Parenting Together

Today, I dropped my 7-year-old off at a CBAT program.
If you don’t know what CBAT is, it stands for Community-Based Acute Treatment. It’s a short-term, 24-hour program for kids who are having big, unsafe emotional struggles — toward themselves or others — where home supports just aren’t enough, but they don’t meet criteria for an involuntary inpatient hospitalization.
I never imagined I’d be here.
I never imagined I’d be the parent explaining to my first grader why he needs to stay somewhere else for a while to be safe.
And honestly? I’m feeling everything.
I’m deeply grateful that programs like this exist.
I already miss him more than I expected.
And yes — I’m also feeling relief about the break.
All of those things can be true at the same time.

A Little Background
My son is autistic. He was diagnosed as Level 2, mostly because of the severity of his behavioral challenges — not because he isn’t verbal or bright. He is verbal. He’s funny, social, affectionate, and curious.
But being verbal doesn’t mean he can explain what’s happening inside his body or brain.
When he gets overwhelmed, the feelings come out sideways. Fast. Loud. Physical.

He also has a significant trauma history — and that matters. A lot.
And like most parents in this position, I can’t help but ask myself the painful questions:
What did I do wrong?
How did we get here?
What should I have done differently?
The Truth About His Dad (and My Own Regret)
I was in an unhealthy relationship with his father. I won’t sugarcoat that.
When I met him, he wasn’t a monster. He was charming, attentive, and felt safe. We got pregnant very quickly — unexpectedly — and after Plan B didn’t work (twice), we convinced ourselves it was meant to be.
Later, substance use issues surfaced — mainly alcohol and cannabis, though I suspect there was more I didn’t know at the time. When I asked him to address it, he refused. Eventually, I asked him to leave.
That was the first time he disappeared from our son’s life.
I wish — more than anything — that I had drawn a firm line then.
But I didn’t. I wanted my family together. I truly believed I was doing what was best at the time. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough: we make the best decisions we can with the information and capacity we have in that moment. I let this back and forth happen a few times but then when he left again later — for good — he stopped calling. Stopped answering. Disappeared from both of our lives.
And my son fell apart.

On top of Autism, Missed Signs, and Systems That Didn’t Catch Him
For years, professionals told me some version of:
“He’s too friendly to be autistic.”
Teachers noticed traits. Preschool noticed traits. Early elementary noticed traits. But because he wanted to connect socially, referrals were delayed. Everything took longer than it should have.
We finally got the diagnosis about a year ago.
We did in-home therapy. We’ve been on waitlists for ABA. Something always fell through.
And I tried everything:
trauma-informed parenting
active parenting
gentle parenting
DBT-based parenting skills
even teaching other parents these same skills professionally
Some things helped for a while.
But nothing fixed the core issue: a nervous system that goes from zero to explosion with no brakes.

The Incident That Changed Everything
For three weeks, things were calm. No major incidents. I thought, maybe we’re turning a corner.
Then it happened.
An Amazon box.
He wanted to open it. His older sibling said no. And something inside him snapped.
He scared his siblings.
He broke two doors.
He made threats I never thought I’d hear from a 7-year-old.
This wasn’t normal aggression.
This wasn’t “bad behavior.”
This was unsafe.
I called crisis support again — and this time, they recommended CBAT.
I knew what that meant. I work in peer support. I’ve seen this road before.
And I still said, I’ll never be that parent.
Until I was.
Talking to My Child About Leaving
Telling my son he had to go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I told him:
He isn’t bad
He isn’t in trouble
He isn’t being abandoned
I told him that sometimes feelings get so big that kids need extra help learning how to stay safe.
I told him I would call every day.
That I would visit if I could.
That we are waiting for him.

As we were talking he said something that broke me open:
“I don’t want to hurt people. I want to be safe.”
Seven years old — and he knows.
Holding Two Truths at Once
I’m also talking to my other kids — explaining that what happened wasn’t okay, and that they deserve to feel safe too.
This part matters.
Helping one child does not mean sacrificing the safety of the others.

Sitting in my quiet living room tonight, while my older kids are at their dad’s, I can see it now —

all the pieces that came together into a perfect storm:
intergenerational trauma
exposure to dysregulated adults
inconsistent attachment
unmet neurological needs
systems that were slow to respond
This is not one person’s fault.
What I’ve Learned (So Far)
Here’s the part I want other parents to hear:
Needing a higher level of care is not a failure.
How we talk to our kids about programs like this matters.

How we talk to ourselves about it matters even more.
Blame doesn’t heal anyone.
Anger doesn’t teach skills.
Shame doesn’t build safety.
What helps is honesty, connection, and remembering that everyone — parents included — is doing the best they can with what they have.
I know that’s not everyone’s story. I know some kids have already experienced deep disconnection through trauma, systems, or separation. I know some transitions are harder.

But even then — hearing the words still matters.
“You are wanted.”
“You are missed.”
“You are not broken.”
“We are waiting for you.”

Where I’m Standing Right Now
I don’t know how I’ll feel at the end of these two weeks.
I’ve been the bonus parent of a child who needed inpatient care before, and I saw how much anger and grief she carried — especially when adults didn’t show up the way she needed.
I didn’t have control then.
This time, I do.
And right now — even through the ache — I believe I did the right thing.
Not because it was easy.
Not because it feels good.
But because everyone deserves to be safe including my son.