When Matthias was diagnosed with infantile autism and with a moderate intellectual disability, our world changed overnight. Everything became unpredictable — except for one thing: his love for Shaun the Sheep.
We tried so many things to comfort him. I introduced him to Paw Patrol, Barney and Friends, even other sensory-friendly shows. But no matter what I tried, he always came back to the same quiet world of Shaun, Bitzer, and the rest of the farm.
There’s something about Shaun the Sheep’s silent storytelling that speaks directly to Matthias’s heart. Maybe it’s the lack of dialogue — no pressure to understand words or conversations, just pure emotion, rhythm, and visual humor. Maybe it’s the consistency — the familiar farm, the soft colors, the goofy routines. Or maybe it’s just Shaun himself — silly, kind, a little rebellious, but always lovable.
Shaun isn’t just a cartoon in our home. He’s a safe space. A comfort during seizures. A friend during long hospital stays. A tiny light when days feel uncertain.
Some time ago, Matthias received a Shaun the Sheep stuffed toy from a dear friend named Peter. And it was as if Shaun had come to life in his arms. He simply loves it. Every time Peter visits, a special smile appears on Matthias’s face — one you only see when pure love and happiness are present. A smile that says, “You know me. You see me.”
To this day, Season 1 and 2 remain his favorites. And I no longer try to change it. Because in a world that often feels chaotic, if Shaun brings him peace — that’s more than enough for me.
”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.
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.
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🌟 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.
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.
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.
Everyday with Special Strength 