When my son Joseph was born in 1992, I became a superhero overnight. Every new mother feels it — that instant surge of protectiveness, the sense that you could leap tall buildings for this tiny person. But when Joseph was diagnosed on the autism spectrum, my superhero mode didn’t just kick in, it became a permanent way of life. And it nearly killed me.
For years, I ran on fumes and willpower. I could go long stretches with almost no sleep. I held my bladder like a champion and ate whatever was left on Joseph’s plate. I spent my mornings writing detailed notes to his teachers in a little notebook — we didn’t have cell phones or email back then — and spent my afternoons anxiously awaiting the notebook’s return with an account of his day. I organized sleepover birthday parties hoping he’d find a friend. I fought administrators who tried to keep him out of programs he deserved to be in. I researched therapies, attended support groups, and advocated at every turn.
What I didn’t do was stop.
I never considered slowing down to catch my breath. I didn’t know that even superheroes need to refuel. The only time I slept deep and hard was when I was completely exhausted and my body just gave out. As soon as I could raise my head off the pillow, away I went until the next time exhaustion overtook me. I carried a constant pit of despair in my stomach, but I used every ounce of will I had to keep moving forward. If you had asked me how I was doing, I would have told you I was fine. I believed it.
My immune system knew better. At 39, I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It almost took my life. Diabetes is something I will need to manage every single day for the rest of my life — a permanent consequence of years spent ignoring every signal my body sent me.
You’d think that would have been enough of a wake-up call. It wasn’t. I ate better, I kept working out, but there was a piece of the puzzle I didn’t want to see. I resisted my inner healing work like a true champion. I won the gold medal in avoiding my own deep pain.
Then came the hives. I was hospitalized for a case of full-body hives so severe that my doctor said he had never seen anything like it. They weren’t caused by a food allergy. They were the physical expression of frazzled nerves, constant anxiety, deep fear, and unrelenting emotional pain that I had been stuffing down for years. It took eight EpiPen shots, multiple rounds of steroids, and careful monitoring of my diabetes before the hives finally subsided. Even then, the physical recovery took months, and I still hadn’t begun the real work of healing my heart.
I tell this story not because I’m proud of it, but because I know I’m not alone in it. In the years since I became a certified life coach and began working with mothers of children on the autism spectrum, I have seen my story reflected back to me again and again. The details change, but the pattern doesn’t: a mother pours every ounce of her energy into her child’s wellbeing and leaves nothing for herself. She believes, consciously or not, that mothers are supposed to be exhausted and last in line to eat and sleep. She believes that self-care is selfish, that any time or energy directed inward is time and energy stolen from her child.
It’s a lie. A dangerous one.
What I’ve learned — the hard way — is that self-compassion is not self-indulgence. It is the foundation that makes everything else possible. When I finally began doing my inner work through my life coaching training, I started to experience a kind of deep joy I hadn’t felt in twenty years. I learned to pay attention to how I spoke to myself. I learned to nurture my whole self — mind, body, and spirit — not just check tasks off an endless list while my energy and joy were sucked dry.
I now ask the mothers I coach a simple question: How full is your energy tank when you begin each day? Imagine looking at your car’s gas gauge. Is it full? Half-full? Close to empty? Most of them laugh, because they already know the answer.
Wherever your gauge is, it can be fuller. And the fuller it is, the better you are for your child, your relationships, and every other part of your life. You cannot guide someone else through the wilderness if you’re collapsing on the trail. Your child needs you healthy, present, and whole — not running on adrenaline and denial until your body finally forces you to stop.
I was in my fifties before I truly understood this. It doesn’t matter where you are on your journey or how long you’ve been running in superhero mode. It’s never too late to start. But please, learn from my story and don’t wait for your body to send you the message the way mine did. Meet yourself where you are at, take a breath, and begin.
Here are four places to start today:
Put your oxygen mask on first
I once heard the airplane oxygen mask metaphor on the Oprah Winfrey Show and it changed the way I think about mothering. If the masks drop and you give yours to your child first, you lose consciousness, and then you’re no good to anyone. The same principle applies to daily life. Before you open the laptop, pack the lunch, or make the call to the school, do one thing that fills your own tank. It can be as small as three slow, deep breaths with your eyes closed. The point is to make yourself first, even for sixty seconds.
Catch your self-talk
For one full day, notice what you say to yourself about yourself. Write it down. I used to tell myself things like “Nice one, Brigitte — that was so stupid.” I would never speak to another person that way, but I spoke to myself that way constantly without even realizing it. Once you see the pattern on paper, begin replacing each harsh statement with the kind of language you’d use with a friend. This single practice was one of the most powerful shifts in my healing.
Quiet the crazy monkeys
I call the anxious, catastrophic thoughts that follow mothers through the day “crazy monkeys of fear.” When they start swinging — What if he can’t manage on his own? What happens when I’m gone? — I use a visual mantra. I picture myself floating with the current of a river instead of thrashing against it, smiling, enjoying the view. I take a breath and feel the stress release. It sounds simple, but practiced consistently, it works. Create your own visual — whatever image brings you a feeling of peace and flow — and return to it every time the monkeys get loud.
Make a self-compassion craving list
Sit down and write every act of kindness and self-love you are daydreaming about. Don’t judge the list. Don’t rank it. Now pick one item and imagine doing it for someone you love — feel that warm, generous energy. Then turn it around and give it to yourself. Just one item, today. Tomorrow, pick another. Gradually, self-compassion stops feeling selfish and starts feeling like what it actually is: survival.
Author Bio
Brigitte M. Volltrauer Shipman is an author, life coach, speaker, and teacher. She specializes in coaching mothers with children diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). Her current book is A Mother’s Guide Through Autism, Through The Eyes of The Guided. She is also the author of Is It a God Thing?
Joseph D. Shipman, despite grim predictions by some following his autism diagnosis, gained recognition working for numerous radio stations, and currently gives time to various political and social causes, including autism advocacy. He enjoys playing video games, spending time with friends and family, and studying and talking about various topics consisting of, but not limited to, art, history, and philosophy. A Mother’s Guide Through Autism, Part II: Through the Eyes of the Guided is Joseph’s debut as an author.
Learn more at mothersguidetoautism.
