Four Things I Know for Sure as a Parent to an Autistic Child Suffering from Psychiatric Disorders

Sometimes parenting a child, or children, with developmental and psychiatric disabilities is so incredibly different than parenting neurotypical children. There are challenges that require emotional muscles you didn’t even know you had, and situations that you couldn’t have imagined before your neurodivergent child came along. Some divergences are quite cute, and sometimes humorous. Like when four year old Evie took a bag of her treasures— aka broken glass she’d collected— to show the pediatrician, unbeknownst to me until it was dumped out on the examination bed. Then there are those divergences that blow your mind, like when seven year old Evie demonstrated the engineering skills to design and build her own, completely functional, raised garden bed and composting system. Others might have you spiraling in discouragement, like having a ten year old who isn’t toilet trained. We love our children, and there are moments of joy. But it is hard, it is draining, it is painful, it is heartbreaking. Your circumstances are obviously outside of your control, most days they are beyond your strength to manage, and they will subject you to temptations that you might not have otherwise been susceptible to. Because of this, parenting a neurodiverse child, or children, will also bring you face to face with Biblical truths that might have been previously professed, but never truly known. You read them and pseudo-believed them, but never lived them.

In the Bible, the Greek word γινώσκω (ginōskō) means “to know, especially through personal experience (first-hand acquaintance).” For example, γινώσκω is the word used for “know” in Luke 1:34, when it says "And Mary [a virgin] said to the angel, 'How will this be since I do not know a man?'" γινώσκω is a deep, personal, experiential knowledge. It is an intimate knowledge. It is a knowledge that becomes a part of you.

Suffering teases out the tension between our confessed theology, and our functional theology. Pain and suffering bring you face to face with certain realities that the Bible teaches, and are the answer to Paul’s prayer that you would “know (γινώσκω) the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.” Your hard, draining, painful, heartbreaking experiences— the ones that are outside of your control and beyond your strength to manage— the ones that are testing the limits of your feeble faith— these are the means by which you get to truly know God, and in so doing, understand His love and sufficiency for you and your children in the fiercest of your battles.

My life with two children who both struggle in their own ways has brought me intimate knowledge of my weakness and of His power. Of my limits and of His sovereignty. Of my filthy rags and of His incredible steadfast love. I’d like to share four truths with you that I have the privilege to know for sure because I parent children with developmental and psychiatric disabilities.

You are Insufficient

As I’ve walked this last year with my children, through mania, aggressive meltdowns, stinging rejections, inappropriate behavior, panic attacks, depression, and debilitating cumpulsions, I know that the Bible is telling the truth when it teaches that I am insufficient when it comes to meeting the needs of my children. I have no choice but to wholeheartedly agree with Paul when he says that we are not “sufficient in ourselves to claim anything as coming from us” (2 Corinthians 3:5).

You too? When your child contends with the insufferable, and then engages in behavior that is unmanageable, there really is very little you can do as a parent to take away the distress we must watch them endure, often on a daily basis. This life— raising a child with incredible hardship— makes the reality that you are not enough undeniable. Well meaning friends, family, and perhaps even therapists, will tell you that you are enough. You are the perfect parent for your child. That God knew what He was doing when He gave them to you. I’ve heard all of these things myself, and it has only emphasized the gaping holes in my ability to help them live the life I dreamt for them when they were in my womb. Have you heard those refrains? Have you too, in those moments, felt the loneliness of the silent admission that you are not enough to cure what ails them; not enough to bring comfort to their souls; not enough to prevent destructive behavior; not enough to limit the trauma and resentment in a neurotypical sibling; not enough to protect them from the butterfly effect of disability on their social life; not enough to get them on a healthy sleep routine, or even to get them to sleep at all; not enough to provide a home-life that feels safe and cozy; not enough, not enough, not enough. These truths are unavoidable in my life, and I imagine they are unavoidable in your life, too. But the Bible teaches that this reality is not unique to you and I. This is the nature of every person everywhere. No person is enough for their child. It’s just that not everyone is lucky enough to γινώσκω that.

In the Bible, Jonah faced a catastrophic force of nature that he was not strong enough, equipped enough, wise enough, competent enough to subdue. The disciples sat in their boat, despairing because they were helpless in the grips of the sea and the wind. Paul experienced shipwreck at the hand of a powerful storm, demonstrating that he, too, was insufficient to stand up against the forces of nature. You and I are facing catastrophic forces of nature known as disability and mental illness that we are not strong enough, equipped enough, wise enough, competent enough to subdue. But that’s okay, and here’s why:

You are not enough, but if you commit to looking at you and your child’s suffering vertically, you will know that Jesus is. Jesus Christ is and offers everything that our suffering children need. His power and grace are sufficient for me and my trials, and so they are for them in theirs. In my suffering, His power and grace have been, and will continue to be, sufficient to get me through. My God is strong enough to uphold me. And though I lament and doubt and weep and cry, He keeps me. We who are spectators of the horrendous suffering of loved ones need to remember that those things are true for our children as well. As we fear the Lord and trust Him for His mercy, as we teach them and they come to say “your God will be my God”, our children become the recipients of that same amazing grace that has sustained us. His hand is strong to uphold them, and His power is strong enough to keep them through any and every blow that comes their way.

So in truly knowing my insufficiency, I can stop attempting to be god for my kids. I can stop trying to remove their thorns, and instead push them into the arms of the One whose grace is always sufficient for them. Every single parent that ever was, ever is, and ever will be, is incapable of saving his or her child. It is a simple reality that parents can’t save their children from sin and suffering, but very often, when things are running smoothly and going according to plan, it is easy to think that we are making the good life for our kids. It is easy to think that it is our merits and efforts as their parents that keep them from hurting and bring them salvation. But when your child suffers, the reality that you are not enough for them becomes an intimate and deep ache. But it is an ache that erodes the facade that you can save them, and leads to pushing them more swiftly into His strong and loving arms. In this way, your trials are making you a better parent. Leading them away from trust in man, and into faith in Christ.

You Are Dependent

Not only can you not provide for all of the physical, emotional, and spiritual needs of your struggling children, but you yourself are also completely dependent on the grace and power of God. Prior to the reality of neurodivergence in my home, I believed I had it all together because I was a disciplined and self-reliant person. I exercised regularly, I ate well, my house was organized and clean, I had a successful Bible teaching ministry, I was well liked at my job, and was the go-to sibling when anyone needed help or advice. I was doing very well, and I was arrogant enough to believe that I was doing very well because I was a capable and hard working person. I confessed with my mouth that in Him I “live, and breath, and have [my] being” (Acts 17:28), but when it came down to it, I had myself to thank for my fit body, clean home, and “god-honoring” life. Wow. Well, as Paul Tripp explains in his noteworthy book, Suffering: Gospel Hope When Life Doesn’t Make Sense, “independence is a delusion that is quickly exposed by suffering”.

As the wicked curveballs of diagnoses, and treatments, and secondary health problems kept coming, I did my best to catch, deflect, and dodge each one on my own. But mental illness and disability are relentless in their demands and the heartaching circumstances that accompany them. For the last six years, I have tried to get up and keep going after every blow. I’ve wobbled, and I’ve wavered, and I’ve put up a good fight. But my fight has simply not been good enough. I can no longer get up off the ground (out of bed). As the emotional, and sometimes even literal physical blows, pummeled me, I was forced to acknowledge my weakness. Not in a theoretical sense, because it is no longer a “theoretical weakness”. The weakness that has been intentionally woven into my being as a means to keep me tethered and dependent on my Creator, and in intentional Christian community, is perhaps now one of the most defining things about me.

Paul Tripp goes on encouragingly: “Weakness simply demonstrates what has been true all along: we are completely dependent on God for life and breath and everything else. Weakness is not the end, but a new beginning, because weakness provides the context in which true faith is found… you see, weakness is not what you and I should be afraid of. We should fear our delusion of strength.”

In the same way that suffering knocked down my belief that I was sufficient for my children, the next domino to fall was my own independence. Suffering swiftly defeats the sin of self-reliance. Being faced with situations that you are unprepared for and unable to get through can serve as a reminder that we simply were not meant to live independently. Our lives were meant to be lived in dependence on God, our Creator, and on others, His gift to us. Tripp points out that “this is true not just because sin has entered the world; it was true of Adam and Eve in a perfect world, because it’s how God designed people to live.” In this way, your trials are letting you γινώσκω who you really are. They are getting you back to your most fundamental self: a creature dependent on and receiving from your benevolent and powerful Creator.

You are Kept

My favorite color is green. It’s always been green, will probably always be green. It’s hard to get dressed sometimes because I always buy green things, which means that when I am assembling an outfit, I have a lot of clashing green. Recently, someone asked me what my favorite doctrine was. Interesting question. Unlike my favorite color, my favorite doctrine is a bit more of a dynamic situation. As I’ve been pushed to the limits of myself, as I’ve encountered suffering that has driven me to seek comfort in the arms of idols, I have developed an increasing gratitude and love for (ready for the plot twist?) the doctrine of election. Strange? Nah. Let me explain.

I have sinned in my circumstances. I have doubted God and deliberately pursued other comforters in the midst of my hardship. When my day has been long, the melt downs frequent, the aggression relentless, the outlook bleak, I have disrespected God in thought, word, and action. I have shunned His work on the cross. I have been a poor witness to His saving grace to the unsaved people around me. I have come to know that the Bible is telling the truth when it says “there is no one who calls upon your name, who rouses himself to take hold of you” (Isaiah 64:7) and that “no one seeks for God” (Romans 3:10-12). I am deeply acquainted with Romans 7:18: "for I know that good does not dwell in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out." As I have reflected on 2025, I have come to see that it was a year “among other gods” for me. I probably frequented some of the same gods as you do from time to time when grief, anxiety, and exhaustion feel unmanageable. I have also come to see that 2025 was a year that demonstrated the strength of God’s grip on me, and His covenant promise to keep me as His own, forever.

Because He has chosen me, He has, and will, keep me. When your suffering is big, your faith is weak and fragile, your heart and life seek comfort in the arms of other lovers, and God simply will not let you go, you come to know how true it is that nothing and no one can snatch you out of His hand (John 10:28). The reality that you are kept by a love that goes way deeper than any pit you could dig for yourself is not just a dry and meaningless doctrine. It is an anchor that allows you to rest, get up again, and keep pressing on to your glorious destination. You can’t jump out of God’s hand even when you want to so desperately. You are kept. If you aren’t pushed to the limits of your faith, you may think it’s because your faith is strong. But when you are pushed the way raising a child with developmental and psychiatric disabilities pushes you, you can be humbled by the knowledge that it is God who keeps you, and rest secure in the knowledge that since it’s His hand that holds you, you will make it to the end… The glorious end that will put an end to all of the tears and pain… The glorious end where everything will be made new…

You are Not Home

As a young, newly married woman of 22, I had no desire to go heaven. I had so much in this life that I wanted for myself. I thought the happiness I had here was preferable to the joy promised in heaven. I think many people feel this way at some point or another when “life is good”, and we are experiencing good gifts from God in this life. Ironically, those gifts sometimes make us forget that the best is yet to come. A “good life” can delude us into thinking we are home.

For me, this delusion was shattered when I found myself in the front row seat to the agony of my daughter suffering from OCD. Watching her bruise her face because of the compulsive need to check her swim goggles before jumping into the water made me aware of the brokenness of life this side of heaven. Standing by as she attempted to withhold her stool, and thereby developing internal injuries and horrible rashes, for fear of getting sick should she smell it gave me a desperation to see her whole, and well, and as she was created to be.

When I was pregnant, I longed for 9 months to meet the baby that was growing inside me. That longing now pales in comparison to the desire to meet my baby in heaven— without compulsions, delusions, agitation, and pain. I am not home here. I never was. But getting a front row seat to the torment of a loved one lets you γινώσκω that in a tangibly raw way. My hope is heaven. Prior to this suffering, you may have loved this life. Perhaps you were one that C.S. Lewis describes in this famous quote:

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

I don’t know about you, but I am no longer pleased with mud pies in the slum— I want that holiday by the sea. Your pain has robbed you of a dangerous delusion. Your pain has rocked your world, and taught you that the mud pies here are not enough. Your pain lifted your eyes and put a fire in your heart for heaven. For that moment when faith becomes sight. For that moment when you will see your child unencumbered by disability and mental illness. When you finally have that long burried desire to meet your child fulfilled.

You are not home. What a blessing to truly know that this is not all there is, that the best is yet to come.

What is True, and What to Do

You are not enough. You are dependent. You are kept. You are not home.

These things have always been true, but God has given me (and you) the privilege to know them. He has pulled the wool of an easy life from off of your eyes and in so doing has made you a better parent, gotten you back to who you truly are, has offered you a humbling rest, and has reminded you that the best is yet to come. Parenting a child who suffers is so hard. So, so, so hard. But it is also, and I know what I’m saying, a blessing. When your child suffers, don’t offer your own insufficiency, but push your child into the arms of the One whose grace will always be sufficient for them. Don’t burn out, but rely on Him, knowing that your strength is not required to obtain the victory. Don’t pursue the love of other comforts, but rest secure in the unmatchable love of the One who keeps you no matter what. And don’t settle for mud pies. Look forward to going home— you and the ones you love.

God is good, and He is good all the time. Keep your eyes on these truths, and you will not be put to shame. Stay Radiant, friends.