When I think about the two hats I wear—BCBA and mom to an autistic child—I reflect on how beautifully complex and ever-evolving that experience is. These two roles are deeply connected, sometimes overlapping, sometimes at odds, but always informing each other in powerful ways.
Two Hats, One Heart
At work, I wear my BCBA hat. I think in terms of behavior functions, data collection, reinforcement systems, and evidence-based practices. I design programs meant to support learners in compassionate, thoughtful, and individualized ways. I love what I do and believe in the science behind it.
But when I come home, that hat comes off. I become “Mom.” In this role, everything feels more personal, more vulnerable. My child isn’t a behavior plan or a progress monitoring sheet—he’s my heart walking around outside my body. He has taught me more about behavior, learning, and neurodiversity than any textbook or training ever could.
Being a mom to an autistic child has fundamentally changed the way I practice as a BCBA. It’s made me more flexible, more human. I’ve learned that sometimes, the textbook strategies need to be tossed aside in favor of what actually works for the child in front of me. I’ve learned to prioritize connection before correction. And I now ask myself one simple question when writing goals or coaching staff: Would I want this for my own child? That question has become my compass.
A Shift in Perspective
Over the years, my approach has shifted. I used to lean into the “medical model”—trying to help autistic individuals fit into the world around them. Now, I align more with the “social model,” which focuses on making the environment more accepting and comfortable for them. I live by the motto: compassion over compliance. That philosophy guides the way I train staff, work with families, and support every learner I meet.
Being a “warrior mom” to a child who is now an autistic young adult has opened my eyes to the challenges that so many families face—especially in school systems. When I sit at the IEP table, I know what it’s like to be on the other side. I know the fear, the hope, the questions, and the exhaustion. And because I’ve walked that road, I strive to be someone other parents can lean on. My goal is for every family I work with to feel heard, supported, and empowered.
I also recognize how fortunate I’ve been. I was already in this field when my son was diagnosed at age two. I knew what signs to look for, how to navigate the systems, and what to do during the hours we weren’t in therapy. That knowledge helped us get a jumpstart. And today, as I watch my son complete his first year at Penn State in the Schreyer Honors Program, majoring in Economics, I’m reminded of how far he’s come—and how far we’ve come together.
The Journey Continues
Of course, the journey continues. Social situations are still hard. Changes in routine throw him off. When things don’t go as expected, it can still feel overwhelming. But he’s becoming more reflective and open about his experience as an autistic person. He’s begun sharing what helped him—and what didn’t—when he was younger. I’m listening closely. I’m taking notes. I’m still learning. And I always will be.
I’ll close this blog with something I posted on World Autism Day—a message that captures the heart of this journey and the intersection of my two roles:
A Letter to My Teacher
Dear Aiden,
On this World Autism Day, I want to pause and tell you something important.
When I first became a mom, I had this picture in my head of what life would look like — me guiding you, teaching you how the world works, showing you how to speak politely, follow the rules, and blend in when necessary. I thought I would be your teacher.
But that’s not exactly how things unfolded.
Because you became the one teaching me — and I’ll never stop learning from you.
You’ve taught me what love really means. Not the easy kind — the deep, unconditional, soul-stretching kind. I would carry every hard moment for you if I could, but since I can’t, I’ll always be by your side — whether it’s celebrating your wins or supporting you when the world feels too loud, too fast, or just too much.
You’ve taught me patience — not just with you, but with myself, with others, and with life. When you were little, a sudden schedule change could throw your whole day off. I learned that preparation is more than planning; it’s an act of love. A five-minute warning, a visual schedule, a clear transition — they made all the difference. You helped me see that supporting someone isn’t about “fixing” anything. It’s about understanding what they need to thrive.
You’ve taught me how to listen. Really listen. Not just to words, but to the meaning behind them, to body language, to silence, to energy. You’ve always experienced the world in your own way — noticing patterns others miss, remembering details others forget, hearing every note in a song when I only noticed the lyrics. You’ve shown me that there’s beauty in a brain that works differently — and that “different” was never a deficit.
You’ve taught me how powerful it is to think outside the box. Your autism has never been something to “overcome” — it’s been a lens, a perspective, a truth. It’s shaped how you problem-solve, how you see the world, how you express yourself. Whether it’s your ability to recall nearly any historical fact, your fascination with languages, or your love of exploring world cultures, you bring passion and depth to everything you do. Your brain makes connections that most of us miss — and that is nothing short of extraordinary.
You’ve also taught me courage. You needed me to speak up — to advocate, to question, to push back against systems that didn’t always understand or include you. And now, watching you self-advocate, set boundaries, and live authentically as an autistic young adult — I am in awe.
I remember trying so hard to help you “fit in” when you were younger — to help you blend into a world that didn’t always know what to do with someone who flapped when excited, who didn’t want to play tag, who was more interested in ceiling fans than soccer balls. I thought I was helping. But now I know — you were never meant to blend in. You were meant to stand out.
And today- (on your birthday), at 20 years old, as a college freshman at Schreyer Honors College at Penn State, you are doing just that. You are embracing your identity as an autistic young adult — not hiding it, not minimizing it — but showing the world how powerful, capable, and brilliant you are. You’re navigating friendships, academics, sensory overwhelm, routines, and independence with the self-awareness and strength that can only come from someone who knows himself deeply.
You are known by those around you as “the nicest person ever,” and I couldn’t agree more. Your kindness is quiet but powerful, steady and genuine. And your favorite times — the ones you spend with Jonathan and Christian — reflect the things you value most: connection, comfort, shared laughter, and love.
I am so proud of you — not for “overcoming” autism, but for owning it. For showing me that neurodiversity is not something to fear — it’s something to celebrate.
Thank you for being my best teacher.
Thank you for being you.
Love,
Mom
About the Author
Jennifer Gormley is a Board Certified Behavior Analyst providing services to students in the Upper Moreland Township School District in PA. Jenn received her undergraduate degree from Shippensburg University and her Masters degree in Education in the Foundations of Applied Behavior Analysis from the University of Cincinnati. She is a married mother of three with one child diagnosed autistic.
