The Good Minutes Count

I came across a post this morning that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t dressed up with hashtags or soft edges. It was raw, uncomfortable, and honest about life with severe autism. I recognised more of my own world in it than I usually admit out loud.

People often talk about autism in ways that are hopeful or uplifting, and I understand that. There’s value in celebrating strengths and raising awareness. There’s space for that. But there also needs to be space for the other side – the reality that can be messy, relentless, and exhausting. The side that doesn’t always make it into campaigns or social posts because it doesn’t fit the positive narrative.

The writer described their life as “having a ten-stone baby who can run really fast.” It made me laugh for a second, mostly because of how painfully accurate it was for them – and, in parts, for us too. The constant alertness, the safety checks, the bruises that appear from nowhere, the nights that never really end. You love your child more than anything, but it’s love wrapped in permanent vigilance.

That’s our normal. It’s not easy to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. It’s planning life around meltdowns, sensory overloads, and unpredictable triggers. It’s pushing a specialist buggy that weighs ten stone with my son in it because it’s the only way we can safely get out and get some mileage in. It’s running not to escape, but to breathe.

At the moment I can’t even do that. I’m twelve or so weeks into an injury that refuses to settle. Physio has started – strength is good, range of motion not so much. The lingering pain is likely down to how the scar tissue has set and the tightness it’s caused. Running was my outlet, my one stretch of control in a life where control rarely exists. So right now, I’m learning to sit with stillness and accept that some days the win is simply getting through them.

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing it because the original post deserved to be amplified, and because there are so many families who will read it and quietly nod in recognition. The ones who don’t post because they don’t have the words or the energy. The ones who still find the good minutes and hold on tight to them.

If you’re one of those families, you’re not invisible – I see you. What you do every day matters. It’s hard, it’s often thankless, but it’s love in its truest form. And if the good minutes outnumber the bad ones by even a few, that’s a win.