Hi, I’m Sarah Jean

 

I’m Harvey’s mom—known around here simply as Mama or Mommy. Harvey is a bright, funny, intuitive little human who teaches me something new every single day.

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Our Early Days

The day Harvey was born was pure magic. He was the most perfect, beautiful baby I had ever seen, and watching him grow and meet each milestone felt like a true gift. Life brought unexpected changes as our family evolved, and by the time Harvey was two, I found myself navigating new challenges as a single parent.

Around that time, I noticed Harvey wasn’t speaking much, and some of his behaviors made me pause. Moving between households and all the changes around him, I thought it might just be a phase—maybe the “terrible twos” or just his way of adjusting. Wanting to be sure he was okay, I scheduled an evaluation. The clinic was booked for a long time, and the only available appointment was during his usual nap time, so he was understandably restless and tired.

The Diagnosis

The evaluation was overwhelming. I watched a team of professionals test Harvey while he struggled to stay awake and focused. Eventually they left the room, and we waited—what felt like forever—for their return.

When they came back, they sat cross-legged on the floor and spoke in a tone that felt almost tragic. They explained that Harvey met the criteria for autism spectrum disorder, Level 3, due to being nonverbal. They handed me thick binders of resources but offered little real guidance.

In that moment I dissociated, as if I’d stepped outside myself into a bad dream. I carried Harvey to the car, my stomach dropping. Then the tears came. It felt as though my world had shattered into a million pieces. In seconds, I saw his future flash before my eyes.

Processing the News

In the days and weeks that followed, I cycled through every stage of grief—denial, anger, sadness—mourning the life I had imagined for my son and me.

I knew almost nothing about autism. I’d only heard of a few families who had children on the spectrum, now adults still struggling, and most of what I’d read sounded bleak. Growing up, we talked about things like ADD or ADHD, or just called kids “odd,” while parents fought to get their children’s struggles taken seriously—including my own parents when I needed extra support in school. I realized I had so much to learn.

So began the journey of finding Harvey the right support—a process that was both overwhelming and exhausting. After many good fits and bad fits, we finally found a great team of people and got on board.

At first, I tried to make everything look and feel “typical”: Santa and Easter Bunny photos, birthday parties, outings every child was supposed to enjoy. When things didn’t go as planned, I’d fall apart—crying, wishing they had, and feeling let down every time. Harvey sensed my frustration, and we both struggled.

Calls from school became more frequent, behaviors worsened, and outings felt impossible. I thought I’d failed him as a parent. I let myself go and slipped into a deep depression. Questions swirled: Would I ever accept this? Is this my life now—forever? Would he live with me into adulthood? The uncertainty swallowed me whole.

 

I felt isolated while my friends with neurotypical kids enjoyed activities my son couldn’t. Watching their children meet milestones Harvey hadn’t yet reached was heartbreaking. Even when they kindly tried to include me—inviting me to their mom dinners—it often felt soul-crushing, a painful reminder of how different our lives really were. Instead of easing the loneliness, those moments sometimes made me feel even more alone.

Desperate for connection, I searched online and found a local meet-up for disability moms. I responded immediately, craving support and understanding.

Meeting those moms changed everything. Hearing their stories—so similar to mine—was shocking and comforting. We connected on a level that filled our hearts and gave us hope in ways no medical professional, medication, or therapy ever could. I began to see how broad the spectrum truly is and how many misconceptions surround autism.

Our gatherings continued and eventually became Disability Advocates of Central Oregon, a group that has grown into a source of hope and community for many families.

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Embracing Our Normal

 

Through this community, I learned to stop chasing society’s idea of “normal” and to embrace our normal. Over time, I also realized that Harvey enjoys many of the same activities as neurotypical kids—just in his own unique way and on his own terms. The moment I began meeting Harvey where he is, instead of where I wished he’d be, everything changed. The heaviness lifted, and I felt more connected to my son than I had in a long time.

Our story is a reminder of how unexpected and beautiful life can be. In the midst of everything, I found the love of my life—who also became my son’s DSP. My son changed his life in ways none of us anticipated, and that experience inspired him to pursue this work as his career.

Today, Harvey is making astounding progress.

His eye contact and focus have improved. His behaviors and triggers are fewer. He’s talking more—we’ve learned he is a gestalt language processor—and he’s crushing goals left and right, engaging with the world in his own way.

We still have challenging days, but they’re lighter and easier to navigate together. Harvey has shown me that a different path can be just as beautiful, and that connection and love matter far more than milestones.

If you’re on a similar journey, know this: you are not alone, and your story is still unfolding in its own extraordinary way. Never give up hope.

With love,

Harvey and Mama