Small wins are BIG wins.” The kind of life mantra that probably needs to be tattooed on my forehead. I’ve heard it for years.
Liam is four years old. He has Down syndrome and autism.
Liam was born in October of 2017. He had complications with breathing that required oxygen support, and he spent the first 10 days of his life in the NICU. As a brand-new mom entering the world of disability, I was worried, scared, and sad. I wanted him home, but I needed him breathing on his own.
Every day, they lowered his oxygen a little at a time. And every day, we waited.
Matt and I were discharged after two days and stayed in a hotel near the hospital. We would arrive early and stay most of the day. Some mornings, a nurse would tell us to come in later and get more sleep. I remember feeling offended. Why wouldn’t she want me with my baby?
What I didn’t understand then was that she wasn’t pushing me away—she was preparing me. She knew I would need rest before taking him home. That small instruction—slow down, sleep, accept help—didn’t fully click until much later.
Liam was surrounded by wonderful nurses, specialists, and doctors. We didn’t even ask God for them. He just sent them. They taught us how to hold him, how to care for him, even simple physical therapy techniques to support his low muscle tone. Eventually, Liam passed his car seat test and graduated from the NICU. We left relieved, grateful, and exhausted.
That experience quietly shaped how I would later handle obstacles in our lives—though I didn’t realize it at the time.
When Liam wasn’t walking, I worried constantly. I assumed he would walk around the same time as his peers. He was in early intervention physical therapy, and we worked through all the mechanics leading up to it. But Liam skipped crawling and preferred to scoot on his butt. People thought it was cute. I felt insecure.
And I hated that.
It wasn’t about Liam. It was about me—my fear, my comparison, my need for reassurance.
Liam was a little over three when he finally started walking on his own. It took longer than I expected, but he got there.
I had to confront my insecurity and check myself. It’s unfair to put my pressure on him. Through conversations with other moms in our Down syndrome community, I learned something I desperately needed to hear: Liam has his own timeline. Worrying about the future doesn’t move it any faster.
It only steals the present.
I wanted Liam included in everything. I wanted him to keep up. But not at the cost of my mental health—or his.
Over the years, I’ve learned that faith doesn’t rush milestones. It steadies you while you wait for them. Intervention supports Liam, but it doesn’t define him. And my job isn’t to accelerate his timeline—it’s to cherish it.
I am content watching Liam achieve things in his own time and choosing not to rush the ordinary moments I once hurried through.
More Than Shower Thoughts 
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