December is supposed to be the season of joy and merriment. The twinkling lights, the cozy moments, the warm gatherings. But this year? I feel a special kind of exhausted. Is there even a word for “beyond exhausted”? If there is, I’m living it. The season has only just begun, and yet it feels like I’ve already exhausted every ounce of joyful energy I have.

This fall has been a journey; one filled with “gifts” I never asked for and surprises around every corner. We still don’t have a school for our youngest, which means I’ve been juggling in-home ABA services and support through our local community services board. It also means I’ve been a 24/7 caregiver for over fourteen months and counting. There are no breaks. No pauses. No time-outs. It is relentlessly draining in ways I struggle to describe.

Last week, on the eve of holiday I made a decision I never thought I’d have to make: I called local community resources for assistance. It felt like a gamble; one that terrified me, but I hoped it would help de-escalate his spiral. Thankfully, it did. But the very fact that I had to make that call says so much about where we are.

I struggle to give language to our life as it currently is. This isn’t just “21st-century parenting” with the usual chaos of dual-working parents, endless electronics, and nostalgia for an 80s childhood. No. This is something else entirely. Something deeper, harder, rawer. Something rarely talked about, rarely given space, understanding or even compassion. And for those of us living it, we often feel utterly and completely alone. Yet every single morning, we get up, with whatever joy or energy we have left, and we fight for our child again. Because that’s what you must do, because no one else will.

Do you know what my child wants most this holiday season?
Not toys. Not gadgets. Not the next trending thing.

He wants a school.
A real building.
Friends.
Teachers.
A community.

He wants to stop being isolated at home, stuck, alone, and forgotten.

I am hopeful…truly…that when the day finally comes and that “present” is unwrapped, what we find is a school that will take the time to understand him, see him, and embrace him. The heartbreaking part is knowing that if his original middle school had simply done that; if they had paused, leaned in, been curious, compassionate, and empathetic, we wouldn’t be here. Instead, they chose the cowardly route and pressed charges, turning our lives upside down.

So yes, I am exhausted. Beyond exhausted.
But…
I am not defeated.

This season, I am choosing to believe that storms do run out of rain. That joy will return, even if only in slow, gentle ways. That my child will find his place. And that one day, this chapter will become part of the story we share, so others can find the strength to keep moving forward, even when they are utterly exhausted.

If you’re walking a similar path this season, I see you. You’re not alone. And even in the heaviness, even in the mess, even in the ache, there is still a reason to keep going; especially when you feel you can’t. My child depends on it. And so does yours.