When “Redirect” Isn’t Enough: Parenting Through Pain, Self-Injury, and Survival

I’m a parent to a child who lives with severe intellectual disability, epilepsy, and complex brain differences. He’s nonverbal, has been in therapy since he was 10 months old, and we’ve done every “right” thing we’ve been told to do—therapy, neurology consults, Mayo Clinic, the University of Iowa’s Center for Disabilities and Development, medications, behavioral plans, CBD.

We’ve tried every ADHD medication. Every antipsychotic. Every gentle parenting technique. Every supplement and sensory strategy that might possibly help.

And still—he hits himself. Hard. With a clenched fist, again and again, between the eyes. He bangs his head against the wall or hard furniture. The kind of force you can hear in another room. The kind of moments that make your stomach lurch and your soul ache.

What we get told, over and over again, by professionals who don’t know what else to say, is this:
"People with intellectual disabilities just do that."
“Just redirect him.”

Redirect him.
As if I haven’t already thrown my entire body into keeping him safe.
As if I haven’t tried every distraction, every sensory toy, every soft word, and every protective pad.

As if I don’t already carry the bruises from being the one who has to step between his fists and his head.

They don’t tell you that “redirecting” a 13-year-old who weighs over 200 pounds and is fighting with every muscle in his body feels like going to war without armor. That I hurt for days after—physically and emotionally—while he forgets within ten minutes. That my trauma has a longer memory than his nervous system ever will.

And still, I keep showing up. Because I’m his mother. Because even though he can’t tell me what hurts, I know something does. Maybe it’s pain from the cysts in his brain. Maybe it’s sensory overload. Maybe it’s a world that doesn’t make sense and doesn’t feel safe. Maybe it’s just the lightning storm of a brain trying to cope with too much and too little, all at once.

Last Night
​Last night my son had an outrageous meltdown. It’s always hard—but it’s even harder when this happens in front of other people. I was just trying to keep him out of the kitchen. Most people don’t want kids underfoot when there are hot burners and sharp utensils. I’m worrying about that, and also about him grabbing a 1970s chili bowl from the clean dishes and smashing it over his head because he was told “no.”

I have to physically block him from the sunroom so he doesn’t rip down my mom’s curtains again. I have to stop him from bashing his head into the wooden table, the handrails, the wall, the floor. And you know what? I was grateful—grateful!—that a stranger glued a floor pad to the wall a couple weeks ago, or he would have put his head through it. At least three times.

Then I wrestle him, gently but firmly, guiding him into his bed—fully padded inside, pushed up against gym mats that cover the wall four feet high. I zip him in like I’m containing a storm.

And when it’s over, my friend—who comes twice a week to give him car rides and a break from the routine—comes downstairs and hugs me. I fall apart. The tears come fast and hard. I cry because I’m ashamed. Because I yelled. Because I didn’t stay calm. Because I’m so goddamn tired.

I cry because I don’t recover in 10 minutes. He does. He always does. He forgives quickly. He forgets even faster. But my body? My body is still vibrating. My nervous system, already battered by past abuse and PTSD, can’t regulate after these episodes. The ache is still in my chest. My muscles are still tight. The guilt is still whispering, You should have handled it better.

But I’m only human.

The Quiet Cost
I used to let moments like this ruin my whole day. Now I let them out. I let myself be seen—raw, messy, exhausted. My friend gave me that gift: to be witnessed, to be comforted. To shower. To breathe. To remember I’m not a failure—I’m just human doing a job no one trained me for.

I want people to understand that this is not just hard—it’s inhumanely hard sometimes. I write to elected officials. I beg them to care. I get silence. Or lip service. No meaningful changes.

They don’t care that my son might die in a moment of rage, fear, or confusion. They don’t care that I can’t afford respite, therapy, supplements, and legal CBD without sacrificing bills. They acknowledge this life is hard—but refuse to pay parents like me to do the caregiving they admit is essential. They’ll pay a stranger more than they’ll let me earn—just so I can leave my disabled son to work a part-time job.

We juggle decades of appointments, therapy, advocacy, and trauma—and still they say: “But if we pay you, it might be too hard to track.” Too hard for them. Never mind what it is for us.

We’re not allowed to save money. We’re not allowed to dream of vacations or weekends off. We’re not allowed to stop. Ever.

But I Am Still Here
If you’re a parent reading this, and you’re there too—in the storm, in the exhaustion, in the grief—you’re not alone. I see you. I am you.

If you're a provider reading this, please know: families like mine aren’t asking for miracles. We’re asking to be believed. We’re asking for support that meets reality, not theory. We’re asking to not be dismissed with a word like “redirect.”
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And if you’re anyone else—just reading, just learning—maybe you’ll walk away with this truth:
Sometimes love looks like stepping between a child’s fists and his forehead.
Sometimes it looks like surviving the night, even when your heart breaks by morning.
Sometimes it looks like crying in the hallway while your child finally sleeps, just so you can remember you exist too.
And sometimes, love looks like not giving up--even when everyone else has.