to tell me where he was.
Then he did.
Police drove me to him. Seeing him alive was surreal. The fear didn’t leave. It still hasn’t.
My son is now enrolled in a long-term therapeutic facility and will eventually transition home.
I am sharing this because mental health is real, constant, and often invisible. Because families like mine live with daily fear. Because no parent should ever experience this without support.
My son is safe. My daughter is getting help. I am not okay—but I will be.
The pain remains. The love remains stronger.
And I will never stop fighting for my child
