Through a sister’s eyes: Autism, love and understanding
I am often asked about how is it parenting two very different children? One on the autism spectrum and one who is not.
To be honest, I don’t have a specific answer, parenting for me has always been faith and a lot of following my gut instincts.
On World Autism Awareness Day, we speak often about advocacy. About teaching the world to be kinder, more patient, more inclusive.
But sometimes, the most profound form of advocacy begins much closer to home - shaped not in speeches or systems, but in the quiet witnessing of our children becoming who they are.
I remember one moment clearly.
Ayra was eleven. Aydan was six.
They were in the swimming pool, suspended in that ordinary kind of afternoon - sunlight, water, the indistinct noise of children at play. And then, as quickly as ease settles, it can shift.
A group of children began calling her brother “crazy.” The kind of word that is thrown casually, but lands with weight.
They were trying to get him to respond to their request. Aydan of course could not respond verbally. In his usual innocent way he starts to giggle, starts to pull one of the boys in for a cuddle.
They start to push him away. From my viewpoint, I already knew this would not end well, I was preparing myself for the outcome walking towards them when I saw Ayra step forward.
Small, but steady. Placing herself between her brother and the group—not aggressively, but with a kind of clarity that did not waver.
“He is autistic. Jangan panggil dia gila. Dia bukan gila.”
There was something in the way she said it—half calm, half trembling, but entirely certain. Not just defending but correcting. Not just reacting but understanding.
And in that moment, something shifted in me too.
Because raising children with different needs often feels like an endless negotiation with doubt. You question the choices, the compromises, the invisible trade-offs.
You wonder if the sibling who has to leave early, who has to share attention, who has to grow up with a different kind of awareness—is losing something along the way.
You wonder if they feel overlooked. If they carry resentment quietly. If the balance you are trying so hard to hold is, in fact, slipping.
But then, a moment like this arrives.
And you realise—they are not just adapting. They are learning something deeper.
Ayra did not just defend her brother. She named him with dignity. She rejected the language that diminished him. She stood in a space that could have been uncomfortable and chose not to step away.
That kind of empathy is not accidental.
It is built slowly, in the in-between moments. In the explanations you offer when plans change. In the honesty you give when things feel unfair. In the way you choose, again, to include rather than exclude, to explain rather than dismiss.
It is shaped in a home where difference is not hidden, but lived with—openly, imperfectly.
And as a mother and as a family it is something we actively choose. We choose to bring him along, take him out, talk openly about our struggles. Most of all we choose him, however different however imperfect,
And so, perhaps, this is what it looks like to be a mother in the middle.
You may not always get the balance right. There will be early exits, missed experiences, questions that do not resolve neatly. There will be days where one child needs more, and another understands more than you wish they had to.
But there will also be moments like this.
Moments where your child reflects to you something you hoped you were teaching but were never entirely sure had taken root.
Compassion, fairness and not just sibling love —but the ability to extend it outward, even when it is not easy.
And in that quiet, unexpected instant, you allow yourself to think.
Maybe I am doing something right.
Not because everything is balanced.
But because something meaningful is growing, despite the imbalance.
On this day, as we speak of awareness and inclusion, it is worth remembering that the future of that kindness often begins in small, unremarkable places. In swimming pools. In playgrounds. In the spaces where children learn, not from what we say, but from how we live.
And sometimes, it is our children who show us—gently, but unmistakably—that the work we are doing is taking hold.
On this day, and in this simple article I dedicate it to all siblings holding space for a brother or sister on the spectrum.
They might not have the language to thank you for being there and living an out of ordinary childhood and life - but take it from me a mum of both, your presence matters more than you realise.
In a world that can be unkind, you become a kind of softness your sibling can return to. And even if the words never come, the bond you’ve built speaks in ways language never could.
