I see the looks. Every time I walk into a restaurant, or an appointment, or even just the grocery store with my son by my side—someone always gives me that glance.
The one that says, “Shouldn’t he be at home?” or “That’s not really a place for kids.”
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But what they don’t know is—I take him with me everywhere because I have to. And not in a “no babysitter” kind of way.
He has a condition. Something most people can’t see unless they’re looking closely. A small seizure can hit with no warning. We’ve had scares in places as simple as a park bench or a check-out line. So yeah, I keep him close.
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Not because I’m overprotective. Because I know what could happen if I’m not.
But he isn’t just my son. He’s my reason for waking up each morning. The reason I fight so hard to keep things as normal as possible for him—and for me. The world doesn’t know the silent battles we face, the constant state of alertness I live in. Every time I step out with him, my mind is calculating risks, scanning for exits, keeping track of his symptoms. I never know when the next episode might strike.
I remember the first time I noticed something was wrong. He was only two years old, playing with his toys in the living room when he suddenly froze. His tiny hands clenched, his face went pale, and he couldn’t move or speak for a few seconds. It lasted a few minutes, but to me, it felt like hours. I rushed him to the hospital, thinking it was some kind of fluke. But the doctors confirmed what I feared: my little boy had a neurological disorder that triggered unpredictable seizures. They told me it was a condition that many people could live with, but one that required constant care and attention. And they were right.
But what they didn’t tell me was how exhausting it would be to carry that weight every single day. It wasn’t just about the medical care, the doctor’s appointments, or the medications. It was the invisible burden—the emotional strain of always being “on.” Always watching, always listening for the slightest change in his behavior. The constant fear that the next seizure could be worse than the last.
I know people judge me. They think I’m too much. That I shouldn’t “babysit” my son all the time, as if I’m doing him some sort of disservice by not letting him experience life on his own. But what they don’t realize is that by keeping him close, by keeping him in my sight at all times, I’m protecting him. They don’t see the pain when he collapses on the floor or the helplessness I feel when there’s nothing I can do but wait for him to come back to me.
One day, I was at a coffee shop when it happened again. We’d just sat down with our drinks, and my son was happily munching on a cookie when his face suddenly drained of color. I froze. The few seconds before the seizure hit felt like an eternity. My heart raced, my stomach twisted. I grabbed him, holding his small body as it stiffened and trembled. In those moments, the whole world fades out. It’s just me and him, and nothing else matters.
As I held him that day, someone—just a stranger—approached me. She was young, probably in her early twenties, and she gave me an uncomfortable smile as I struggled to keep my son calm. She asked me, with no hint of empathy, “Isn’t it a bit much to bring him everywhere like this? I mean, shouldn’t he be home, safe?”
I felt my chest tighten. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? I was so used to these comments, but it didn’t make them any easier. Instead of responding, I just nodded and offered a strained smile.
When the seizure ended and my son was back to his usual self, I could tell something had changed. The woman had been watching the entire time, her judgment now replaced with something else—guilt, maybe, or understanding. She didn’t approach again, but she stayed close, and I noticed her glance once more. This time, it wasn’t judgment; it was curiosity, even concern.
That day stuck with me. It reminded me of how easy it is for people to make assumptions about others without knowing the whole story. How one glance can change everything. I realized that while people often judged me for taking my son everywhere, they didn’t know the full picture. They didn’t know the constant vigilance I had to maintain. They didn’t know how alone I felt most of the time, how tired I was from the never-ending worry. How every part of my life had been shaped by this condition.
But I also realized something else that day: I wasn’t alone. There were people around me who saw, even if they couldn’t fully understand, and that meant something. They might never walk in my shoes, but their compassion, however small, made a difference.
Then came the turning point.
A few weeks ago, I received a letter in the mail from the school. It was just a standard letter, the kind that outlines parent-teacher meetings and updates on activities. But at the end, there was a small note in handwriting that caught my eye. “Your son is a joy to have in class,” it read. “He’s incredibly brave, and we’re here for you both if you ever need help.”
It wasn’t much, just a simple note, but it was exactly what I needed to hear. For the first time in a while, I felt seen. Not as someone who was “too protective” or “overbearing” but as a mother doing everything she could for her child. I wasn’t alone in this. I had a community, a network of people who truly cared.
The next day, I walked into the school with my son by my side. As we passed by the principal’s office, I noticed a new face in the hallway—someone I didn’t recognize, someone older. She smiled at me warmly, but I could sense the same old judgment in her eyes. I almost prepared myself for another uncomfortable conversation, but instead, she approached me and said, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m new here, and I heard about your son. I know things can be tough, and I just want you to know that if you ever need any help with schoolwork or anything else, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
That was when it clicked for me—people can surprise you. Sometimes, it’s easy to get lost in the negativity, in the judgments and assumptions. But the truth is, we all have our own struggles, and we never know what someone else is going through. It’s easy to criticize, to judge, but it’s much harder to understand. And when someone takes the time to see you, even in the smallest way, it changes everything.
A few days later, I had another encounter. This time at the grocery store, as I pushed the cart with my son in tow. An older man, probably in his seventies, came up to me as I was looking at the produce section. He smiled and said, “I see you’ve got a good little helper there.”
I chuckled, but the man’s face softened. “I used to take my kids everywhere with me, too,” he said. “We’re all in this together, no matter what it looks like from the outside. You’re doing the right thing.”
His words stayed with me long after we parted ways. Maybe it wasn’t always about the judgment. Maybe it was about the connections we make, the small gestures of kindness that help us navigate through difficult times. Maybe people aren’t as quick to judge as I thought. Maybe they just don’t know how to ask, how to understand.
So here’s my message: to anyone out there who feels like they’re being judged, like their efforts are unnoticed, keep going. You are doing the right thing, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. You are not alone in your struggles, and there are people out there who see you, even if it’s just in small moments.
The twists in life can be hard to navigate, but the reward is always worth it. Keep doing what you know is right for you and your loved ones.
If you’ve ever been in a similar situation or know someone who has, share this post. Let’s remind each other that we’re all just trying to do our best, and sometimes, the smallest acts of kindness are the ones that matter most.
