Samantha’s blog: The 15-Year-Old and Me

My child is 15 and has autism, learning disabilities, limited communication skills and vocabulary. He still needs help with basic tasks like washing and dressing, and he cannot be left on his own. The world is loud and fast, and for safety, he needs me close—especially outside where roads, crowds, crying children, dogs and surprises are around every corner. He’s grown bigger and taller than me, which is both miraculous and a little intimidating, because the strength that comes with that height is real and present, and it’s part of the daily reality we navigate together.

Yes, there’s grief. I catch myself noticing other 15-year-olds who seem to be stepping into adolescence with a lighter touch—their days filled with typical teen hobbies, sports, social plans, school exams. It’s a quiet ache, a reminder that our path isn’t the same. I miss some of the “usual” moments I see other families share, but part of owning this life is recognising the longing and choosing to stay present anyway. I’m not asking for pity; I’m acknowledging the truth: my son learns and grows at his own pace, and I am here to meet him there, every day and become an advocate for him.

Alongside the grief comes the full-time, high-demand care role. It’s not a job you clock out of at 5 p.m.—it’s a 24/7 kind of work that demands vigilance, patience, and a steady plan. The responsibility can feel enormous, and yes, I wrestle with parent guilt sometimes. Am I giving him enough chances to be independent? Am I protecting him too much? Am I letting him lead when I should step in? Those questions don’t disappear, but I’ve learned to hold them in a way that helps, not harms. I remind myself that loving someone with extra needs often means taking on decisions that your typical parent might not face—and that’s okay. It’s also a path to discovering strengths I didn’t know I had.

If you’re in this boat, you know the daily toolkit I’ve built over the years. Some of it might feel like “why is this happening to me?” at first, but it becomes a set of practical skills that translate beyond home:

• Patience: Slower, calmer so we do not rush toward a moment that may trigger fear or frustration.
• Organization: Routines, visual schedules, checklists, and “what comes next” planning become second nature.
• Problem solving: Each day brings a new little puzzle, how to handle a sensory meltdown in a new place, how to adapt a plan when plans change.
• Forward planning: Thinking days, weeks, and even months ahead to keep him safe, engaged, and learning.
• Communication: Interpreting his signals, translating his needs and advocating when the right support isn’t obvious.

These aren’t just caregiving skills; they’re transferable to work and life. They show up as better teamwork, clearer expectations, and a steadier hand when the going gets busy.

In the workplace, I’ve learned to talk about it—not as a burden to hide, but as a reality that informs how I show up. Our company runs a Take a Break group for carers, a space where people can share the weight of caregiving and hear from others who are walking the same road. It’s not a “woe is me” club; it’s practical and supportive. In the group, I can talk about my child’s needs, share the challenges I’m facing, and learn what has worked for others—without fear of judgment. Being open about these realities at work has a few tangible benefits:

• It normalises caregiving in a professional setting, which reduces stigma.
• It invites reasonable accommodations, like flexible scheduling or meeting times that don’t hinge on a perfect, neurotypical rhythm.
• It builds a support network of colleagues who understand the impact of caregiving on energy, focus, and planning.

If you are concealing your caring role in the work place consider opening up to colleagues:

• Be honest about what you can and can’t do. Share enough to help others understand how caregiving touches your work life.
• Bring concrete examples of what would help your day-to-day at work (flexible hours for doctor’s visits, quiet spaces for de-stimulation, time-blocked focus periods).

It’s not always easy to ask for help, but it’s essential. Self-care isn’t selfish; it’s the oxygen that lets me be present for him when he needs me most. When I’m rested and supported, I’m better at keeping him safe, calm, and engaged.

What keeps me hopeful is what I’ve learned along the way: every small victory matters. A step he can take without fear, a new skill he can demonstrate, a morning where we both wake with less anxiety. Those moments accumulate into real growth and a sense of progress that isn’t measured by typical milestones but by the confidence and joy we build together.

To other parents and caregivers walking this path: you are not alone, and your life, your work, your love, your daily courage—is valid and valuable. The road is different, not lesser. Your child’s unique way of learning and moving through the world is a form of strength you are guiding and protecting. And in your own way, you are helping the world understand better, too—one day at a time.

You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, and you don’t have to pretend everything’s easy to be a good parent. You’re already doing something remarkable—you’re showing up, every day, for someone you love.

Samantha is a member of ‘Take a Break’, an inclusive employee-led committee in one of the UK’s leading insurance companies. The group brings together employees who have caring roles outside of work, to share challenges, advice and ideas and to support one another.

Tags:
• Families
• Carers and Caring