07/03/2026
Rilyn had her first ring ceremony this week, and it was such a beautiful moment.
Her team was being celebrated for winning Cheersport, winning Jamfest, and hitting zero all season long—an incredible accomplishment. Rilyn looked absolutely gorgeous. The venue was beautiful, everything was decorated so thoughtfully, and the ceremony itself was short, sweet, and meaningful. She had a blast, and I couldn't be more proud of her.
And also... I struggled.
Not because anyone did anything wrong. Not because the event wasn't lovely. It truly was.
But because being a Neurosparkly mom sometimes means the parts that seem simple to everyone else are the parts that completely short-circuit my brain.
The girls' dress code was communicated, but I had no idea what I was supposed to wear. That led to freezing, overthinking, asking ChatGPT for help, and eventually panic-grabbing a dress that I didn't even feel good in.
I had also just come off a couple of incredibly stressful weeks between both of my jobs, family life, and trying to keep all the plates spinning. By the time I arrived, my battery was already empty.
I tried to socialize.
Honestly... I failed miserably.
I ended up crying in the bathroom for a few minutes just to let the overwhelm out before pulling myself back together.
Then I managed to completely goof up the moms' picture because I had no idea where to stand, how to pose, or even where I was supposed to be looking.
Those things don't come naturally to me.
They never have.
And I think that's one of the parts of neurodivergence people don't always see.
It's not that we don't care.
It's not that we don't want to be there.
It's not that we're unfriendly or trying to be difficult.
Sometimes we're just trying to function in a room full of unknowns.
What do I wear?
Who all is coming?
Where do I sit?
Am I supposed to mingle?
Should I have brought my whole family?
Where am I supposed to stand?
What's expected of me?
For many people, those are little details.
For a Neurosparkly family, those details can be the difference between feeling prepared and feeling completely overwhelmed.
We had to divide and conquer that night, so my husband stayed home with the boys.
Watching other families celebrate together made me realize that, had I known more about what the evening would look like, I probably would have planned differently.
When your whole family is a little neurospicy, predictability isn't just nice to have.
It's how we make things work.
I'm sharing this not because I think anyone should have done anything differently.
The ceremony was beautiful.
The coaches and mom who put it together created a wonderful evening.
The organizers gave these athletes a celebration they deserved.
I'm sharing it because I know I'm not the only parent who quietly struggles through events that everyone else seems to navigate effortlessly.
Sometimes we're celebrating our children while simultaneously managing anxiety, sensory overload, uncertainty, masking, and trying desperately not to let any of it take away from their moment.
I was proud.
I was overwhelmed.
I was grateful.
I was exhausted.
I was emotional.
I was trying.
All of those things were true at the same time.
Rilyn had an amazing night, and that is what matters most.
She earned every bit of that ring, and I loved watching her celebrate an unforgettable season with an incredible team.
But I also want to leave space for the moms like me.
The ones who desperately want to show up.
The ones who overthink every outfit.
The ones who replay every awkward conversation.
The ones who cry in the bathroom, fix their mascara, walk back out, and keep cheering because their child deserves to be celebrated.
Sometimes the sparkle is loud.
Sometimes the sparkle is crying in the bathroom, wiping your face, walking back out, and still clapping the loudest for your kid.
Sometimes the sparkle isn't what everyone else sees.
Sometimes the sparkle is simply showing up anyway. ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨
