I remember the morning I finally stopped trying to plan a year ahead. My son had just turned four. His early intervention therapist asked me what goals I had for him “by kindergarten” — and I just froze. Sat there in that little plastic chair with my coffee going cold, and I had absolutely nothing.
Because the honest truth? I had no idea what kindergarten would look like for him. I didn’t know what next month would look like. All I knew was that morning — before we’d even left the house — he had said my name twice. Clearly. Twice. And that had felt like everything.
It’s Not a Hashtag. It’s Survival.
When people first suggested I take things “one day at a time,” I thought it was something you said to someone who was giving up. Like a consolation prize for people who couldn’t handle real planning.
I was wrong.
In autism parenting, taking it one day at a time isn’t giving up. It’s an act of radical presence. It takes more strength than projecting forward. Because projecting forward is a spiral — one that starts with “will he ever talk?” and ends at 2am with you reading studies you don’t fully understand, crying over timelines that may not even apply to your kid.
Choosing today instead? That’s not the easy road. That’s the brave one.
What It Actually Looks Like
It means not thinking about prom when today is about socks that feel wrong on his feet.
It means celebrating a new word — even if it arrived 18 months “late” by someone else’s developmental chart. (That chart doesn’t live in our house, by the way.)
It means sitting with the uncertainty of “I don’t know what tomorrow looks like” without immediately reaching for something to fix it.
It means letting a shorter meltdown than yesterday be a win. A mountain. Moved quietly.
It means being here — actually here — for the moments happening right now, instead of somewhere in an imagined future where everything is either better or worse.
The Days I Slip
I still slip. I’m not going to pretend I’ve mastered this.
Some nights I Google things I shouldn’t Google. I compare timelines. I measure. I catastrophize. I wake up at 3am with a knot in my chest that no amount of deep breathing can fully undo.
And then morning comes. And he pads into the kitchen in his mismatched socks. And he wants to show me something — a bug, a word, a pattern he noticed. And I come back.
Back to today. Back to this. Back to him.
Right Now Is Where He Actually Lives
Here’s the thing nobody quite tells you in the early days: your child isn’t living in your worry about the future. They’re living right here. In this moment. This kitchen. This Tuesday morning.
And when I’m lost in the future — the one that may or may not come, the one I can’t control — I’m not actually with him. I’m somewhere else entirely.
One day at a time isn’t a limitation. It’s permission. Permission to put down the weight of everything I can’t know yet, and be fully present for the only thing that’s actually real — right now.
Hard. And holy. That’s honestly the only way I can describe what this life is.
Today is enough. And so are you. 💛
Have you ever had a moment where you had to consciously pull yourself back to just today? What brought you back? I’d love to hear it in the comments.