Hi, I’m Nikki. I’m An Autism Mom.

November 24, 2024 Nikki Sammet

Hi, I’m Nikki. I’m an Autism mom.

A sentence I never thought I’d say—yet one that has transformed me more than I could have ever imagined.

When Jake was diagnosed as Autistic two years ago, I thought the life I knew was over.

And in many ways—it was.

If I could go back to March 23, 2022, and tell myself one thing, it would be this: What if it’s greater than you ever imagined?

When we receive an autism diagnosis, the world tells us, “Here are the things you need to do to fix the problem.”

But no one tells us the truth: It’s not a problem at all.

Neurodivergence is simply a different way of being.

A swan in a room full of ducks.

It’s often misunderstood.

It is misunderstood.

Even by me.

I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew and then relearn from scratch. And here’s the twist: I am also neurodivergent.

Diagnosed with ADHD at 10 years old, I spent decades trying to fit myself into a world designed for neurotypical brains. It’s taken me until now—at 36 years old—to truly understand how this impacts me, not through the lens of the DSM, but as a whole person.

This neurodiversity journey has been transformative for our entire family—but especially for me.

Jarrod, my husband, has always lived in the glass is half full mindset, while I’ve often lived in the glass is half empty. It took unraveling my own ADHD diagnosis and challenging my limiting beliefs to reach the point where I can now fully believe in Jake’s limitless potential.

I’ve learned to accept myself, to embrace my strengths, and to let go of the narratives that once held me back. Because the truth is, the only person who can limit me—is me.

Jake is limitless.

Whenever I find myself doubting him, I think back to something we call “Rice Theory.”

It’s a little phrase Jarrod and I coined during a trip to Disney World. Jake, who is selective about foods, ate rice at dinner—without us asking him to try it. It was a small moment, but it reminded us of a powerful truth: Just because we think he won’t doesn’t mean he can’t.

Jake has taught me so much about compassion, empathy, and the innate capability of all people—no matter how they present to the world.

Being a neurodiversity-affirming parent means believing in your child’s potential, no matter their diagnosis.

It means loving, embracing, and empowering them to be exactly who they are in a world that often tells them they should be someone else.

It doesn’t mean there won’t be sleepless nights of worry or moments of doubt.

It means learning to live in the grey.

It means accepting your story while also carrying grief.

Both can exist together.

It’s normal to wonder what could have been or to compare your child to their typically developing peers. That doesn’t make you a bad parent. It makes you human.

What I’ve realized, though, is that it’s not my child I wish I could change—it’s the world.

We want a world that is more accommodating, more accepting of differences. And because it’s not, it’s up to us to challenge the narrative that being different means being less.

We are the direct voice of feedback to our kids. They are their own biggest fans, and we have the responsibility to return the favor.

We get to fill their minds with dreams, beliefs, and expectations. So let’s do it right.

So, Hi, I’m Nikki. I’m a proud Autism mom.

I’m in awe of my son’s zest for learning, his love for his family, and his unshakable curiosity about the world.

Jake isn’t “getting better.” He’s growing into himself.

He will never outgrow autism. He will grow alongside it.

Who Jake is at 4 will not be who he is at 6. A year ago—or even a month ago—I might not have believed that.

I still have my moments of doubt. My faith in him is becoming stronger than the doubt, but it doesn’t erase it entirely.

I still have what I call grief bubbles and grief bombs—moments that knock the air out of my lungs.

I still lie awake at 2 a.m., wondering how it will all unfold and what the future will look like.

And yet, I keep getting confirmation that this is exactly how it was supposed to be. That our family was designed this way for a reason.

I’m not saying this path is easy.

I’m saying that I’m finally in acceptance.

My son is Autistic.

And it’s not a death sentence.

If anything, it’s a life sentence—an opportunity to see the beauty of the human experience in its fullest form.

And for that, as painful as this journey can be, I am so grateful.

April is Autism Acceptance Month, but my hope is that one day, acceptance becomes the norm—not something we celebrate for a month, but something we live every day.

I feel a deep responsibility to share my story—not just as an Autism mom, but as a person living the neurodiversity experience.