Three days home with a sick special needs child
The first Monday of the first week of the new year always comes with a certain kind of energy. Fresh goals. Clear intentions. A feeling that this is the moment to hit the ground running. I had plans for my coaching and speaking business, Logan Strong Foundation, Aflac, and all the things I’ve been building and carrying. I wasn’t trying to do everything — just what mattered.
And then Logan got sick.
If you’re new here, Logan is 9. He’s a childhood cancer survivor with a traumatic brain injury (TBI), autism, and hearing loss. After years of feeding therapy (and a Mic-Key Button/feeding tube), he learned how to eat by mouth about two years ago and has been eating solely by mouth for the past year. Over the last few months, we’ve also been navigating an increase in aggressive behaviors, which become even more intense when he doesn’t feel well. That shows up as kicking, hitting, grabbing, and scratching — not because he’s being difficult, but because his nervous system is overloaded.
Day 1: Letting Go of the Day I Thought I’d Have
Day 1 came with a solid plan: calls to make, work to do, momentum to build. What I learned quickly is that plans don’t hold up well when caregiving slips into survival mode. I did make it to the gym, which felt essential for my own regulation, and that alone mattered more than most of what was on my to-do list.
That day, a vibration plate and a new end table for my office were delivered. I put the table together, tried the vibration plate, and decided that counted as productivity. Logan was okay for parts of the day and napped for about an hour, which in special needs parent world isn’t much. I tried to work, but it’s impossible to schedule calls or virtual meetings when you don’t know if your child will suddenly need you — immediately and fully.
By the afternoon, I had to walk away from the version of the day I wanted. I stopped forcing productivity and turned on a movie. Logan had moments of aggression, and instead of escalating with him, I stepped back when I could. Creating space — for both of us — was sometimes the safest choice.
Day 2: When Walking Away Is the Only Option
I hoped Day 2 would look different, but I knew deep down it wouldn’t. Kevin was at work and had hockey that night. Logan didn’t have ABA. There was no backup plan and no extra support coming. It was me, for nearly twenty straight hours.
His feeds went well, which helped, but the emotional weight of the day was heavy from the start. Over the past few months, we’ve been navigating more frequent aggressive moments, and when Logan is sick, those moments escalate quickly. One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is that you cannot reason with a dysregulated nervous system.
There were moments when walking away from Logan — safely, intentionally, and briefly — was the only way to prevent things from escalating further. Not ignoring him. Not abandoning him. Just giving both of us enough space to reset. By 7 p.m., I was completely done. Dry January didn’t survive that day. He finally ate dinner around 8 p.m., I put him straight to bed, and I sat in the quiet, physically and emotionally exhausted.
Day 3: Meeting Him Where He Was
Day 3 started with the gym again, one of the few places where I can reset my nervous system. When I got home, Logan’s nose was crusty and he was coughing. I could have sent him to school, but I didn’t want him spreading germs or getting sent home early. Kevin offered to stay home so I could get work done, but it didn’t make sense for him to use a sick day when I have a flexible schedule.
Flexibility is a privilege, but it doesn’t make days like this easy. That day required me to fully meet Logan where he was — not where I hoped he’d be, not where the schedule said he should be, and not where my plans needed him to be. Letting go of the day I imagined was the only way forward.
What These Three Days Reinforced
I do a lot, and most days I handle it well. But being home with a sick special needs child strips everything down to its basics: safety, regulation, connection, and survival. Grace doesn’t look like perfect patience. Sometimes it looks like canceled plans, lowered expectations, more screen time than you wanted, and snapping when you wish you hadn’t.
I lost my shit a few times. I’m not proud of it, but I’m also done pretending it doesn’t happen. Grace isn’t about doing better next time — it’s about recognizing that this is hard and choosing compassion, for your child and for yourself.
If you’re in this season right now, please hear this: you are not failing. You are adapting. And some days, adapting and surviving is the win.
A Note From Me (Coach + Mom)
These three days were another reminder of why I do the work I do as a special needs parent coach. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I live this. I understand what it’s like to hold plans loosely, to walk away from escalation, to choose regulation over reaction, and to forgive yourself when you don’t get it right.
Coaching isn’t about fixing your child or becoming a calmer version of yourself overnight. It’s about learning how to navigate the hard days with more support, more tools, and less shame. It’s about meeting your child where they are — and meeting yourself there too.
If this post felt familiar, you’re not alone. And you don’t have to figure it out by yourself.