The Birthday That Unraveled Everything

That Morning at Drop Off

Three years ago on my birthday, I gave myself the tiniest gift. Two hours.

I dropped my 2½-year-old August off at Romp n Roll while baby Ellis and I had what felt like pure luxury—a morning out together, just the two of us.

When I walked back in two hours later, the staff wasn't smiling.

"Your son was aggressive today," they said carefully. "He was pushing other children."

Mortified, I apologized profusely and left, unsure if we'd even finish out our other prepaid days.

What I saw when we got home broke something open in me.

I got everyone situated, made lunch, our usual routine. But August wasn't himself.

He was ghostly gray with dark purple circles around his eyes. Withdrawn. Lethargic. Everything sparked his flight response—the microwave beeping, Ellis crying, even me saying his name softly.

The thing that still gets me: I'm a nurse.

But nursing school teaches you about typical development milestones—not what autism or sensory processing differences actually look like in real life. When my own child was sitting there completely dysregulated, I had zero frame of reference for what I was seeing.

Which brings me to what I know now...

That "aggression"? Dysregulation. His nervous system desperately trying to create safety in chaos.

That gray face and those dark circles? Sensory overload. His little body crashing after being pushed way past its limits.

All those bouncy castles, flashing lights, loud music, crowds of kids? For August's sensory system, it was like being trapped in a tornado.

He wasn't being bad. He was drowning.

The Unraveling I Didn't See Coming

That day three years ago was the beginning of my complete unraveling.

The unraveling of my ableism—all the ways I'd been taught to see behaviors instead of needs.

The unraveling of my ignorance about how differently some children experience the world.

The unraveling of my professional confidence when it came to my own kid.

You know how they say doctors shouldn't treat their own family? Turns out there's wisdom in that. I had all the medical knowledge in the world, but I was too buried in my own life to see the signs right in front of me.

For months, I'd been asking our pediatrician for help. "August barely talks. Something feels different." Same response every time: "Wait and see. Boys develop slower."

And because I trusted the system I worked in, I waited. I doubted my instincts. I let other people tell me what I was seeing wasn't real.

But that day changed everything.

What That Terrible Birthday Actually Gave Me

Three years later, I can see that day clearly:

It wasn't the beginning of August being "difficult."

It wasn't the beginning of me failing as a mom.

It was the beginning of my awakening. The beginning of learning to see my child for who he actually is, not who I thought he should be.

It was the beginning of what's now Behind the Stims.

Today, as I write this, August is standing next to me playing magnetic checkers his own way—making up rules that actually make more sense than the original game. He's conversational now, has tools for when the world feels too loud.

I can't say confidently he'd be this way if I hadn't finally listened to what his nervous system was trying to tell me that day.

The System That Failed All of Us

Here's what nobody talks about: our healthcare system doesn't prepare anyone—not nurses, not parents, not even pediatricians—to recognize neurodivergence.

We're all flying blind, relying on outdated milestone charts and "wait and see" advice that leaves families drowning.

I had healthcare training, but none of it covered what sensory overload actually looks like. None of it explained dysregulation or meltdowns versus tantrums.

The system failed all of us that day. Me, August, and every other family being told to wait while their child struggles in plain sight.

If This Sounds Familiar

Maybe you're that parent right now. The one being told to wait while your gut screams somethings different. The one getting those looks from daycare staff. The one questioning everything you think you know about your child.

Trust what you're seeing. Even if you don't have the words for it yet. Even if everyone else is telling you to wait.

Your child's nervous system is trying to communicate something. Listen to it.

That terrible birthday three years ago? It cracked my world wide open. What felt like everything falling apart was actually everything finally coming together.

Sometimes the worst days become the most important ones.

This year we celebrated my 40th Birthday together, at a place that brings us both Stims + Smiles, on a boat…

Until next time Keep Stimming + Smiling