The Day Everything Changed: Our Twins’ Autism Diagnosis

The day we received the twins’ autism diagnosis is a day I will never forget — not because of the details, but because of how it felt deep in my body. Heavy. Lonely. Dark. And yet… somehow, even then, there was a faint light way out in the distance.

The twins were 2.5 years old. They were already in early intervention but there was a glimmer of hope in me still that would say they just have a learning delay, not autism. I don’t know why, and probably never will, but that word scared me, deeply.

I remember exactly where I was when the doctor gave us the “official” diagnosis. I was sitting on the floor behind a concrete post at the Atlanta airport, waiting to board a flight for work. People rushed by with suitcases and there was the smell of coffee and hustle in the air. I remember thinking how strange it was that the world just kept moving while mine suddenly… paused.

My husband joined the call from home, miles away, and even though we were both there, I felt painfully alone.

The doctor delivered the diagnosis matter-of-factly. No big emotions. No warm reassurances. Just the words, followed by a digital handout — more than ten pages long — full of information about autism, therapies, next steps, and “call if you have questions. We will follow up in 6 months.” I remember staring at the PDF, feeling too overwhelmed to even process anything. And 6 months, isn’t that an enormous amount of time for a child in their early development? Shouldn’t we be meeting like every week? These were all thoughts that were rushing in and out of my head.

As soon as the call ended, the weight hit me.
Sadness.
Frustration.
Fear.
Guilt.
A sinking loneliness that settled right in the middle of my chest.

I was supposed to be preparing for a client meeting — something that usually comes easily to me — but I could hardly hear anything happening around me. I can’t even recall what we talked about that day. My mind was somewhere else entirely.

All I could think was:

What will their future look like?
How will the world treat them?
What do I do now?
Where do I start?

There was a small part of me — tiny, but real — that felt relief. At least now we had a path forward. With the diagnosis, we could begin ABA, start therapies, get services. There was clarity in having a name for what we were seeing. But overwhelmingly, I felt numb. Frozen. Like I was standing in the center of a room full of doors and I didn’t know which one to walk through first.

The fixer in me immediately kicked in. I wanted a plan. I wanted answers. I wanted to rearrange my entire life to make sure the twins got everything they needed. My first question wasn’t about therapies or milestones — it was How do I devote my time to them? How do I cut back on work? How can I be better for them?

But beneath all the questions was one unspoken truth I didn’t recognize yet:
This diagnosis would shift my entire sense of identity and purpose.

Before that day, I was 100% career-driven. I wanted to lead. Build. Achieve. Make an impact.
But in the quiet moments after that call, God began reshaping my heart.

He reminded me that my background — healthcare, leadership, finances — wasn’t random. It was preparation. It was equipping. It was Him shaping me long before I knew what I would need to advocate for my boys.

In the weeks that followed, my perspective changed completely.
From career to calling.
From ladder-climbing to motherhood and discipleship.
From pouring myself out for work… to pouring myself into my family and into God.

Looking back, that day was one of the hardest days of my life. It felt like darkness pressed in around me — fear of the unknown, grief for the expectations I unknowingly held, and the weight of wanting to protect my children from a world I suddenly didn’t trust.

But I can also see, so clearly now, that there was a light waiting for me. It was distant, but it was there — guiding me toward a new purpose, a new tenderness, a new strength, and a deeper relationship with God.

If I could go back and whisper something to the version of me sitting in that airport, it would be this:

Take a breath.
Take time to process.
And remember — your boys are still your boys.
No diagnosis changes their sweetness, their potential, or the love you have for them.

This day changed everything, but it also began something beautiful.
A journey.
A calling.
A new way of seeing life — slower, softer, simpler, and filled with purpose.