To the Mom Sending Her Nonverbal Child to School

To the Mom Sending Her Nonverbal Child to School:

Let’s skip the Hallmark version for the truth—

for the things we don’t often say out loud.

You’re not “a little nervous.”

You’re terrified.

You’re sending your child into a world where you cannot protect them.

Where you can’t read their face across the room, step in when they’re overwhelmed, or translate their cues before frustration turns into a meltdown.

You are handing them over to people you barely know and hoping—praying—those people see them as a human being worth understanding. Worth protecting.

And if we’re being honest, that hope is layered over something heavier.

Because we have trust issues.

Not because we’re bitter.

Not because we think every teacher is bad.

But because we’ve heard the stories.

And because our children can’t tell us about their day.

Yet, we still send them off. We put our child on that bus or walk them through those doors because the alternative—keeping them home and safe—feels just as unfair.

Because our kids deserve more than safety.

They deserve connection.

They deserve friends.

They deserve opportunities and moments we can’t give them on our own.

So we make the impossible choice—loosening our grip just enough to walk them to the bus or to those school doors, and watching them disappear inside.

And then we spend the rest of the day pretending to function while a part of us counts the hours until we can see them again.

But even in the middle of that ache, there’s a truth we don’t speak often enough:

The teachers, aides, therapists, and bus drivers who stand in our place each day are not just “staff.”

They are the ones learning our child’s language when words don’t exist.

They are the ones memorizing their quirks, anticipating their needs, and meeting them with patience instead of frustration.

They are the ones protecting them, celebrating them, and—maybe most importantly—making sure they have a place to belong.

And every time our child comes home smiling, we know—it’s because a teacher, aide, therapist, or bus driver showed up for them.

But even with that comfort, it’s still gut-wrenching to watch them walk away.

Because these kids—our kids—can’t speak.

They can’t tell us if they were loved or afraid.

If they were happy or hurting.

If they were celebrated or misunderstood.

So to the moms in my shoes—

You’re not crazy.

You’re not overprotective.

You’re not “having a hard time letting go.”

You’re a mother whose child can’t tell you what happens when you’re not there.

That’s not paranoia.

That’s reality.

And yet, every single day, you send them out into a world that doesn’t always understand them—because you believe they deserve the chance to be part of it.

You choose courage over comfort.

You choose hope over fear.

And you trust—just enough—to let others help carry your child through the hours you can’t.

It’s one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

And it’s also one of the most loving.

Because this is what mothers like us do:

We fight for our kids in every way we can, even when that means setting aside our trust issues and stepping back—just so someone else can step in.

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