Navigating the Holidays When Your Holiday Looks Different

Every year in our neighborhood, the HOA puts on a Halloween party. The kids have a costume contest, and the parents get to mingle before trick-or-treating begins. We’ve gone to the party four years in a row.

The first year we lived here, Jake was only 18 months old, and it was easy to carry him around and “fit in.” He even won costume of the year as Jake from State Farm. I remember feeling like maybe we could do this maybe we’d be that family, smiling at the party, waving to neighbors, just… normal.

But now Jake is five and a half. He’s not so easy to carry anymore, and autism stands out more than it once did. He also has a little sister who’s three and ready to take on the world or at least the neighborhood candy circuit.

That night, Jake had a meltdown before we even left the house. His costume felt wrong. His routine was off. The excitement in the air was too much. We considered not going, but I could feel the disappointment brewing in both kids so we pushed through, like we always do.

At the party, Jake wanted to swing. But another child was already on the swing, and when I said we needed to wait, he crumbled. So there I stood in the parking lot, one child sobbing in my arms, another tugging at my hand, and a crowd of families laughing just a few feet away. I felt invisible and completely alone.

Instead of forcing it, we left. We skipped the costume contest and went trick-or-treating on our own. No expectations. No pressure. Just us.

And suddenly, the magic came back.

Jake walked up to each door, took one or two pieces of candy, and even said “thank you” or “happy Halloween.” His sister skipped down the sidewalks, thrilled to be included. There was no meltdown, no crowd, no noise just quiet joy.

I realized that the night hadn’t gone “wrong.” It had just gone differently.

But as we walked home, I felt that familiar ache. Jake is now four feet tall he looks seven, not five. And I couldn’t help but wonder: What does autism trick-or-treating look like when he’s twelve? Will neighbors still smile kindly when he doesn’t say “trick or treat”? Will people still offer patience? Will they still see him as a child deserving of joy?

When the Season Keeps Going

After Halloween ends, the world rushes straight into Thanksgiving and Christmas. For families like ours, that can be where the real emotional marathon begins.

Every invitation, every plan, every “you should come!” moment requires calculation: Will it be too loud? Too crowded? Too long? Too unpredictable?

And more often than not, we say no or we say yes and end up leaving early. Sometimes we create our own quiet versions of the holidays, just us, tucked away from the noise. It’s peaceful, but it can also be incredibly isolating. You scroll past photos of big family gatherings and wonder if anyone realizes that inclusion takes planning, patience, and heart  things that can’t be captured in a snapshot.

When Holidays Hurt (and Why It’s Not Your Fault)

Holidays can sometimes suck when you have an autistic child. Not because of your child but because the world isn’t designed for theirs.

It’s the noise, the crowds, the transitions, the sensory overload yes.
But it’s also the subtle, constant reminder that your family doesn’t fit the mold.

The hardest part of the holidays is the expectation.
We expect our kids to wear the costume.
We expect them to say the words, to follow the plan, to feel the magic the way we did as kids.
We expect it to look a certain way.
And when it doesn’t we grieve the version we thought we’d have.

That grief is real, even when it’s mixed with gratitude. It’s the “both/and” of parenting an autistic child: loving them so fiercely it hurts, while sometimes wishing the world would just make things a little easier

Reclaiming What Matters

But maybe the magic isn’t gone. Maybe it’s just hiding under the weight of everyone else’s expectations including our own.

Maybe it’s in the quiet moments, not the planned ones.
In the one piece of candy politely taken.
In the swing that finally opens up after the meltdown.
In the car ride home when the music is low and your child hums softly in the back seat.

Our holidays don’t have to be Pinterest-perfect to be meaningful.
They can be simple, sensory-friendly, slow, and still full of love.

Different doesn’t mean broken. It means ours.

Letting Go (and Leaning In)

If your holidays feel heavy this year, I want you to know this:
You’re not behind. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re not alone.

It’s okay to skip the events that don’t work for your family.
It’s okay to say no to traditions that cause more stress than joy.
It’s okay to make your own rules or none at all.

Your child’s way of experiencing the holidays is just as valid as anyone else’s.

So light the candles early. Eat breakfast for dinner. Let the wrapping paper stay on the floor. The holidays don’t have to look like everyone else’s  they just have to feel like love.