Sometimes one of the hardest parts of parenting a child with special needs isn’t the appointments, the behaviors, or the never-ending logistics — it’s silently missing the person you used to be.

I still laugh about the day a friend stopped by and overheard my teenage daughter casually announce that I’m “not fun” — that I don’t know how to relax or be spontaneous. Before I could respond, my friend — the one who has been with me through three decades of life — absolutely lost it. Within seconds we were doubled over, gasping for breath, laughing like we used to — reckless, unfiltered, alive. She simply muttered our old code word — “crazy” — and we were gone.

She’s the friend who doesn’t need the backstory. One word and she knows everything.

But life took us in different directions. She moved away. I got pulled into survival mode.

While she was building a new chapter, I was drowning in medical appointments, IEP paperwork, insurance battles, sensory plans, school meetings, and the thousand daily decisions no one prepares you for. She tried to listen. I tried to stay connected. We loved each other fiercely. But it was different. Our rhythms no longer matched.

And if I’m honest — there was grief in that shift too.

The grief of watching friend circles move on with ease — vacations, girls’ nights, normal stress.

The quiet realization: my life now required a different kind of stamina just to stay upright.

Sometimes that meant letting go — not in anger, but in acceptance.

Because yes — friendships change. Some dissolve quietly. Others simply settle into memory. And while that hurts, it doesn’t mean the story is over.

Not all friendships are lifelong.

But the true ones — those that anchor us — they bend with the seasons and don’t break. They wait for you when life eases. They don’t demand energy you don’t have. They know how to find you again.

And here’s the other truth: there are still people out there who can meet you where you are now — not where you used to be.

But to find them, you must stop pouring energy into relationships that cannot hold this version of your life.

I didn’t want a different child.

I just sometimes missed the woman I was before I became the entire system holding everything together.

So, if you’ve felt this too — if you love your child more than you thought was possible, but still miss the version of you that existed before this level of responsibility — hear me clearly:

You are not ungrateful. You are not wrong. You are not failing.

You are human.

You are adapting.

You are doing important work that the world rarely sees. There doesn’t have to be a tidy bow on this. It’s okay to love your life and still grieve what it cost you. Both can be true.