The Overlap I Never Saw Before: Autism & Grief?

In my non-professional opinion, just as a mom walking through something I never imagined. I’ve come to see an overlap between autism and grief that I didn’t recognize before losing Erin.

Before, I understood autism through Erin’s world. I knew her sensory needs, routines, the way she processed things differently. I saw how overwhelming environments could be, how important predictability was, and how much comfort she found in certain items, movements, and spaces. That was her normal. That was how she navigated the world.

After losing her, I started to notice something unexpected.

Grief… feels similar.

Not in the same way, and not for the same reasons but in how it shows up in the body and mind. The world can suddenly feel too loud, too fast, too much. Simple things can become overwhelming. Noise, crowds, conversations. It can all feel like overload. There are moments where you just need to step away, to reset, to find a quiet space to breathe.

I didn’t fully understand that kind of overwhelm before.

I didn’t understand needing sensory breaks as deeply as I do now.

Grief has made me crave the same things Erin did. I now crave comfort items, quiet spaces, predictability, something to hold onto when everything feels out of control. There are days when functioning feels hard, when emotions come in waves that are difficult to regulate, when the smallest thing can feel like too much.

And in those moments, I think of her.

I think about how hard she worked every single day to navigate a world that didn’t always meet her where she was. And I see now, in a small way, what that might have felt like.

This realization has changed me.

It’s deepened my empathy. Not just for children with autism, but for anyone experiencing something overwhelming, invisible, and hard to explain. It’s also shaped the heart behind Erin’s Way. Because whether it’s autism, grief, or something else entirely, the need is the same:

A safe place to reset, tools to cope, Spaces that say, you are okay just as you are.

I wish I had understood this sooner.

But I carry it with me now. I carry it in everything we are building, in every sensory space we create, in every kit we put together, in every family we hope to help.

Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this:

No one should have to navigate overwhelming feelings alone.

Now I Understand

Now I Understand

I used to think

they were different worlds

autism and grief.

One something you’re born into,

the other something that breaks you open.

I didn’t know

they could feel the same.

Then we lost you, Erin,

and everything changed.

Now the noise is too loud.

Rooms echo in ways they never did before.

Too many voices,

too much movement,

too many people reaching in at once

and suddenly, I understand

why you needed space.

Why you slipped away

to quiet corners,

to stillness,

to yourself.

I feel it now

that pull to escape

even when I’m surrounded.

That loneliness

that somehow exists

in a room full of love.

 And the touch

I didn’t understand that either.

How sometimes you pulled away,

not wanting arms around you,

not wanting closeness to feel like too much.

And then, just as suddenly,

how it was all you wanted

but only from certain people,

only in certain moments,

only when it felt right.

Now I feel that too.

The way a simple hug

can feel overwhelming,

like my senses can’t hold it.

And then the opposite

the need to be held

so tightly

by the few who feel safe,

as if they could keep me from falling apart.

 I used to watch your hands

your happy hands

and think they were just yours.

Now mine move too.

Not the same,

but close enough to recognize.

A rhythm of nerves,

of trying to hold it together

when everything inside feels like too much.

And the order

I didn’t fully see it then.

How important it was.

How necessary.

Now if things aren’t right,

if they’re out of place,

I feel it in my chest

tight, urgent, overwhelming.

You weren’t being difficult.

You were holding your world together.

And the nights

I didn’t understand those either.

How you could go

and go

and go

long after the world went quiet.

How sleep wouldn’t come,

no matter how much your body needed it.

How you pushed forward

until exhaustion finally took you.

Now I lie awake too.

Hours passing in the dark,

no rest,

no quiet in my mind.

I go

and go

and go

through thoughts, through memories,

through the weight of missing you

until I finally collapse

into a sleep that doesn’t feel like rest.

We reach now

for the things that helped you

your things.

Weighted blankets

that feel like being held

when nothing else can.

Fidgets,

stress balls,

breathing in…

breathing out…

Trying to find steady

in a world that isn’t anymore.

There is so much the same.

So much I didn’t see.

I wish I had understood sooner.

I wish I could go back

and meet you there

with this knowing in my hands.

But maybe

this is how you’re still teaching me.

Through every overwhelmed moment,

every sleepless night,

every careful step with touch,

every quiet retreat,

every small way we learn

how to cope,

how to soften,

how to survive.

I feel closer to you.

I understand you now

in ways I didn’t before.

And I carry that understanding

like a piece of you

I get to keep.