My husband sent me an AI-generated image of my daughter. I am obsessed with it. She looks so, well, normal.
You can’t see her autism in that image. Staring at it, I can’t help but wonder, what if that was her college graduation photo? What would her life be like if she didn’t have autism? What would mine be like?
Do I wish that upon her? There’s a lot of debate in the autism space between people who embrace autism and those who wish it never infiltrated their home and took over their lives. I’m a mix of the two. And every time I write that I hate autism, or imply it, I always get nastygrams from people who say autism is a gift, not a curse.
The gift in my life is my daughter, not her autism. I embrace my child. I celebrate her uniqueness. I am the recipient of her love, and I am a better person for it. She has taught me strength, patience, compassion and the art of non-verbal communication. Because of her autism, she has no judgment. No meanness. She doesn’t care what you think of her. If the dancing mood strikes her, she gets up and dances, whether it’s in the middle of a restaurant or the local mall. Joy will send her into a laughing fit that brings tears to my eyes. Her unfiltered happiness is a gift to those who witness it.
But do I wish she didn’t have autism? You bet I do. Brielle’s autism is not the kind you see on television. She can’t read or recite the encyclopedia, or solve complex mathematical problems in her head, or play songs on the piano by ear.
When I look at this AI image, I see in her eyes all the simplicity of living that she will never have. Everything is a challenge for her, from brushing her teeth to walking safely outside. When I look her in the eyes, I say mama, over and over. I will her to repeat that word. I see the struggle in her eyes as she nods wordlessly and leans in to kiss me. She wants to say it. She wants it to be that easy.
Selflessly — and selfishly — I wish it were easier. I wish she didn’t have to depend on me for so much. I know she wishes that too. Often, she tries to do something independently, like change her clothes. She will run out of her room triumphantly, proud of herself. I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’s wearing her pajamas inside out and backwards.
When I look at that AI image, she looks like any other woman. I can dream. I can wonder. Every once in a while, I do. I’m only human.
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