There’s a certain kind of silence that comes with parenting through something no one in your circle truly understands. It’s not the peaceful kind…it’s the kind that hums with isolation. That’s what it feels like when you’re parenting on an island.
Not a tropical vacation kind of island. Not one with hammocks and ocean breezes. This island is made up of sleepless nights, unexpected doctor visits, emotional outbursts, and endless research. It’s formed by late-night Google searches and the quiet tears you cry after your child’s been misunderstood again.
You’re surrounded by people…family, friends, co-worker, but it feels like no one really gets it.
You talk about IEP meetings and insulin corrections, sensory overloads and 504 plans, and people nod along politely, but their eyes don’t carry the weight yours do. You mention the meltdown your child had in the grocery store or the anxiety they felt before school, and the suggestions you get are well-meaning…but empty. You get a lot of “Have you tried…” or “Maybe it’s just a phase,” when what you really need is, “That sounds so hard. I see you.”
When your child has autism, ADHD, diabetes or any diagnosis that makes their world a little harder to navigate…you quickly learn that typical parenting advice doesn’t always apply. What works for others might not work for your child. And that realization can build walls where you once had connection.
You start to hesitate before speaking up in group chats or mom circles, not because you don’t want to share, but because your story feels like too much. Too heavy. Too complicated. Too far from the “normal” that others live in. And slowly, you find yourself on that island again.
But here’s the thing I’ve come to learn: just because your island feels lonely doesn’t mean you’re alone.
There are other parents…on their own islands…watching the same storms roll in. They may not be in your immediate friend group. You may not bump into them at school pickup or soccer practice. But they’re out there. And when you find them, there’s an immediate bond. A shared understanding. No need to explain what a sensory diet is or why a blood sugar of 47 is terrifying. No need to justify why your child still needs support with things others have long outgrown.
If you’re reading this and nodding through tears, I want you to know: I see you. I know the loneliness. I know what it feels like to advocate day after day, to carry the weight of worry while still trying to let your child feel free. I know the exhaustion that comes from always being on alert…always “on.”
Your island may feel small and quiet, but you are not without strength. You are doing the work of a village…sometimes all on your own…and that deserves recognition, not pity.
So if no one in your circle gets it right now, keep going. Keep speaking your truth. Keep seeking your people. Because even if your island feels deserted, there are others out there building bridges.
And one day, someone will look at you and say, “I’ve been there.” And that moment? It’ll feel like someone just swam across the ocean to meet you.
Coffee IEPS Chaos 