I know exactly what she means. I’m always able to spot other autistic kids in the wild. The other mothers and I exchange knowing smiles as we pass each other in public.
“You must have a great network of other autistic families back home,” one of the other moms says. “I bet there are tons of resources and specialists in a big city like LA.”
She’s right—cities do tend to have a higher concentration of therapists and specialized healthcare systems than more rural areas. But LA is not a place known for human connection, and I’ve never really found a support network there.
When Levi first got his diagnosis, I thought I’d be able to lean on the people who were already in my life. But when I shared the news with friends and family, it felt like no one could say the right thing.
“He’s not autistic!” my mom practically hollered when I told her. “I know what autism looks like. I had an autistic neighbor growing up and he was always running naked in the street, screaming and banging on everyone’s door. Levi isn’t like that, he’s a sweetheart. He’s just a little delayed, that’s all.”
My dad agreed. “Your generation is so obsessed with diagnosing kids. Why do you need to saddle him with a label that will followhim for the rest of his life? He’ll catch up in his own time. You’ll see.”
My friends were much more sympathetic, but somehow, that wasn’t better. When I shared Levi’s news with my friend Harper during one of our walks around the neighborhood, she stopped right there in the street and grabbed hold of my forearm.
“Oh Marissa, I am so sorry, I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “This is every parent’s worst nightmare.”
That sentence haunted me for the rest of the night. There are a lot of contenders for the label “Every Parent’s Worst Nightmare.” Kidnapping. Cancer. Losing our baby to a school shooting. There’s a bottomless list of horrors that keep me up at night, but autism was never one of them. Would he face challenges in life? Of course. But he was still happy, still healthy, still the same Levi he was before the diagnosis. The outcome of getting that “label” was that I also got the tools I needed to help him thrive. How was that any different than getting a child glasses to help him see or hearing aids to help him hear?
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the same. There is a stigma attached to autism, which was well-evidenced by the reactions of my inner circle. I realized then why so many autistic people feel the need to mask. And as much as I wanted the world to accept my son, the reactions of my loved ones only made me feel less inclined to share him. It felt easier to make our world a little smaller, to protect him for as long as I’m able.
Looking back on it, though, I can see how I’ve closed myself off. I thought I was being protective, but in the process, I’ve also deprived myself of a support system. Maybe I could have tried harder to bond with other moms in LA, instead of turning inward. If not for me, then for Levi. Because maybe it’s not entirely the fault of the disconnected city or the stigma. Maybe some of it is my fear.
“I guess we never really found our community,” I finally manage.
Violet gives me a sympathetic nod. “It can be hard to find your people,” she agrees. “But you are always welcome in our neurodiverse little community.”
The rest of the Inas nod in agreement.
“You know, I was diagnosed with autism last year,” Megan says unexpectedly. “For most of my life, I thought I was just socially anxious. I never knew the right thing to say, often said the absolutewrongthing. I struggled as a kid, but no one was talking about autism back then. Especially not in high-achieving girls.”
“And I have ADHD,” Violet says. “Turns out that you can’t attribute everything about your personality to being an Aquarius.”
“Or mom-brain,” Megan adds. She grins at me. “In case you haven’t already gathered, this cookbook club is half food, half therapy. All the benefits of a mommy group but none of the drama.”
“Or car seat shaming,” Violet adds.
I suddenly feel incredibly grateful to have been invited this evening. It’s been ages since I felt like I could relate to a group of women like this. People who not only understand me but also welcomed me into their circle, just like that. The sense of belonging envelops me like a warm hug.
“My kids are on a vacation with my ex-husband, and it’s been hard,” I tell them. “I don’t think I’ve felt this emotionally shattered since I gave birth.”
“Nothing is more jarring than becoming a mom,” Zara says. “There’s so much buildup and attention on pregnant women. And then you pop out that baby and suddenly you’re just an abandoned shell whose life now revolves around someone else. Meanwhile, you’re trying to get used to your new body, which is in pieces and leaking all over the place.”
“And you no longer get presents!” Ashleigh adds. “I still remember my first Christmas after Annabel was born. My mom came withan armful of presents and all of them were for the baby. Babies don’t care about presents! You know who wants presents? Moms whose entire wardrobe is covered in spit-up and milk stains!”
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m just Isla and Levi’s mom.” I realize I’ve said it out loud and then ask, “Do you ever feel like that?”
“Only every day,” Megan says. “I love being a mom. But it’s the hardest job in the world. You’re full time, with no days off. Makes me really respect Ina. She always says she didn’t have kids so she could focus on her career, and look at her now.”
“I can understand that. Sometimes I do miss having a career,” I admit. “I don’t regret my choices. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing. But I’m not the same person I was before I had kids.”
Shelby gives me a sympathetic once-over. “I mean, it must have been doubly hard on you,” she says softly. “You became a mom and left your very public career behind at the same time. That’s a huge identity shift.”
“Some part of you must have felt like you vanished,” Caleb says. “Vanished” is the right word for it. It’s not hard to leave the fame. What’s hard is everyone forgetting about you as a person.
For a while, it felt like my agent and management team cared about me. But it didn’t take me long to realize they only cared about my role as a moneymaker. Once I walked away from acting, most of the people in my professional life lost interest in my existence. I still had my family and some friends, but even they were focused on my children.
I’m so grateful for the people who look after my kids: Levi’s care team, the therapist Isla started seeing after the divorce, the nanny who dotes on them and who, unlike myself, never forgets to buy groceries. But there is no one around whose focus is onme, the person. Not as the actress who could anchor a superhero franchise or nail a big commercial or walk a red carpet. Just me.
At least, there hadn’t been, until Jesse. Until last night, when I felt like I was at the center of his world. To him, I was just Marissa. And it was more than enough.
