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When “Just Say Hello” Isn’t Simple: A Moment That Broke My HeartWe had one of those mornings.The kind where everything feels hard before the day has even really started. My daughter was already deep in autistic burnout, and when that happens—especially with her PDA profile—everything becomes a demand. Even the smallest things. Even the things most people don’t think twice about.Getting dressed wasn’t simple. I had to help her with every step. Emotions were high. There was aggression. We were both exhausted before we even got out the door. Honestly, just making it to church felt like a huge win.When we arrived, we were standing in a small group, trying to settle in. A friend of mine came over with her family and joined us briefly. It seemed like a normal moment—nothing unusual, nothing that stood out to me at the time.What I didn’t notice was that my daughter—and the friend she was with—didn’t say hello to her daughter.I missed it completely.A few minutes later, we all went our separate ways. And about ten minutes after that, my friend walked by me. She didn’t stop. She didn’t pause to talk. As she passed, she said—clearly hurt—something along the lines of, “the girls are not nice, they didn’t say hello,” and kept walking.And just like that, my heart dropped.Because I hadn’t even realized anything had happened.I didn’t get the chance to gently explain. I didn’t get the chance to add context. I didn’t even get the chance to acknowledge her feelings in that moment.And yet I understood them.From her perspective, it likely felt like her daughter was intentionally ignored—and as a mom, seeing your child hurt like that breaks your heart. I get it.But what she couldn’t see was everything that came before that moment.She didn’t see how hard that morning had been. She didn’t see how close we came to not making it there at all. She didn’t see how much support my daughter needed just to get dressed. She didn’t see the overwhelm my daughter was carrying into that room.And she couldn’t see that, in that moment, “just saying hello” wasn’t simple—it was one demand too many.That’s the reality of PDA and autistic burnout. When a child’s nervous system is overloaded, even the smallest social expectations can feel like pressure. And that pressure doesn’t lead to cooperation—it leads to shutdown, avoidance, or sometimes aggression.So while it may have looked like rudeness, what was really happening was survival.I’ve sat with that moment a lot since it happened.Because I care. About my daughter, and about my friend and her daughter. And those are the moments that are the hardest—the ones where two valid experiences exist at the same time, but there’s no space to hold both in the moment.The quick comment in passing. The lack of conversation. The assumption made in a second, without the full picture.These are the moments that can feel so isolating as a parent.Because what looks like defiance is often overwhelm. What looks like unkindness is often a child doing their absolute best to cope.If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of something like this, I understand why it might hurt. But I gently ask—pause before you assume intent. There may be a whole story you didn’t see.And if you’re a parent like me, holding all of this in real time, trying to support your child while navigating other people’s reactions—you’re not alone.Some days, success isn’t saying hello. Some days, success is just showing up at all.

When “Just Say Hello” Isn’t Simple

<h2>Autism BC Programs</h2><a data-mce-href="https://www.autismbc.ca/" href="https://www.autismbc.ca/" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-selected="inline-boundary">Autism BC</a> is a leading organization in British Columbia dedicated to providing resources and support for individuals with autism and their families. Their programs are designed to promote inclusion, understanding, and empowerment. Whether you're a parent, educator, or someone seeking information, Autism BC offers a variety of services tailored to different needs.<h3>Family Support Services</h3>One of the core offerings of Autism BC is their comprehensive family support services. These services include personalized consultations, educational workshops, and support groups. Families new to an autism diagnosis can find guidance and reassurance through these programs, which are designed to help them navigate challenges and celebrate successes.Support groups provide a safe space for sharing experiences and building community connections. They cover various topics, offering insights into managing daily life and accessing resources effectively.<h3>Educational Workshops</h3>Autism BC regularly hosts workshops and training sessions for families, educators, and professionals. These sessions cover a wide range of subjects, including behavior management, communication strategies, and sensory integration. Participants gain valuable skills and knowledge, enhancing their ability to support individuals with autism.The organization also offers webinars and online courses, making it easier for people across British Columbia to access essential information regardless of their location.<h3>Social Programs and Activities</h3>Recognizing the importance of social interaction, Autism BC offers a variety of social programs and activities. These initiatives are designed to help children, teens, and adults with autism build friendships and develop social skills in a supportive environment.<ul><li>Social clubs for different age groups</li><li>Outdoor activities and sports events</li><li>Creative workshops like art and music therapy</li></ul><h3>Resource Library</h3>Autism BC maintains an extensive resource library that is accessible to the public. This library includes books, articles, and multimedia materials on autism-related topics. Parents, educators, and professionals can find information on the latest research and best practices in autism support.The library is continually updated, ensuring that users have access to the most current and relevant information available.

Autism BC Programs

If you’re parenting a child with a PDA profile, you’ve likely seen behaviour that looks like defiance—refusing, ignoring, pushing back over simple things.For PDA children, everyday demands can trigger anxiety and a loss of control. What looks like “won’t” is often a genuine “can’t” in that moment. The more pressure they feel, the more they resist.Common Trap When we think it’s defiance, we push harder—repeat the demand, raise our voice, add consequences. Unfortunately, that usually escalates things.Small Shifts That Help Soften the demand: “I wonder which shirt you’ll pick today?” Offer choices: “Before or after breakfast?” Use playful or indirect language Focus on connection before compliance The Reframe When we move from “they’re being difficult” to “they’re feeling overwhelmed,” our response changes—and so does the outcome.You’re not lowering expectations. You’re meeting your child where they are.

It Looks Like Defiance But Isn’t

close up hand man taking multiple pills take a medicine in hand holding a cup glass of drinking water on wooden table. Stop drug use Taking Medication health care medical concept.

My pastor was telling a story the other day about his daughter and how, with a recent diagnosis, it meant she would need to take a pill every day for the rest of her life — and how difficult it was sometimes to remember, but how it was vital…...and I was jealous.I was jealous because they have this magic pill that will help her, and we don’t. We have tried a variety of magic pills, but the reality is there is not one for PDA. Rather, due to the complexity of the brain, there are 30+ pills that may help… but none that will cure… none that will make it go away — at least that’s our experience thus far. We are on our fourth “trial,” and sure, we see some benefits, but… we still see the PDA every day. And yes, we are in burnout, so that plays a big role… but it’s hard. As every time you think this may be it…this may be the magic pill...You try not to get too excited. You tell yourself to be realistic. You remind yourself that this is just another tool, not a solution. But deep down, a part of you still whispers, maybe this one will finally be the thing.And when it helps a little — but not enough — you’re grateful… and heartbroken at the same time.Grateful for any inch of progress. Heartbroken because you’re still climbing a mountain that never seems to end.I don’t envy the diagnosis. I don’t envy the lifelong medication. I envy the clarity. I envy knowing there is a pill. I envy having something concrete to point to and say, “This helps.”With PDA, we live in the grey. The trial and error. The constant adjusting. The exhaustion of always wondering if we’re doing the right thing.And some days, that uncertainty is harder than anything else.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

Magic Pill

Low Section Of Child Sleeping With Chocolate Labrador On Bed

Last night was a milestone we’ve been dreaming about for months. For the first time in nine months, our child—our beautiful, bright PDA kid—slept in her own bed… and slept. Really slept. Deep, restful sleep. No tossing, no anxiety spiraling, no midnight panic. And this time, she had our new support dog by her side.The first night with our dog 'Lady' was a&nbsp; mix of excitement and nerves. We knew the dog would bring comfort and security, but nothing could have prepared us for the sense of calm that filled the room. Watching her drift off, knowing she was safe and supported, felt like a weight lifting off all of us. The dog’s presence seemed to gently anchor her, and even in her sleep, she felt a little more at ease with the world.We’re thrilled, yes—thrilled in a way that’s hard to put into words. But we’re also grounded. We know that each day, and each night, can be different. Burnout, anxiety, and PDA don’t work on a predictable schedule. One perfect night doesn’t mean every night will be perfect. So while we celebrate this huge step forward, we’re holding space for the reality that life with PDA can still be unpredictable.Still, last night gives us hope.&nbsp;Here’s to our first night—and all the nights to come.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

Our Support Dog

Diverse hands of various ethnicities joining upwards together in unity.

I felt so isolated—deeply, painfully alone—in a world that didn’t seem to have language for what we were living. Not because I didn’t love my child. Not because I wasn’t trying. But because for a long time, no one around me really got it.We had diagnoses: ADHD and Autism. And while those explained some things, they didn’t explain everything. When we met other families, joined support groups, or sat in waiting rooms swapping stories, there was always a quiet disconnect. Their challenges were real—but different. Their strategies worked—ours didn’t. Their stories didn’t quite fit our reality.I remember thinking, Why does this feel so much harder? What are we missing?School made it even lonelier. Casual conversations with other parents—at pickup, birthday parties, school events—were exhausting. They talked about homework struggles, picky eating, bedtime battles. I nodded and smiled, knowing there was no way to explain what our days actually looked like without sounding dramatic, negative, or misunderstood. They couldn’t see the anxiety beneath the surface, the constant nervous system overload, the way “simple” expectations could unravel an entire day.So I stopped trying to explain. And isolation quietly settled in.Everything shifted when I learned about PDA.I enrolled in a three-month workshop, not knowing exactly what to expect—just hoping for answers. And for the first time, something clicked. The descriptions felt uncomfortably accurate. The strategies finally made sense. But more than that, the people made a difference.There were hundreds of us in that course. Parents from all over the world. Different countries, different systems, different kids—but the same lived experience. The same exhaustion. The same confusion. The same grief and love and determination tangled together.When the course ended, though, that familiar quiet returned. The calls stopped. The chat threads slowed. And once again, I found myself holding all this understanding without a place to put it.Then I read a book "Autism Out Loud" -&nbsp; one message stood out clearly and repeatedly—find your tribe. Find the people who don’t need the long explanations. The ones who understand without you having to justify, defend, or soften the truth.So I went looking.I joined Facebook groups—tentatively at first. And while online spaces aren’t perfect, they were validating. Someone would post a story that felt like it had been lifted straight from my own life. Comments were filled with “same,” “me too,” and “this happened yesterday.” It mattered more than I expected.But the real shift came when I connected with four other moms and we started a weekly call.Just four of us. No fixing. No pretending. No minimizing.Some weeks we vent. Some weeks we problem-solve. Some weeks we sit quietly and listen while someone else carries the load out loud. There’s laughter—often dark, sometimes exhausted. There are tears. There is deep relief in not having to translate your reality into something more palatable.That weekly call has become an anchor.Finding your tribe doesn’t magically make things easier. It doesn’t reduce meltdowns, fix systems, or erase uncertainty. But it does something just as important—it reminds you that you are not failing. You are responding to something that is genuinely hard.Your tribe helps you hold perspective when self-doubt creeps in. They normalize what the world often questions. They remind you that your instincts are valid.That’s the power of finding your tribe.

Finding your Tribe

PDA Support