The Quiet Questions We Carry

By Amy Shope 

The holiday season has a way of softening everything—and at the same time, making emotions feel heavier.

Lights are up. Homes feel warmer. There’s music, tradition, and this collective push toward joy. But beneath all of that, there’s often a quiet space where questions live. The ones we don’t always say out loud.

Last night, after leaving Dylan, I felt sad. Not the kind of sadness that comes from something going wrong—but the kind that creeps in quietly and makes you second-guess everything.

Lately, when I visit, Dylan doesn’t want me to leave. He asks me to stay. He says mom I don't love my house.  And no matter how much time I spend with him, I wish for more . He stands at the window and he watches me until he can't see me anymore.  I get in the car and wonder: Is his life full? Is he happy? Did I make the right decision- should I have kept him with me?

Independence was always the goal. We worked so hard toward it. And yet, as a mom—especially an autism mom—you never stop questioning yourself. You never stop wondering if you’ve given enough, done enough, stayed enough.

I find myself asking the questions that live in so many parents’ hearts:

Is he okay? Does he feel loved? What happens when I’m not around?

These questions feel louder during the holidays.

I’m about to do something I’ve never done before. After Christmas, my husband and I are going away for two weeks. It’s something that means a lot to him—and something we both desperately need. Between demanding careers, running a nonprofit, raising a family, and carrying the emotional weight that comes with all of it, this time away feels like a reset.

And still—I feel guilt.

How sad will Dylan be while I’m gone?

What right do I have, as an autism mom, to step away like that?

Who will love Dylan the way that I do—not just while I’m on vacation, but someday when I’m no longer here?

These are the thoughts that don’t let you sleep. The ones that make you question not just your choices, but your heart.

And some days—even with everything we are building at Dylan’s House—I can’t help but feel sad.

Why does it have to be this hard?

Why do families have to carry this much fear and uncertainty?

How am I ever going to help all the families who need support?

The list goes on and on.

But here’s what I’m learning, slowly and imperfectly: love and doubt can exist at the same time. Strength and sadness can sit side by side. Wanting independence for your child doesn’t mean you love them less—it means you love them enough to imagine a future where they are supported, safe, and surrounded by care.

Dylan’s House was never built from certainty. It was built from questions. From fear. From late-night worries about what happens when parents are gone. From a deep, aching love that refuses to accept that families should have to face this alone.

During the holidays, when everything feels amplified, I try to remind myself of this: Dylan is loved. He is supported. We are helping build a life of his own—with people who care deeply about him. And so many families are walking this same emotional path, even if it looks different on the surface.

If you’re reading this and you feel the same guilt… the same worry… the same heaviness—please know you are not failing. You are loving. And loving this deeply was never meant to be easy.

This season, I’m holding space for the joy and the sadness. For gratitude and grief. For hope and fear. All of it belongs here.

And at Dylan’s House, we will keep showing up. I will keep showing up- One family at a time. One home at a time. With honesty, compassion, and the belief that good homes—and full lives—are possible.

Even on the days when the questions feel endless.