A real story by Alyssa M. | San Francisco, CA
San Francisco looks different when you’re not vacationing in it.
I don’t live near painted houses or yoga cafés.
I live in Outer Mission, three flights up in a crooked building that smells like old wood, burnt rice, and cigarette smoke. My apartment is above a liquor store and beside an alleyway where people argue with ghosts at 2 a.m.
The hallway light flickers. The stairs creak. The heater wheezes like it’s on life support. The kind of place where time collects in corners like dust.
But it’s all I can afford.
$2,300 a month for a space that used to be a closet.
And I live here with my daughter Maya.
She’s twelve. She has Level 3 autism.
She’s my entire world… and she’s also the reason I haven’t slept through the night in over seven years.
Who I Used to Be
There’s a girl I used to be, and I still dream about her sometimes.
Back in high school, I was a track star—all-state, all muscle, all confidence. My name was always announced over the speakers at meets. Colleges called. I had a scholarship lined up. My coaches said I had the kind of stride you don’t teach—it’s just born in you.
I dressed fly. Wore my hair in twists, my nails done. I had dreams that stretched beyond city limits. My future looked like freedom.
But that girl disappeared when I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test halfway through my senior year.
The baby’s father left before I even started showing.
And just two weeks after Maya was born, I got the phone call.
My parents were gone.
A drunk driver ran a red light on I-280 and changed everything.
Suddenly, I wasn’t a teenage track star.
I was a mother.
An orphan.
An only child raising an only child.
The Slow Disappearance
At first, I tried to hold onto myself. I really did.
Even with Maya, I’d still fix my edges. I’d throw on earrings. Put on a little lip gloss before pushing the stroller to the bus stop.
But time… wore me down.
Not all at once—but in slow, silent ways.
Now?
I wear whatever’s clean. Usually one of my oversized hoodies with bleach stains. My hair stays tied up in the same bun. I haven’t painted my nails in years. The only shoes I own are the ones I can run in—run after Maya when she bolts from sensory overload.
I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror.
And I’m not sure I want to.
Maya
Maya doesn’t speak.
She hums, rocks, flaps her hands.
She doesn’t look people in the eye.
She eats the same three foods and screams if a shirt has the wrong texture.
She hits herself when she’s overwhelmed.
Sometimes she hits me.
She doesn’t say “I love you.”
But she clutches my sleeve when she’s scared, and that’s how I know she feels safe with me.
Her autism isn’t quiet. It’s not quirky or cute.
It’s loud. Demanding. Relentless.
When she was younger—around age four—she began to smear… mess. On the walls. The doors. The window glass.
She’d use her hands, like she was painting. I’d walk in and the smell would hit me before the sight of it did.
I scrubbed it until my hands cracked.
I gagged. I cried.
I wore gloves just to survive the cleanup.
It wasn’t her fault.
But it broke me anyway.
Daniel
When Maya was two, I met Daniel.
He wasn’t Maya’s father. He never claimed to be. But he held her like she was his. He was gentle with both of us. Said all the right things. Said he understood what I was going through.
I didn’t marry him because I was madly in love.
I married him because I was tired.
Because I needed help.
Because I wanted someone to stand in the room with me when the screams came and not flinch.
He tried. For a while.
But trying has an expiration date.
Maya got older. Her meltdowns got louder. The demands got harder. He started sleeping on the couch. Started working late. Then he started disappearing entirely.
One day, I came home from a grocery run and his keys were gone.
No goodbye.
Just a message:
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”
And I collapsed on the floor, Maya wailing in the background, and I couldn’t even move to pick her up.
The Blood
She was eleven when it happened.
I opened her bedroom door and the first thing I saw was blood.
It was all over her—her legs, her bed, her hands.
She was shrieking, flailing, clutching at herself like she was being attacked.
She didn’t understand what was happening.
And I… I didn’t know how to explain a menstrual cycle to a child who barely understands pain.
I tried to clean her. She kicked me. Bit me. Screamed like I was hurting her even though I was trying to help.
I held her in the tub, blood swirling into the water, and I whispered over and over,
“You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
But I wasn’t.
I was breaking.
That night, after she finally slept, I sat on the edge of my bathtub and sobbed until my voice cracked.
My Faith
And here’s something I never wanted to admit:
I thought God was punishing me.
For getting pregnant.
For failing school.
For not being stronger.
For every time I lost my temper or cried or cursed the sky.
I used to pray. Every night.
Now, I mostly sit in silence, wondering if God still sees me.
If He ever did.
But something happened that made me believe again—even just a little.
The Day Everything Changed
It was after midnight.
Maya had finally gone to sleep after a four-hour meltdown that left us both drained and shaking. I sat on the floor in the hallway with my phone in my hand, feeling like a ghost inside my own body.
I didn’t know what I was looking for.
I just needed something. A voice. A lifeline. A sign.
So I typed:
“Autism mom struggling alone.”
Not a fancy phrase. Just the truth.
And that’s when I found it—
Dear Jorgia.
A woman named LaShawn showed up on screen, no filter, no fancy setup—just her. And the minute she started talking, something in me cracked wide open.
She wasn’t trying to be perfect.
She wasn’t pretending to have it all together.
She was honest. Soft. Strong. Exhausted.
Just like me.
She talked about her daughter Jorgia—the outbursts, the quiet heartbreaks, the little moments of joy that made everything else bearable.
I watched one video. Then another. Then I just sat there with tears rolling down my face like a river finally finding its way.
In that moment, I didn’t feel so invisible anymore.
Where I Am Now
I don’t have it all figured out. But I’ve come a long way.
Watching LaShawn gave me strength.
It gave me language.
And it gave me purpose.
I started a small support group here in San Francisco—just a few single moms like me, meeting in the community center once a month. We laugh. We cry. We sit in silence and let it be okay.
Last month, I was invited to speak at a school for parents of special needs children.
Me—the girl who once thought about giving up—was now telling other moms:
“You are not alone. You are stronger than you know.”
And the truth is… I never would’ve gotten there without LaShawn.
If She Ever Sees This
If somehow, someday, LaShawn sees this…
I just want you to know:
You changed my life.
You saved me from disappearing.
You reminded me of my voice.
You gave me the courage to keep going when I was at my absolute lowest.
You made me feel seen.
And now, because of you, I’m helping others feel seen too.
One day, I hope I get to meet you.
Just to say thank you face to face.
To hug you and tell you that because of you, I didn’t give up.
From a tired mama in San Francisco who’s still learning how to breathe again…
Thank you.