In Barely Visible, you share the heartbreaking loss of your daughter and the challenges and victories that come with raising a son with autism. Why was this an important book for you to write?

I was 5 1/2 months pregnant with our daughter when it was discovered that something was seriously wrong. Dozens of tests revealed a very rare duplication of chromosome 9p. We were told that if she survived, she would have no quality of life—yet she would look normal. That struck me hard.

At seven months, we faced the devastating decision to end the pregnancy. I truly believe we were never meant to walk down that path. Even if her physical features appeared normal, our daughter’s disability would have been readily apparent. People would have looked upon us sympathetically. They would have granted us accommodations and leeway because they would have been able to see that it was an unworkable situation. Her behaviors would have been accepted without explanation.

Instead, we were destined to face the challenge of parenting a child whose disability is not readily visible. On the surface, my son looks like every other kid out there, but he interprets and reacts to the world in ways that most people don’t understand. It’s as if he’s trying to navigate an unfamiliar landscape with a map written in a language he doesn’t speak.

As a parent, you want to protect your child—you want to shield them from criticism and discomfort, and for others to see them in a good light. Learning when to step in and advocate for your child, versus stepping back and allowing situations to fall apart so they can learn to navigate on their own, demands tremendous foresight and strength. Watching them be bullied because they are a bit “different” is heartbreaking. Seeing them miss out on opportunities because they “don’t quite measure up” is discouraging. Knowing that it is all beyond their control is devastating.

It was important for me to share it all because living with—and parenting—an invisible disability is often a lonely and misunderstood journey. The world isn’t always kind to those who “look fine” but struggle in ways that aren’t immediately apparent. I wanted people to understand that just because a challenge isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t real, or worthy of empathy, support, and compassion.

Writing Barely Visible allowed me to process my own grief, frustration, and ultimately, pride. It gave me space to honor both of my children, while having the chance to connect with other parents and individuals who are walking similar paths, often in silence. It’s a reminder that every journey is valid—whether it’s clearly marked or barely visible.

I appreciated the candid nature with which you told your family’s story. What was the hardest thing for you to write about?

The failures! There were so many along the way, it seems—a first baby with a severe chromosomal disorder, a second child with a disability, a failed marriage, a decision to ignore our son’s diagnosis, not taking the time to understand the cause of his behaviors once we did accept it, the countless missteps we made because we never educated ourselves—and so on. Granted, not all those circumstances were within our control, but they still felt like failures nonetheless. It’s difficult to acknowledge, not only to yourself, but to the world, that you buried your head in the sand, made poor choices, put your own needs first at times, and stumbled. But to admit anything less wouldn’t help anyone.

Writing about my failures forced me to confront the version of myself I’d rather forget—the scared, overwhelmed, sometimes selfish and stubborn version—the one who made decisions I regret. The minute you relive all those low moments on the page, in full view of others, they become real again in a much greater way. Suddenly, they’re exposed and permanent—and the only thing to do is own them.

Growth doesn’t come from pretending we got it all right. It comes from being willing to look back, acknowledge the hard truths, and do better moving forward. I’ve learned that it’s okay to get it wrong, as long as you keep showing up and you’re willing to learn.

What is one misconception you think many people may have about children with autism?

Because the spectrum is so broad, I can’t speak about misconceptions concerning all children with autism, but I can share from my experience as the parent of a high-functioning son and how that label creates unrealistic expectations—mainly, an assumption of success. People believe that because a child is “high-functioning,” they’ll be just fine, that they’ll somehow grow out of their limitations or eventually learn to manage them.

On the surface, my son looks like every other young adult beginning his journey in the real world. He has a college degree and a job; he drives a car, plays sports, and is even pursuing a modeling career. It gives the appearance that “he’s got this.” But the truth is far more complicated.

The moment he reacts to a situation in a way that falls outside the norm—in a way that isn’t considered socially acceptable—he’s suddenly judged differently. He’s viewed as being rude, poorly disciplined, or lacking self-control. The strengths that make him appear just fine on the surface mask the challenges he faces every day.

High-functioning doesn’t mean he doesn’t struggle and need support. It doesn’t automatically equate to maturity, independence, or the ability to think critically in every situation. What it means is that his difficulties are simply less visible, and people don’t take the time to understand him or make space for him. It’s easier to say, “He’ll be fine,” than it is to recognize the effort it takes for him to get through each day and do the hard work of accepting, understanding, and supporting him. As a result, he ends up vulnerable to judgment and isolation.

What is one thing you hope readers take away from your experiences?

None of us is perfect, and parenting is hard, period. But when you’re raising a child who isn’t neurotypical, the challenges multiply. It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, frustrated, and exhausted. That doesn’t make you a bad parent; it makes you human.

What I hope readers take away is this: even when you feel like you’re failing, even when you’re taking three steps back, you are still moving forward. You’re still by your child’s side, day after day, doing your best and loving them. That’s what matters most. I want parents, especially those raising high-functioning autistic children, to know that it’s never too late to do better. Get vocal—not just with the world, but with your child. Talk to them. Teach them who they are. Help them understand how their brain works. Instill confidence and empower them to self-advocate. I wish I had done that sooner. I didn’t—and I’m making up for it every day.

Author Links: GoodReads | Facebook | Website | Instagram | Amazon