They Call Us Resilient
They say it like it’s a compliment. Like it’s something admirable. Like it’s proof that we’re handling things well.
“You’re so resilient.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“You make it look easy.”
And I understand the intention. I really do. But every time I hear it, it feels slightly misplaced - because resilience was never the goal.
Resilience was the requirement.
No one asks why parents like me have to be this adaptable, this persistent, this constantly bracing and recalibrating.
No one asks why raising a child with additional needs - needs that are real, but not always visible, not always “severe enough” to trigger support - requires this level of navigation.
Because my child is not the version people picture when they think of “high needs.”
He’s bright. He’s capable. He can hold conversations, make good grades, and in the right environment, he thrives.
And because of that, the system often decides he’s fine.
But “fine” doesn’t account for the overwhelm.
It doesn’t account for the sensory buildup that explodes “unexpectedly”.
It doesn’t account for the effort it takes him to hold it together in environments that aren’t built for how his brain works.
It doesn’t account for what happens when he can’t anymore.
So we exist in this in-between space. Not “severe enough” for automatic support. Not “typical enough” to move through the system without friction.
And that space? It’s where families like mine learn to become everything.
Not because we want to.
Because we have to.
We become translators of policies that weren’t written with our kids in mind. We become advocates in rooms where we’re subtly told we’re asking for too much. We become the bridge between what our child experiences and what the system is willing to recognize.
We learn the language. We gather the documentation. We anticipate the pushback. We carry the weight of knowing that if we don’t push, things don’t happen.
And if we push too hard, we risk being labeled difficult.
This is what people are calling resilience. But it doesn’t feel like resilience. It feels like constant adjustment in response to systems that only know how to respond to extremes.
Because here’s the truth: If the systems in place actually worked - if they recognized that a child doesn’t have to be failing to need support, that regulation is something to be taught instead of punished, that access shouldn’t require crisis - then parents like me wouldn’t have to live in this constant state of advocacy.
We wouldn’t have to prove need over and over again. We wouldn’t have to fill in the gaps. We wouldn’t have to become this adaptable.
This isn’t about being exceptional parents. It’s about navigating exceptional gaps. And until those gaps are addressed, we will keep showing up this way.
Not because we’re naturally resilient. But because the alternative is letting our children go unsupported in systems that were supposed to help them.