Today I received a call from my son’s school informing me that he had been suspended for injuring his teacher and hurting another staff member. The week prior, I had received multiple calls requesting that I pick him up early due to escalating behaviors.
My story is not unique. Across the country, parents of children with autism navigate aggressive outbursts, elopement, self-harm, and school suspensions. We juggle IEP meetings, medication adjustments, therapy appointments, and the quiet exhaustion that comes from constantly anticipating the next crisis. Many of those parents, like me, also work in health care. When I take off my short white coat, I become “the patient’s mom.”
The dual life of a provider and a parent
I worked as a registered nurse for years before deciding to attend medical school. For a long time, I contemplated going back to further my education. But it was caring for my son diagnosed with autism at age two that clarified my path. The challenges I faced, the systems I struggled to navigate, and the questions I could not answer fueled my desire to understand more. I entered medical school with one clear goal: become a psychiatrist. Nothing was going to change that until third year.
[Image mapping the systemic barriers and caregiver burden in navigating pediatric behavioral health and individualized education programs]
I began my psychiatry rotation at a busy locked inpatient facility caring for the most acute psychiatric cases in our county. I expected confirmation. Instead, I experienced the worst depression of my life. Some of the patients I cared for carried diagnoses similar to my son’s. Many had histories of early aggression, impulsivity, and school struggles. Stories that echoed the path we are currently walking.
As I sat in family meetings, I no longer saw “cases.” I saw possible futures. I saw myself sitting at that same conference table years from now. I imagined court hearings. Conservatorship discussions. Police involvement during violent outbursts. The unthinkable decisions no parent ever wants to make, and I began to mourn several profound losses:
- The uncertainty of my son’s future
- The version of motherhood I once imagined
- The illusion of control
A rotation that mirrored my deepest fears
During every meeting with a worried mother, I saw my own reflection. Her fears were mine. Her exhaustion was mine. Her desperate hope that this hospitalization would somehow change the trajectory of her child’s life, that was mine too.
For the first time since beginning medical school, I hesitated. Was I choosing psychiatry out of purpose, or out of proximity to my own pain?
But something unexpected happened. The patients I remembered most vividly long after the rotation ended were the ones from psychiatry. Their names. Their stories. Their humanity. They stayed with me. When I sat with parents, I understood their silence. When I spoke with patients, I saw not only pathology but possibility. I saw someone’s child. I saw my child.
Finding purpose in proximity to pain
Being both a provider and a parent gives you an unusual vantage point. You understand science, drug limitations, and systemic gaps. But you also understand the sleepless nights, the shame after public outbursts, and the quiet calculations about what the future may hold. It does not make you detached. It makes you human.
This year I applied for a residency spot in psychiatry. I am excited for the future I am building, but like many parents of children with autism, I am also afraid of the unknown. I am working to build stability today while accepting that tomorrow may require strength I have not yet had to summon.
Perhaps that tension, hope intertwined with fear, is exactly what will make me the kind of psychiatrist families need. Because when the white coat comes off, I am still the patient’s mom, and that perspective is not a weakness. It is my compass.
Joele Tueno Scott is a medical student.
