Missing the Signs of Autism: A Journey of Ignorance and Discovery

How He Was, and How I Missed the Signs Because of Ignorance

He met all his milestones. He smiled early. He said “mama.” He walked on time. He loved music — it lit him up. He danced with abandon, spinning and bouncing to rhythms that seemed to speak directly to him. He played peekaboo. He looked me in the eye .He asked questions .He was curious about everything — the sound of the washing machine, the shape of shadows, the way light moved across the floor. He was there — fully, beautifully there.

But even in those early months, there were signs I didn’t understand.

He cried constantly — not just fussing, but hours of inconsolable crying. From four months on, he would nap for only 30 minutes at a time, waking up unsettled and needing to be held again. He didn’t want to be put down. I held him all day, every day, trying to soothe a discomfort I couldn’t name.

He was scared of other children. He would freeze, cry, or hide when they came near. Playgrounds felt overwhelming. Birthday parties were unbearable. I thought maybe he was just shy. Sensitive.

At two years old, he became extremely picky with food's textures, .But he was still talking — clearly, and very smart .He was curious. He asked questions. He loved music and dancing. So I got fooled by that. I thought, “He’s smart. He’s fine.”

But then came the moments that didn’t fit.

At two and a half, if I disagreed with him — even gently — he would hit his own head on the ground .Not once. Not lightly. It was intense. Sudden. Heartbreaking. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t understand that this wasn’t about anger — it was about overwhelm. His world felt out of control, and his body became the outlet.

Later, I noticed other things .He was scared of water. He was terrified of dogs. And once, at just five months old, I caught him staring at the ceiling — not briefly, but with deep focus, as if something invisible held his attention.

I was curious. I Googled it .And I saw it — staring at ceilings can be a sign of autism. But I didn’t care. I dismissed it. All I knew was that autism was genetic, and we didn’t have any such history. Even our pediatrician confirmed it after DNA testing: no known genetic markers.

Then came the hospital.

I spent ten days there. A blood clot in my lungs. Another in my left leg. I couldn’t breathe on my own. I was scared, broken, and far from my son.

And then — there was her.A nurse. Kind. Gentle. Steady.She didn’t just treat my body. She saw my heart.She helped me sit up. She helped me breathe.She helped me believe I could make it back to him.

And I did.

Later, I held my son. I went home.But the same night, something shifted.

He refused to sleep in his bassinet.He cried — not just fussing, but a deep, aching cry that lasted for days.After a week of extreme crying, I placed him in my bed.He curled into me and fell asleep — deeply, peacefully.

That was the first time I saw it clearly: separation anxiety.Not just a phase. Not just a sleep issue.It was his way of saying, “Don’t leave me again.”

I hadn’t thought of it.I was so focused on surviving, I didn’t realize he had been surviving too.In his own way. In his own silence.

I blamed myself. I searched for answers. I cried in silence while pretending to be strong. And through it all, he was still there — just in a different way. A way I hadn’t learned to see yet.

Now I know. I know that progress isn’t always forward. I know that connection doesn’t always look like conversation .I know that love is a language deeper than words.

This is the beginning of our renewed journey. Not perfect. Not easy. But real.

He was curious about everything — the sound of the washing machine, the shape of shadows, the way light moved across the floor. He was there — fully, beautifully there.

He loved when I read to him, adored counting from 1 to 100 in English and French, knew the alphabet by two and a half, and filled pages with joyful drawings.

And then, all of it disappeared. Everything he knew was gone—like someone had gone into his brain and washed it all away

Happy, excited, exhausted and confused, but I wasn't thinking about autism at this time