Everyday with Special Strength

Category: Personal Stories

  • From Judgment to Empathy: One Small Necklace Made a Big Difference

    From Judgment to Empathy: One Small Necklace Made a Big Difference

    I’ve known about the sunflower lanyard for a while. It’s a quiet signal—a way to say, “Please be patient, not everything is visible.” But deep down, I never really wanted Matthias to wear it.

    Maybe it’s because he never keeps it on. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to add another label to his already complicated world. Or maybe… I just wasn’t ready. Every time he took it off and threw it somewhere, it felt like another reminder that nothing about this is simple.

    Shopping with Matthias was never simple. Even a quick trip to the store could feel overwhelming. He would run around, scream, hug strangers, smell people’s clothes, and sometimes grab things and toss them into other people’s carts. I never knew what to expect. One day, a man got so upset that he pushed Matthias away. He fell. Sat on the floor, confused. And my heart broke.

    After that, I stopped bringing him with me. Or if I had no choice, I placed my 42-kilo, five-foot-tall boy in the shopping cart—because it was the only way I could keep him safe.

    Then this summer, with school out and just the two of us together, I reached a point where I told myself: maybe… maybe it’s time.

    So I put the old sunflower lanyard around his neck again.

    Matthias sitting calmly, wearing a sunflower lanyard, while people around show understanding and patience.
    A simple necklace that changed how the world saw my son.


    And something shifted.

    He ran up to an elderly woman in the walking street, kissed her cheek—his way of connecting. I held my breath. But the woman just smiled gently and said, “He is very allowed.”

    Later, while I was paying at the checkout, Matthias sat on the floor. Calm. Unbothered. And no one scolded him. No one looked at me like I was failing. No one asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

    I honestly think it was the necklace.

    It didn’t change Matthias. It didn’t change me. 
    But somehow… it changed the world around us.

    And that’s the quiet power of visibility. Not for attention. Not for sympathy. But simply to say, “Please see us. Please understand.”

    If you’ve ever wondered why someone wears a sunflower lanyard—this is why. 
    Not because our children need fixing. 
    But because society still has so much to learn about invisible differences.

    🌻


  • Just Me and Him

    Just Me and Him

    ”Me and Matthias, between storms. On days like this, you’d never know what we’ve been through. But I do. And I hold it — just like I hold him.”

    Every parent has moments they never forget. For me, it was the day my son, who has nonverbal autism and epilepsy, had seizures that shook our world. One ended with a frantic call to emergency services. The other with a medically induced coma. This is the story of both — and how they changed me.

    It always starts quietly.

    Matthias becomes still – unnaturally quiet. I’ve learned to recognize that silence now. It’s the kind that holds its breath before the storm.

    Then, the vomiting starts. His body rejects everything. He grows limp, like a doll – soft, heavy, unresponsive.

    And I already know:

    An episode is coming.

    The first time… I was alone.

    I called everywhere. I rang every name I could think of. No one answered. Maybe they were busy. Maybe they did not hear the phone. But at that moment – in the middle of my child slipping away from me – I realized something terrifying:

    I was alone in this.

    That’s when I called 112. I didn’t even know what to say. I just cried into the line, ‘’My son… he’s not responding.’’

    The ambulance came quickly. They moved fast – pulse check, heart monitor, epilepsy drops, temperature probes. Tubes. Wires. Words I did not understand.

    And still.. his eyes kept on rolling. No focus. No response.

    I sat there, watching him be helped and not knowing what would come next.

    That was the moment – the real one – when the weight of it all settled into my chest.

    This is our life now.

    And even though I have love, even though I have help sometimes, when these moments come.. it’s me and him.

    Me holding him.

    Me holding it together.

    Of course, they came.

    The people I tried to reach – they called back. They showed up. But those 15 minutes in between…

    That silence – of unanswered calls, of Matthias slipping away, of waiting for the ambulance to arrive – it  changed something in me.

    I was deadly scared.

    I did not know what to do – only  that I had to keep holding him, keep watching his face, keep whispering ‘’Mama’s here’’ even though I was not sure he could hear me.

    Time did not pass like normal time. It stretched out, slow and cruel.

    And in the space – in that gap between dialing and arrival – I understood something I hadn’t wanted to admit before:

    When it’s most urgent, it’s just me and him.

    Not because people don’t care.

    Not because I don’t have support.

    But because life with a child like Matthias moves faster than most people know.

    Epilepsy does not wait.

    Vomiting, unconsciousness, seizures – they don’t come on a schedule.

    And when they do.. I don’t get to panic. I don’t get to fall apart.

    I become everything.

    The voice, the nurse, the calm, the hands, the anchor.

    Later, when we thought the worst had passed, it got worse.

    The seizures didn’t stop. His body would not rest. His brain would not slow down.

    That’s when they decided to put him to sleep.

    Matthias, resting in the quiet after the storm. A moment that broke me — and shaped me.

    Medically induced coma.

    Twenty-four hours. Tubes down his throat. Numbers blinking.

    I watched as they silenced his body to protect his brain – and it felt like watching a light inside him flicker into stillness.

    That was even worse.

    Worse than the ambulance. Worse than the vomiting. Worse than the unanswered calls.

    Because this time, they took over.

    And I had to sit by, powerless, while machines did the work of keeping my boy alive.

    I watched his chest rise and fall under layers of plastic and wires, wondering if he could still feel my hand.

    I whispered prayers into his skin.

    I counted the hours until I could hear his voice again – even just a sigh, even just his eyes opening.

    I knew he was strong. But even the strongest needs rest.

    And that day, I broke – quietly, completely.

    I did not cry loudly.

    I did not scream.

    I just sat next to his bed and said his name until my voice trembled.

    Because if he was fighting silently, I needed to stay steady on the outside – for him.

  • ”Slow Down, See the Magic: Finding Joy in Everyday Moments”

    ”Slow Down, See the Magic: Finding Joy in Everyday Moments”

    When you slow down, the magic shows up.

    Life moves fast. Most days, it’s easy to miss the small things — the quiet moments that actually matter most.

    But if you pause, even for a second, you’ll see: magic is everywhere.

    I see it in Matthias — in the way his face lights up when he hears the sound of car keys hitting the box, knowing his favorite stepdad is home. I see it in the hugs he gives his sister, quiet little celebrations of love. I see it in the sunshine smile he saves just for me when I pick him up from school.

    Magic isn’t loud. It hides in the everyday — in a glance, a laugh, a gentle touch, a familiar sound.

    It’s not about chasing big moments. It’s about noticing the little ones already happening all around us.

    Of course, not every day feels magical. Some days are messy and overwhelming. But choosing to slow down, even for a moment, opens up space to notice the small joys.

    Choosing to see the magic doesn’t mean ignoring the hard parts. It means trusting that even in the middle of them, something good can still grow.

    —

    An Invitation

    When was the last time you stopped to notice the little wonders around you?

    Today, try it. Pause. Breathe. Look around.

    Maybe it’s the sunlight streaming through your window. The sound of familiar keys coming home. A spontaneous hug. A shared laugh. A quiet moment that feels full and warm.

    These are the moments that make life sparkle — if we let them.

    Today, I’m choosing to slow down — and see the magic.

    Maybe you will too.

    —

    🌟 I’d love to hear from you!

    What small moment of magic have you noticed recently? Share it in the comments — let’s celebrate the everyday wonders together.

  • When Friends Leave: The Hidden Grief of Special Needs Motherhood

    There’s a grief that doesn’t have a name — the grief of loving your child deeply and still carrying a heavy sadness inside you. It’s the grief that slowly changes you, quietly, while the rest of the world keeps moving.

    When my son Matthias was born, I was introduced to a life I hadn’t prepared for. Matthias is a sweet, gentle boy. He’s nonverbal. He lives with epilepsy that surprises us with attacks, and his development is slow. Though he is ten years old, he is still measured between zero and two years old in his assessments. I love him more than anything in this world. And yet — loving him has come with a deep pain I didn’t expect.

    At first, I thought the hardest part would be the therapies, the appointments, the unknowns. But the real, unexpected heartbreak came in other forms — in quiet places where friendships used to be.

    You see, I didn’t lose friends because of Matthias.
    I lost friends because of the sadness they saw in me.

    There were moments I needed someone — anyone — to just sit with me, to listen without fixing, without judging. But I must have been too much for them. My pain was too loud, even when I wasn’t speaking it. And slowly, quietly, they disappeared.

    Some left without words.
    Some talked behind my back, like my sadness was something contagious.
    And that kind of leaving — the slow, silent kind — can sometimes hurt more than the original grief.

    I used to blame myself.
    I asked: Why am I experiencing this pain like this?
    Why can’t I just be happy?
    Why can’t I just be stronger?

    But here’s what I’m slowly learning — grief and love can live together.
    It’s not one or the other.
    Loving Matthias doesn’t cancel out the sadness of what could have been, the fear of what’s to come, or the loneliness that sneaks in between smiles.

    Motherhood, especially special needs motherhood, is full of contradictions.
    You can love your child more than life itself — and still grieve the life you imagined.
    You can be proud of every tiny milestone — and still ache for more.
    You can be strong for your child — and still feel broken inside.

    And none of this makes you a bad mother.

    If anything, it makes you more human. More real. More deeply connected to what it means to love without limits, even when it hurts.

    To the friends who couldn’t stay — I wish them well.
    But to the ones who do stay, or the ones I have yet to meet — I know now that they will be the kind of people who can sit in silence without trying to fix it. Who can witness grief and still see the love underneath it.

    To the mother reading this who feels alone — please know this:
    You are not broken.
    You are not failing.
    You are carrying a love that is deeper than words, and a strength that may not always feel strong, but still shows up, every single day.

    And that is more than enough.

    “Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.” — Unknown

    Thank you for reading. If this touched your heart, feel free to share it with another mom who needs to hear it. You are never alone.

  • Starting Over: Why I Created a Blog About Strength and Parenting

    There are moments in life when everything changes—and not in the way you planned.
    For me, starting over wasn’t a choice I expected to make. But life has a way of gently (or not so gently) leading us back to ourselves.
    This blog was born from one of those moments.

    Life Before

    Before Everyday with Special Strength, my days were filled with roles I had become used to: mother, partner, employee, caretaker, always holding things together. I was moving through life, doing what needed to be done—but somewhere in the routine, I had started to disappear from myself.

    The Shift

    Then came a pause.
    Maybe it was emotional, maybe it was circumstantial, maybe it was just my soul whispering, “slow down.”

    During this time, I found myself reflecting more deeply—about my son, Matthias, who has taught me so much without ever speaking a word. About what I wanted from life. About who I wanted to be—not just for others, but for myself.

    Why I Created the Blog

    Everyday with Special Strength isn’t just a blog.
    It’s a place where I can breathe.

    It’s where I can write the words I never say out loud. It’s where I honor the hard moments, the breakthroughs, the laughter, the silence.

    It’s for parents who feel alone. For mothers rediscovering their voices. For anyone navigating life when the path no longer looks like it used to.

    What You’ll Find Here

    You’ll find reflections on parenting a child with special needs.
    You’ll find real stories about starting over, letting go, and finding strength in unexpected places.
    You’ll find honesty, heart, and maybe, a sense that you’re not alone after all.

    Closing

    Starting over is hard.
    But it’s also sacred.

    And sometimes, the softest beginnings lead to the strongest chapters.

    Thank you for being here. I hope this space gives you something real to hold onto—because it’s already doing that for me.

    With strength and warmth,
    Chrisma

  • The Strength I Found Through My Son’s Eyes

    The Strength I Found Through My Son’s Eyes

    There are stories we expect to write as mothers — and then there are the ones that write us.

    This is mine.

    This is ours.

    Before I became a mom, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what strength looked like.

    I thought it meant pushing through. Holding things together. Doing it all. And doing it well.

    But then came Matthias.

    From the beginning, he challenged everything I thought I knew — not just about motherhood, but about myself. He didn’t follow the “expected” timelines. He asked for more of me than I thought I had to give — emotionally, mentally, sometimes physically. And yet, day by day, I grew.

    I grew in patience, even on days when I had none.
    I grew in advocacy, when I had to speak up even though my voice was shaking.
    I grew in presence, when I learned that the best way to love him was simply to be with him, just as he is.

    Matthias doesn’t need me to be perfect. He needs me to show up. And in showing up for him — day after day — I discovered a new kind of strength. One that isn’t loud or showy. One that doesn’t look like “having it all together.” One that bends without breaking.

    I used to think strength was about never falling apart.
    Now I know — strength is choosing to get back up, even when you’re tired, even when no one’s watching.

    And the truth is, Matthias has taught me far more than I’ve taught him.
    His way of seeing the world reminds me to slow down. To find beauty in small things. To celebrate tiny victories. To keep believing.

    He is my reminder that strength comes in many forms.
    Strength is not always about standing tall. Sometimes, it’s about kneeling down, holding on, and seeing the world through the eyes of someone you love.

    ”Matthias has been my greatest teacher. Through his eyes, I found not only strength, but a deeper joy — one I would have missed if I hadn’t learned to see differently”.

    And maybe, if we are willing to look closely enough, we’ll find that the greatest strength of all comes not from what we do — but from how we love, and how we see.