When June 11th 2021, arrived the day of our final meeting to hear our daughter’s diagnosis our whole family was on edge. It felt monumental, like the end of one long chapter and the start of something new. And I embraced it with hope.
Oddly enough, we were hoping for an autism diagnosis. It might sound strange to wish for something most people fear, but we knew it wouldn’t change our daughter. She would still be the same bright, funny, and loving child we adored. What it could change, though, was how the world understood here and how she understood herself. And we promised to always support her.
The drive to the health center was short, but the weight of that moment felt enormous. We had waited so long through endless delays caused by the pandemic and this day felt like a new beginning.
When we finally stepped out of that meeting, all three of us breathed a sigh of relief. There were tears, of course, but they were the good kind. We were grateful grateful for the clarity, for the team who had taken the time to really see our daughter, and for the simple fact that we were finally being heard. We knew we were lucky.
Our area had only one speech and a language professional trained to assess autism in girls and she was brilliant. Autism in girls is so often missed or misread, but we had been blessed with experts who didn’t let that happen. She helped us understand, advocate, and thrive.
Still, the relief was mixed with sadness. As wonderful as the diagnosis team was, we were being discharged from their care immediately. No follow-up, no point of contact, no long-term support. It wasn’t their fault just another reflection of how underfunded and overstretched the system is. We could only hope that her school would continue to support her, even though they too were struggling with limited staff and resources, especially after the toll the pandemic had taken.
I’ll always be grateful to her primary school. They were the first to help us access the autism pathway, even before anyone knew for sure. They believed in Bronwyn and treated her with patience and kindness when others might have written her off as “difficult.” Back then, we suspected sensory processing disorder, but we didn’t yet understand that it was part of something bigger part of her autism.
Now, at nearly twelve, Bronwyn has lived her whole life navigating a world that wasn’t built for her. A world that makes her feel “different” or “weird.” A world that too often lacks understanding. She’s been called cruel names, mocked for wearing noise-reducing headphones, and questioned for needing sensory toys or a pass to leave class when she’s overwhelmed.
For a long time, she resisted special accommodation. She didn’t want to feel like she was cheating, as if needing help made her less than anyone else. That kind of self-doubt comes from living in a society that still struggles to accept neurodiversity. People often can’t see the challenges of invisible disabilities, and because of that, they forget empathy.
Then one evening, she messaged me a poem on WhatsApp. I remember sitting there in awe as I read it. Bronwyn has always loved writing, but this poem was different. It was her truth, raw and unfiltered. I asked if I could show it to her dad, and when I did, he was just as moved as I was.
The poem had two parts before and after the diagnosis and together they painted the journey she’d been on. A few days later, she asked me to share it on my Facebook page. I didn’t change a single word. And the response was overwhelmingly positive.
In her poem, she wrote about how she used to think she was broken—how clothes made her skin itch, how noise hurt her ears, how she felt alone. But she also wrote about finding people who understood her, and about no longer hiding who she is. Her words were strong, heartbreaking, and defiant.
Bronwyn’s poem reminded me that autism doesn’t define as just a part of her, one she’s finally learning to embrace. Our journey didn’t end with that diagnosis. It began there, with the understanding that she doesn’t need fixing. She just needs a world willing to see her, exactly as she is.
And we’re working on creating it.
