What the Cleveland YMCA Taught Me About Showing Up Today
I wake up, and for a split second, my brain does the old trick: it scans for panic. It looks for the chaos, the uncertainty, the fear of what the day might demand. But then, the fog clears. I’m in our apartment, the coffee is brewing, and I hear Sheamus moving in the other room. He’s up. He needs his breakfast, his routine, his day to start on the right note. He needs his dad.
It’s a contrast that hits me hard sometimes. I remember the Cleveland YMCA. I remember the feeling of waking up on a thin mattress, staring at a ceiling, having no idea where the day would lead or how I’d survive it. I was battling demons then—fighting to keep my head above water, feeling like a ghost in my own life. That version of me, the one who had nothing, would be unrecognizable to the man I am today.
Survival versus responsibility
Back then, survival was an accident. It was about making it to tomorrow without spiraling. Now, survival is a choice, and it’s a shared one. When you’re responsible for an adult son with autism, you don’t have the luxury of getting lost in your own head. You have to show up. Not just physically, but steady. You have to be the rock, the anchor, the calm center of his world.
That shelter taught me the hard way that responsibility isn’t something you’re given—it’s something you earn, piece by piece, day by day. Every morning I spend with Sheamus, every meal I cook, every time I help him navigate a difficult moment, I’m building on that foundation I clawed out of the dirt.
Finding purpose in the routine
People think recovery is about big milestones. But the truth is, recovery is found in the small stuff. It’s in the consistency of a routine. It’s in realizing that the chaos I used to run toward has been replaced by the quiet, demanding, beautiful work of being a father.
I don’t take these days for granted. I know what it’s like to have absolutely zero. I know what it’s like to lose your way. So when I see Sheamus smile because his day is predictable and safe, I know I’ve done my job. That’s not a burden. It’s a gift.
Standing together
This work I do, sharing our story here, is another way I show up. It’s real talk about the reality of adult autism, the exhaustion, the financial grind, and the relentless, unconditional love that holds an apartment together. It’s the stuff the brochures don’t tell you.
If this journey resonates with you, if you’re a parent grinding it out behind closed doors, know you’re not alone. We’re in this together, building our community one day at a time.
If you want to support Sheamus and our household directly:
1. Direct tips on CashApp: You can send support to $Jasonmac73. Every dollar goes straight to groceries, Sheamus’s daily needs, and our stability.
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Grateful for every one of you who reads, shares, and keeps us moving forward. Stay grounded, keep showing up, and let’s keep taking care of our own.