Navigating Autism Together Through Social Emotional Learning
This guide offers autism parenting insights, practical strategies, community support, SEL tools, empowerment techniques, and authentic literature to foster understanding, growth, and connection.
If you’re feeling a quiet sense of dread mixed with the holiday excitement, you’re not alone. Thanksgiving can feel like the ultimate test for autism families , a day packed with sensory landmines, social expectations, and the pressure to create “perfect” memories.
It’s 2 AM the night before our family gathering, and I’m lying awake running through worst-case scenarios in my head.
What if Adrián or Guillermo has a meltdown in front of everyone?What if someone makes another comment about our parenting?What if I can’t keep it together and end up crying in the bathroom like last year?What if Guillermo refuses to eat anything?
You know how many of those purchases we actually still use regularly?
Ten. Out of maybe twenty items.
The rest? They’re collecting dust in a closet, unused and forgotten. Some never even made it out of the packaging because my boys had zero interest in them.
I want to tell you something that took me years to admit out loud.
Most of the meltdowns my kids had at family gatherings were not random. They weren’t “behavior.” They weren’t disrespect. They were a nervous system screaming, “I can’t handle this anymore.”
Our first Friends-Giving was a disaster.
We hosted. We thought we were “ready enough.”
We were not.
Within an hour, Adrián was hiding in his room with tears in his eyes, Guille had not been born yet, and Luis and I were exchanging those silent parent glances that say, Abort mission. This is not working.
I’ll never forget the day I truly understood what a meltdown felt like for Adrián.
We were at the grocery store, just a quick trip to grab dinner ingredients. Within minutes, my then-three-year-old son was on the floor, hands over his ears, tears streaming down his face. People stared. Someone whispered “tantrum.” An older woman shook her head disapprovingly.
Last month, my friend Zara texted me a photo that stopped me in my tracks.
It was her nine-year-old autistic daughter, Maria, clutching one of our books to her chest with tears streaming down her face. Before I could panic, Zara’s next message came through:
“She just finished reading Autism: Calming the Chaos and noticed Adrián stims like she does. She looked up at me and said, ‘Mama, he’s like me. I’m not the only one.'”
You know that feeling when you walk into a crowded mall during the holidays? The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a cacophony of voices bouncing off the walls, the overwhelming smell of cinnamon pretzels mixing with department store perfume?
Now imagine feeling that way in a regular grocery store. Or your own kitchen. Or sitting in a classroom.
I want to start with a moment I don’t usually talk about.
A few years ago, I was sitting on the floor of my son’s bedroom, surrounded by books that were supposed to “help” him, the kind with perfectly behaved cartoon kids and neat, tidy resolutions. You know the type: the stories that feel nothing like real life.
