When Love Is Loud: A Mother’s Journey Through Autism And Aggression

Photo: Representational image

By Ruchi Lamba

When my son was born, I counted his fingers and toes, like every mother does. I held him close and whispered promises—of safety, of unconditional love, of always being there. I didn’t know then what those promises would come to mean. I didn’t know how far I’d have to go to keep them.

My son is autistic. He is also non-verbal. He is beautiful, and kind-hearted, and helpful. He’s the one who brings tissues to his grandmother without being asked. He carries his little sister’s schoolbag to the car. He stands up for people who are hurting. He feels everything so deeply—and sometimes, that’s exactly the problem.

When he was little, the meltdowns came and went like summer storms—loud, overwhelming, but short. We learned to adapt. But as he grew, so did his strength, and his frustrations, and his confusion about the world. And the meltdowns grew with him—longer, louder, more dangerous.

Sometimes people ask, “What triggers him?” And the truth is—it could be anything. A noise that came too suddenly. A plan that changed without warning. A favorite song that’s no longer on Spotify. The dog next door barking. A scratchy tag on a shirt. A bad night’s sleep. No one ever asks what soothes him. They just want to know how to make it stop.

The hardest days are the ones that start off fine. We’re laughing. He’s dancing to his favorite Michael Jackson beat. I’m in the kitchen making lunch. Then something changes. He screams. He slaps his own face. He turns on me, his eyes full of fear and rage. And I know—I’m the safest person to lash out at, because he knows I’ll never leave him.

And I won’t.

But I’m also afraid. Afraid of being hurt. Afraid of what he might do to himself. Afraid of what would happen if anyone else saw this side of our lives.

I don’t talk about the violence much. Not with most people. Because if I do, they look at me like I’ve failed as a mother. Or worse, they look at him like he’s a monster. And he’s not. He is a beautiful, complicated soul trapped in a world that doesn’t speak his language. And when the world feels too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar—he panics. He explodes. And I am left picking up the pieces, both of our hearts bruised and exhausted.

There’s no partner to help hold him down while I comfort the others. There’s no father figure swooping in to handle the physical side of the storm. It’s just me. So when he starts throwing things, when his voice rises in a howl that shreds the calm of our home, I go into crisis mode. I tell my elderly parents to lock themselves in their room. I tell my daughter—his fierce, loyal little sister—to do the same. She knows the drill. She never complains.

I lead him, coax him, push him—whatever it takes—into the backyard. Out there, he can scream. He can throw things. He can be as loud and wild as he needs to be. My neighbors hear the noise. Some look over the fence. Some call out to check. Some just close their windows and pretend we’re not here. And I don’t blame them. It sounds scary. It is scary.

But out there, at least, no one else gets hurt.

Afterward, he cries. Not out of manipulation or regret you can explain in words. It’s a deep, shuddering cry—like his whole body is sorry. I hold him, sometimes with bruises on my arms, and whisper, “You’re safe. I’m still here.” And he clings to me like a shipwrecked sailor, wrecked by a storm he didn’t mean to summon.

It’s hard to admit that your child, the person you love more than anyone else on Earth, can hurt you. Not because they’re cruel. Not because they want to. But because they don’t know another way. The shame is heavy. Not just because of the judgment from others—but because sometimes, I judge myself. Was I patient enough? Did I miss a warning sign? Am I doing enough therapy, enough routines, enough dietary adjustments, enough love?

The support group helps. The other mothers—they understand. But even then, I find myself quiet during certain conversations. One mom says her husband restrains their son while she protects the other children. I nod, but I can’t relate. Another says they installed a sensory room, padded and filled with calming tools. I wish I could. But I’m holding this family together with threadbare hope and long days, and we haven’t gotten to the padded room yet.

So we make do with the backyard and locked doors. With soft music when the storm has passed. With whispered prayers and small victories. Like when he comes back inside after a meltdown and helps his sister clean up the living room. Like when he signs “sorry” with his hands and gives me a tight squeeze.

There are good days. So many good days. Days where he laughs from his belly and dances like nobody’s watching. Days where he watches Taylor Swift videos with his sister and sings along in his own way. Days where he helps his grandparents without being asked. Days where I think—maybe, just maybe, we’re going to be okay.

But we live in the shadows of the bad days. Because the bad days are loud, and violent, and real. And there’s no hotline for a single mom whose adult autistic son just broke a chair in the backyard during a meltdown.

I write this not for pity, but for truth. For all the mothers who walk this tightrope of love and fear. Who know the weight of keeping a child safe from the world—and the world safe from their child. Who would never abandon their child, but sometimes wonder how long they can carry this alone.

You are not alone. I see you. I am you.

And to my son—if you ever read this one day—I want you to know: I love you with a fierceness that can’t be shaken. I will always protect you, even when it’s hard. Even when you push me away. Even when the world doesn’t understand.

Because I do. And that’s enough.

 (Lamba lives in Southern California)