In the Driver’s Seat

What Support From My Mom Looked Like

This article is a fictionalized piece inspired by common lived experiences and perspectives shared within the FASD community. It was written to encourage understanding, compassion, and conversation around stigma and support.

When people think about support, they sometimes imagine big things.

Big speeches.
Big moments.
Big breakthroughs.

But for me, support from my mom usually looked smaller than that.

It looked like reminders written on sticky notes.
It looked like her texting me to make sure I remembered an appointment.
It looked like helping me calm down when my brain got overloaded instead of telling me to “just relax.”

Growing up with FASD, there were a lot of moments where people misunderstood me.

Sometimes people thought I wasn’t trying hard enough.
Sometimes they thought I wasn’t listening.
Sometimes they thought I should “know better.”

My mom saw something different.

She saw that I was trying.
Even when things looked messy from the outside.

She learned that if I forgot something, it wasn’t because I didn’t care.
If I got overwhelmed, it wasn’t because I was dramatic.
If I shut down, it wasn’t because I was lazy.

That understanding changed everything.

That doesn’t mean things were always easy.

There were hard days.
Arguments.
Frustration.
Exhaustion on both sides.

Sometimes my mom didn’t know what to do.
Sometimes I didn’t know how to explain what was happening in my brain.

But she kept showing up.

And honestly, I think that mattered more than having all the answers.

Support didn’t always look perfect.
Sometimes it looked like trying again the next day.

Sometimes it looked like giving me extra time to process.
Sometimes it looked like helping me break things into smaller steps.
Sometimes it looked like sitting quietly with me when the world felt too loud.

What helped most was knowing I wasn’t being judged all the time.

My mom believed there was more to me than my struggles.
She believed I could still grow, learn, and succeed—even if my path looked different.

That kind of support builds confidence slowly.

Not overnight.
Not all at once.

But piece by piece.

I know there are many moms, caregivers, and families out there trying their best while carrying a lot of stress and judgment themselves.

I think people forget that support goes both ways.

People with FASD need understanding.
Families do too.

Looking back now, I don’t remember every piece of advice my mom gave me.

But I remember how it felt when someone stayed patient with me.
When someone kept believing in me.
When someone tried to understand instead of assume.

That’s what support from my mom looked like.