05/15/2026
This morning, I sat across from a mom over breakfast at Tropical Palm Restaurant and asked her a simple question.
“What does a normal week look like for your family?”
She laughed softly before saying,
“There’s really no such thing as normal.”
This family is stationed here at Eglin Air Force Base.
Three beautiful children.
Ages 4, 6, and 7.
All three on the autism spectrum.
Two boys.
One girl.
Dad works full time and typically leaves for work before the children wake up.
Mom stays home because their schedule leaves no other option.
Their 4-year-old is diagnosed Level 2 ASD.
Their 6-year-old is diagnosed Level 3 ASD.
Their 7-year-old is diagnosed Level 2 ASD.
And this is just a glimpse into their Monday.
The youngest often does not sleep well.
Sometimes he’s awake until 2:00 AM.
At 6:00 AM, the alarm goes off.
Or maybe mom is already awake because one of the children never fully settled during the night.
By 6:30 AM breakfast starts.
Their daughter eats in her room because the noise and chaos in the kitchen is overwhelming for her. Sometimes she eats. Sometimes food ends up all over the room instead.
Mom is simultaneously packing lunches, filling water bottles, charging AAC devices, gathering pull-ups and extra clothes, laying out outfits, and preparing for the day before it has even truly started.
By 7:10 AM, the process begins.
Brushing teeth.
Fixing hair.
Toileting.
Finding shoes.
Getting everyone dressed one by one.
While she’s helping one child, another may be spraying water all over the kitchen floor, climbing furniture, self harming, dumping items, or trying to run out the door.
At 7:40 AM she starts loading bags into the car.
Then the children.
One at a time.
Always watching.
Always counting heads.
Always hoping no one elopes while another is being buckled in.
The goal is to leave the driveway by 8:10 AM.
School drop off for the older two at 8:20.
Then back home.
Get herself and the youngest ready.
Outpatient therapies from 9:30-11:00.
Back home for lunch.
Pack again for ABA.
12:50 PM.
Back in the car.
Check the older kids out of school.
Drive to ABA.
Drop them off.
Return home with the youngest.
4:05 PM.
Back in the car again.
Pick up from ABA.
Home for dinner.
And during all of this?
Children climbing bookshelves.
Sitting on top of vehicles.
Water running endlessly from sinks.
GO-GO Squeezes emptied onto floors and walls.
Songs echoing through the house.
Self harming.
Constant movement.
Constant noise.
Constant vigilance.
A child climbing out of a safety carseat while the vehicle is moving.
Tiny hands suddenly covering mom’s eyes from the backseat while she’s driving down the road trying to safely get everyone where they need to be.
Dad gets home between 5:30 PM and 6:00 PM.
Then together, they begin bedtime.
One child at a time.
Tuesday looks different, but somehow exactly the same.
ABA drop offs.
School drop offs.
Outpatient therapies.
IEP meetings.
Parent trainings.
Grocery pickups squeezed into tiny windows of time.
Phone calls.
Appointments.
More driving.
More coordinating.
More surviving.
And this is every single week.
Monday through Friday.
No breaks.
No slowing down.
No pause button.
This family is not alone.
There are families all across our community keeping the roads hot every single day trying to piece together the support their children need.
Therapy in one place.
School in another.
ABA somewhere else.
Parent trainings.
Meetings.
Evaluations.
Specialists.
Schedules built entirely around survival.
And then there’s the fear.
Earlier this week, mom finally sat down on the couch after dad got home.
Just for a moment.
Or so she thought.
One child had quietly opened a bedroom window.
The next thing she saw were cars stopped in front of her house.
She immediately knew.
Her son was lying in the road in front of their driveway.
This was not the first time he had escaped.
They have the alarms.
The safety locks.
The monitoring.
The routines.
The precautions.
They have done everything they know to do.
Safety beds?
Denied by insurance.
Support?
Limited.
Rest?
Almost nonexistent.
And even carefully built schedules are constantly interrupted by calls from school.
“Your child hit staff.”
“They bit someone.”
“They’re dysregulated.”
“They ate sand.”
“There’s no substitute today.” “We need you to come get them.”
These families are exhausted.
Not because they do not love their children.
But because they are carrying the weight of systems that were never designed to fully support children who do not fit inside rigid boxes.
And the truth is, caregivers, educators, therapists, paraprofessionals, and support staff are exhausted too. Many are doing everything they can with limited resources, limited support, and systems that leave everyone stretched thin while trying to serve children they care about deeply.
This is why The Hub Comprehensive Autism Center was created.
Not simply to offer therapies.
But to reimagine what support could look like for families like this.
A place where individualized educational support, therapeutic services, regulation support, and family-centered care can exist together in one consistent environment.
A place designed to meet children where they are.
Where flexibility exists on the hard days.
Where support exists before crisis.
Where families are not spending their entire lives driving from one appointment to the next just trying to hold everything together.
A place where children can learn, grow, receive support services, build life skills, and access therapies in a way that honors their individual needs.
A place where caregivers, educators, therapists, and support staff also have the resources, collaboration, support, and environment needed to continue serving the children they love so deeply.
A place where parents can finally breathe.
Where they can go home after pickup and simply be a family.
Where trusted respite opportunities, social programs, recreational activities, and community supports eventually become part of the bigger picture too.
This vision was never built from theory.
It was built from listening to families.
From watching exhaustion behind brave smiles.
From hearing stories told quietly through tears.
From seeing parents survive impossible schedules because they love their children that deeply.
Families deserve more than survival mode.
And we believe with everything in us that a better way is possible.
