How My Child’s Autism Saved Me From an Abusive Relationship

(A story of 10 years ago)

It’s easy to feel confused inside an abusive relationship.

One moment, things are fine.

The next, it’s like a switch flips—

and you’re watching someone charge at you

in the middle of an emotional storm.

I’ve been there.

I’ve watched a grown man slam doors,

throw objects at walls,

fall to the floor in tears,

scream so close I could feel his breath on my face,

shake me like a rag doll.

And here’s the hardest part:

no matter how I responded—

whether I stayed calm,

puffed up in anger, broke down in tears,

spoke gently, or stayed quiet—

it always escalated.

Every interaction fed the fire.

Here’s what’s important to know:

I could see his pain.

I wanted to help.

I was a young, single mother at the time,

raising an autistic child—

and I was no stranger to physical fits.

From a nervous system lens,

I understood that my child’s body was not “bad” or “broken”—

he was working through sensory floods,

through transitions that dysregulated his system,

through the overwhelm of a world

that often felt too big, too loud, too sudden.

At the time, we did not label it as “autism”

I just knew he was easily overwhelmed.

When he flailed, scratched, headbutted,

I wrapped my body around him,

holding him safely,

co-regulating through voice, breath, and touch.

Not to punish.

Not to overpower.

But to help his overloaded system

find the edges of safety again.

I would observe:

Was the behavior seeking escape?

Was it sensory-driven?

Was it communicating unmet needs?

And through it all,

I reminded him: you are loved.

He was not trying to harm me.

He was trying to survive his own storm.

But with the adult man (formerly) in my life,

I spotted a key difference.

This wasn’t raw dysregulation.

This wasn’t a meltdown.

This wasn’t a survival response.

This was something deliberate.

Something rehearsed.

Something wielded as power.

He could flip it on and off at will.

His rage wasn’t vulnerable;

it was controlled, targeted, calculated.

Eventually, I realized:

there was nothing I could say or do

to help the situation.

No gentle tone, no calm words, no love

could pacify this.

Everything fed the fire.

So I chose to go silent.

To close my eyes.

To wait—

for him to stop the behaviors,

for the storm to break,

for a moment where I could safely leave the room.

And hope that my pregnant body and I would be okay when it was over.

Some people have been saying that autism ruins families.

But I can tell you: that is not true.

Autism, in fact, helped save mine

from becoming a 1 in 3 statistic.

It gave me a point of reference

for what innocence looks like.

For what dysregulation feels like.

For what survival signals sound like.

It helped me notice:

This man’s anger wasn’t an unfiltered flood;

it was a rehearsed dance.

This was not about unmet sensory or emotional needs.

This was about control.

About domination.

Aiming to keep me there in fear.

And it revealed so much of his own insecurities.

Yes, motherhood has brought challenges.

Yes, I have rebuilt my life again and again

to meet the evolving needs of my family.

But autism has never been the problem.

Autism helped me see clearly.

It helped me leave.

And 5 years later, it empowered me

to claim full custody of my second-born child,

protecting him from the harm of his biological father.

Here’s what I want to offer, from my heart to yours:

Meltdowns and shutdowns are human survival responses.

They are not manipulative.

They are raw.

They are vulnerable.

The message they carry is: “I want to feel safe.”

To understand the meltdown, we observe:

what’s the function of the behavior?

Is it seeking sensory relief?

Escape?

Connection?

But in abusive relationships,

The erratic behaviors reveal that

the function is unfortunately more cruel:

to control, to dominate, to frighten.

And that is the critical difference.

To anyone tangled in the confusion:

If you are wondering why nothing you do makes it better,

if you are seeing the on-off switch you can’t explain,

if you feel the difference but can’t name it yet—

you are not imagining it.

You are not the problem.

And you can leave.

You can break all mutual ties.

You can rebuild.

You can choose your people.

And build your life, your way.

I know because I have.

And I stand here,

not as someone untouched by harm,

but as someone who chose to rebuild her life on the other side.

Someone who advocated for the relationship she deserves,

and who co-created a beautiful, conscious, exciting, and safe family.

And let me reiterate this once again—for good measure:

Autism—with its challenges, meltdowns, and big moments—has never broken our family apart

and those words cut deeply to those

who simply want to be accepted in a culture

that is built without them in mind.

I am grateful for autism—

the raw, the real, the vulnerable,

and the deeply human experience

that I have had the honor of walking beside—

and how it has opened my eyes

in more ways than I ever could have expected.