Picky Eating Isn’t Just Picky Eating

Texture was one of the first things we noticed with Dakota.

She wasn’t the baby who would try everything. In fact, she avoided most things. Bananas? Absolutely not—especially not touching them. Mashed potatoes? Too mushy. Anything soft or unpredictable? Hard pass.

And then… she found her first love: mac and cheese.

But not just any mac and cheese. It couldn’t be too creamy. No clumps of powdered cheese. And at one point, we even refused certain noodle shapes entirely.

Sound familiar? Please say yes—because sometimes picky eating feels incredibly isolating. Like you’re standing on an island surrounded by food choices… and none of them work for your child.

We’ve chosen restaurants based solely on what Dakota might eat. If the kids’ menu says Kraft mac and cheese, it’s probably a place we’ll visit again.

We’ve done food therapy—with moments that felt huge to us, even if they seemed small to others. Watching her touch a cheeseburger for the first time? We were practically jumping up and down.

Yes—touching.

Because for Dakota, food is scary. It’s unpredictable. Melted cheese doesn’t look or feel like cold cheese. String cheese is different from sliced cheese, which is different from shredded cheese. The same “food” can show up in so many forms—and each one feels new, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

And we’ve heard it all.

Everyone has an opinion.
“Just have her try it.”
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry.”
“You’re giving her too many options.”

This one is still hard for my husband. That feeling of “if I could just get her to try it…”

But what we’ve learned—through experience and through therapy—is that forcing food doesn’t help. It actually pushes progress backward.

So we celebrate the wins.

A new food sitting on her plate without being thrown? That’s a win.
Trying something new because she helped cook it with Grandma? Huge win. (One time it was a chickpea straight from the can… and she went back for seconds.)

We also learn to roll with the changes.

Safe foods don’t always stay safe. French toast sticks—once a favorite—are now missing their end pieces because she won’t eat them anymore. Grapes? She discovered seeds exist, and now they’re under heavy scrutiny.

It’s constantly evolving.

So mamas, if your pediatrician is giving you a hard time about how much mac and cheese your child eats—just know you’re not alone.

We’re right there with you.

We are actively working to expand her food repertoire. But for now? She’s fed. She’s happy. And that matters too.

Through multiple therapies, we’ve gathered tools, strategies, and visual supports that have helped us along the way. We created a simple chart designed just for families like ours.

If you’d like a laminated copy sent to you, message or email us your address—we’d love to send you one, on us.

Ally Fetters

The Things People Say vs. The Reality

There are a few phrases I hear over and over again as an autism parent.

Most of them are well-meaning.
Some of them sting a little.
All of them remind me just how much people don’t see.

Because what people say… and what our reality actually is… are often two very different things.

“How do you stay so calm?”

I get this one a lot.

The easy answer? Because I have to.

But the truth is… sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes I get overstimulated, overwhelmed, and pushed past my limit. I’m human. I’m learning too—just like Dakota is. Learning how to regulate when everything feels loud and heavy and too much.

And if I’m being really honest, this journey has made me realize something about myself too: there’s an almost certainty that I’m neurodivergent as well.

So no, I don’t always stay calm.

But I come back. I repair. I try again. Over and over.

Because that’s what she needs from me.

“I could never handle that.”

I know people mean this as empathy.

But the truth is—you could.

Because if it were your child, you wouldn’t have a choice. You would figure it out the same way we all do.

As parents, we all face big moments. Hard moments. Overwhelming, messy, exhausting seasons. Adding an autism diagnosis doesn’t take that away—it just changes what it looks like.

At her core, Dakota is still three.

We’ve gone through potty training. School mornings. Tantrums. Meltdowns. Picky eating. Bedtime struggles. All of it.

It just looks a little different than parenting a neurotypical child.

So yes—you could handle it.

Because you already handle hard things every single day.

“She just needs…”

Ahhhh. My favorite.

“She just needs to eat this.”
“She just needs more discipline.”
“She just needs to…”

We hear this one a lot.

And for a long time, it was hard not to take it personally.

But here’s the truth: I’ve tried everything.

And when something doesn’t work for Dakota, it just doesn’t work. Not because we aren’t trying hard enough—but because her needs are different.

I’ve learned not to carry those comments anymore.

If there’s one thing this life has given me, it’s thick skin.

And also clarity.

Because when people say, “She looks fine” or “She looks like every other kid”… they’re right.

She does look like every other child.

She also works twice as hard behind the scenes to keep up in a world that isn’t built for her.

And that’s what makes her extraordinary.

Our Reality

Here’s the part I wish more people understood:

Our life is different… but also the same.

Our days probably follow a lot of the same rhythms as yours. We wake up, get ready, go to school, make meals, navigate emotions, and try to make it through the day.

But layered into all of that are things you might not see.

Regulation before school.
Sensory needs throughout the day.
Safe foods—sometimes one specific brand, made one specific way.
Transitions that take more time.
Moments that require more patience, more intention, more understanding.

And yes—there are times I think… I wouldn’t choose this for her. Not the hard parts. Not the overwhelm. Not the moments where everything feels too big for her little body.

I don’t know if she would choose it for herself either.

But the truth is—we don’t get to choose.

What we do get to choose is how we show up in it.

How we support her.
How we learn.
How we grow right alongside her.

Instead of telling us what we “should” be doing, come closer. Learn what support actually looks like for our family. Laugh with us in the light moments, stand with us in the hard ones, and take the time to understand what autism looks like in our everyday life.

Because this—this is exactly why we created this nonprofit in the first place.

Community isn’t just something nice to have.
It’s what carries us through.

- Alison Fetters

Routine, Regulation, & The Reality in Between

After a successful day, she got her screen time (strictly managed by a timer and negotiated often), followed by roller skating (filled with prompts to slow down, "wear your helmet" reminders, and a few mishaps). Then came dinner—a safe food that was also negotiated several times—followed by playtime outside, where chalk is a favorite sneaky snack and the air was full of giggles.

Finally, the shower. Water has always been a hurdle for her; washing hair has been a battle from the start. We’ve tried goggles, towels, and every head position imaginable, but a single water droplet to the eyes can still trigger a full panic. By this point in the evening, after the demands of school and a hard day of play, her mood is a wildcard. She might be giggling and singing, repeating the day's events through scripted phrases, or completely spaced out. (I get it, girl; it’s been a long day.)

Showers are difficult. I can’t send her to school with greasy, tangled hair, but I refuse to engage in a bedtime battle that leaves a kiddo dysregulated and me feeling defeated. Tonight, the shower was a win! The perfect pajamas were secured, teeth brushed, lotion applied, and her hair was… mostly combed (usually achieved while we’re pacing the room, as she’s never still for it).

For the final bedtime stretch, my husband and I tidied her room to create a cozy sleep environment while she organized her dolls. Tonight, the dolls needed a story. Typically, she wants to be the narrator—a version that inevitably morphs into an extended epic where astronauts and robots take over. I had to gently insist she rest so I could read to the dolls. They had to be lined up in a specific order and answer questions before the book was finished. Finally, the lighting was adjusted and the room was "perfect" for sleep.

Except, it wasn’t.

While her day was fantastic, the excitement and sensory input accumulated in her body. Nighttime is when she finally processes the "big emotions" she masked throughout the day. Her words become jumbled and noticeably upset.  She cycles through anger, sadness, and over-excitement, all within a five-minute span. So, I sat there and absorbed the emotions.

This mom, from a few years ago, might have taken this personally or felt like I was doing something horribly wrong. That version of me would have become dysregulated, too. Now, I know what she needs. She needs to know that even when her emotions are massive, her panic is peaking, and her excitement is "stim-worthy," I will remain stable. I am her anchor. This took me a long time to understand, but in the process of healing myself, I’ve realized how much it has healed her.

I took a couple of (puny) hits to the arm, with a particularly angry face (She’s so cute, it’s hard to be mad)  We don’t condone hitting, and she rarely struggles with physical aggression, but I wasn’t going to choose 9:30 PM on a Tuesday to "make a point." I allowed her to hit me. I allowed her to see that I still love her, that I’m not angry or disappointed—I’m just there.

However, my body was wanting to react to the situation. I was tense, shallow breaths, and praying I made the right choices in that moment.

I’ve realized that in these moments, she dislikes being perceived or looked at directly. So, I turned my gaze away and hugged a stuffed animal and took some deep breaths, kept a pleasant face(not disappointed, angry or direct)… Soon enough, her body began to mirror my own regulation. Through my deep breaths, and more relaxed “vibes” she felt safe enough to calm down as well.  I led a small prayer, and—BAM—she was out. Thanks, Jesus. LOL.

I’m not trying to overdramatize our night; ALL kids have these nights, too. However, for a child with a Level 2 diagnosis, this is the baseline. Our routines haven’t changed in seven years, they’ve just become more refined and suitable. But the caregiving intensity remains the same. She needs constant support, a reality many parents on the spectrum understand deeply.

After both parents work demanding jobs, we have to regulate ourselves enough to support her. This isn't an occasional effort; it’s a constant state of being. Many parents of children with ASD find they are neurodivergent themselves which is an added layer of fun. Being a mental health therapist for middle schoolers all day, only to come home and regulate a little human who looks up to you? … shew. It’s incredibly easy to get caught up in the emotions from the day.

But I’ll tell you: watching her turn to me face-to-face tonight, allowing her body to melt into a cuddle after that episode... It was incredibly rewarding. Knowing that tomorrow will be much more successful now that she’s sleeping and regulated makes these moments so rewarding.

I’m still learning her, and she is still learning a world that wasn't necessarily built for her needs. If anyone needs to be a stable force—even if it means taking a few "cheap shots" to the arm—it’s her parents. I’m there to show her I love her. (Now, if she pulls that in the morning or at school, that’s a totally different story!) But tonight, during a very raw, human moment, I didn't make it about me or my feelings.

Not every night will I be this patient, and neither will you—and that’s okay. We are also still learning, healing, and growing. I mean, let’s be real: sometimes I want to throw some fists at people, too. LOL. Just kidding. (Mostly.) The idea is to just show up for them. Be their anchor even if it  feels like it’s just you and them on that tiny boat in the middle of the ocean. You will never regret showing up for them and they will continue to view you as their safest person.

I’m positive you’re doing a great job!

Warmly,

A tired mommy,

Kasey Prince

A Note: I share these moments from my own lens, knowing that our experiences across the spectrum vary deeply. To those caring for highly impacted loved ones: your journey is seen, heard, and deeply respected.

We encourage anyone needing emotional or mental health support to reach out to professional counseling or community resources. For immediate crises, help is available 24/7 via the National Suicide Hotline at 988 or the Butler County Hotline 1-844-427-4747. For further questions or to join our community effort, contact us here at PTP!

The Moments I Once Longed For (And What Helped Us Get There)

There are moments in motherhood that people talk about all the time—the big ones, the expected ones. The “firsts” that seem to come so naturally for so many.

And if I’m being honest… there was a time I wasn’t sure we would get some of those moments.

I remember feeling this quiet jealousy watching other parents experience things so easily. The “I love you” slipping out effortlessly. The back-and-forth conversations. The milestones that seemed to come without waiting, without wondering, without the ache of when will it be our turn?

I longed for those moments.

Of course, my daughter was always showing me love—just in her own way. In the way she leaned into me. The way she looked at me. The way she needed me.

And if you’re in that place right now, one thing I wish someone had told me sooner is this:

Love doesn’t always look like words first.

Sometimes it looks like proximity.
Sometimes it looks like trust.
Sometimes it looks like them choosing you over and over again.

Those things matter more than we realize in the moment.

And then one day, it happened.

“I love you.”

So simple. So small to some.

But for us… everything stopped.

We looked at each other and just cried.

Because that moment carried so much more than just words. It held all the waiting, all the wondering, all the hope that lived quietly in my heart for so long.

And that’s the thing about this journey—these moments don’t feel ordinary. They feel earned. They feel deep. They feel like something you hold onto a little tighter because you know what it took to get there.

There were times I felt like we were being robbed of certain experiences. And I won’t pretend that feeling didn’t exist—because it did. It still does sometimes.

But what I’ve come to realize is this:

There are so many moments we get that other parents might never experience in the same way.

The joy of watching her light up when she talks about something she loves—especially animals. The way she dives so deeply into her interests, teaching me things I never knew.

And something I’ve learned along the way is to lean into those interests.

That’s where so much growth happens.

• When they’re engaged, they’re learning

• When they feel safe, they communicate more

• When we meet them where they are, we start to see more of who they are

Some of our biggest breakthroughs haven’t come from forcing new things—but from stepping into the things she already loves.

It’s in the little things.

The things that might seem small from the outside… but feel incredibly big in our world.

So if you’re in a season where you’re waiting for a milestone, here’s what I gently want to offer:

• Celebrate the “almosts”

• Pay attention to how your child already connects with you

• Follow their lead, even when it looks different than you expected

• And give yourself permission to grieve and feel joy at the same time

Because both can exist.

And the weight of these moments—the ones that come in their own time—is not lost on me.

Not even for a second.

Watching her see the world, learn the world, and experience it in her own way—it’s beautiful. Truly. Yes, it can be scary. I am, and probably always will be, an overprotective mom.

But it’s also the most incredible thing to witness.

Because I’m not just watching her grow.

I’m watching her become exactly who she is meant to be.

And there is so much joy in that.

If you’re in a season of waiting… wondering if your moment will come—I see you.

And while I can’t tell you when it will happen, I can tell you this:

Look closely.

There may already be pieces of that moment showing up in ways you didn’t expect.

And when your version of it comes… it will mean more than you could ever imagine.

If you’re in this season, I’d love to hear—what’s a “little” moment that felt really big for you?

What Works Today Might Not Work Tomorrow

If I’ve learned anything on this journey so far, it’s this—what works today might not work tomorrow.

And sometimes, what finally works… took everything in you to get there.

Toothbrushing has been one of those things for us.

When we first started brushing my daughter’s teeth, it was honestly a nightmare. I’m talking chasing her around the house with a toothbrush in hand, trying to turn it into a game when really it felt like anything but. It would take both of us—one holding her, one trying to brush—just to get through it.

I remember thinking, what in the world are we doing?

I felt like the worst parent. I worried what people would think if they saw us in those moments. It didn’t feel gentle. It didn’t feel right. But at the same time… what was the alternative? Just not brush her teeth? Risk her getting cavities before she even made it to her first dentist appointment?

So we pushed through.

We tried everything.

Every brand of toothbrush you could think of.
We tried giving her deep pressure on her arms before brushing, hoping it would regulate her enough to make it easier. Sometimes it helped… but never enough to avoid the meltdown completely.

Then came the character toothbrush phase. I thought, this is it. Maybe if it’s her favorite character, if she loves it enough, she’ll want to do it.

Nope. Not even close.

And then—Santa came through.

That Christmas, she got an electric toothbrush. We had heard from OTs and other parents that it could help, so we figured it was worth a shot.

And somehow… it worked.

Like, really worked.

She was excited. She was giggling. She would actually let us brush her teeth—and not just the easy parts, but the back teeth too. It felt like we had finally cracked the code. I remember feeling this wave of relief thinking, we did it. We found our thing.

But if you’re in this world, you already know what comes next.

About a month ago… it stopped working.

Just like that, the thing that once made her laugh became too much again. Too loud. Too stimulating. Too overwhelming.

So we adapted. Again.

Now we use visual timers on YouTube—and if you ever need a resource, I highly recommend looking up toothbrushing timers. They have one for just about every kid show you can think of, and for us, it’s helped give her something predictable to focus on.

Some days, it works beautifully.

Other days… even looking at the toothbrush is too much. Her sensory cup is already overflowing, and the toothbrush is just one more thing her body can’t handle.

And then there are the days that catch me off guard—the ones where she asks to brush her teeth before we even make it upstairs.

Those are the moments that remind me how much she’s growing, how much she’s learning, and how much she’s trying in her own way.

All of this to say… we are always adapting. Because our kids’ needs are always changing.

What works today might not work tomorrow. And that doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. It just means you’re paying attention.

If you’re a parent who has struggled with something as simple—and as hard—as toothbrushing, I see you. You’re not alone in this.

If you have tips that have helped your family, I’d love for you to share them. And if not, just share your story. Sometimes knowing someone else gets it is exactly what we need.

We’re all figuring this out as we go.

WELCOME.

Welcome to Our Community

Hi, I’m so glad you’re here.

I’m a mom to two little girls—one is three, full of personality and strength, and the other just turned one, already keeping us on our toes. My journey into this space, into this community, began when my oldest daughter was diagnosed with autism at just 18 months old.

Eighteen months sounds so young, and at the time, it felt like we were stepping into something unknown far earlier than we ever expected. But if I’m being honest, when I look back now, there were signs—little things I noticed, moments that didn’t quite fit, instincts I couldn’t ignore. So while her diagnosis didn’t come as a complete shock, it still brought a wave of emotions I wasn’t fully prepared for.

There was so much to process. So many decisions to make. So many “what now?” moments.

And all of this was happening while I was pregnant with my second daughter.

I remember feeling completely torn—trying to prepare for a new baby while also trying to understand what the world would look like for my oldest. I worried constantly. I questioned everything. I felt guilt I didn’t expect… wondering how bringing a sibling into her life would affect the routines she depended on, the comfort she clung to, the world she was just beginning to make sense of.

It was overwhelming, to say the least.

This blog is a space born out of those moments—the uncertainty, the learning, the growth, and the love that exists in all of it.

You won’t just hear from me here. You’ll also hear from our co-founder, Kasey, who is walking her own journey alongside me. Together, we want to create something real. Not perfect. Not filtered. Just honest.

These posts will be raw and authentic. Some will be helpful and resource-filled. Others might ask more questions than they answer—because the truth is, parenting a child with autism is constantly evolving. What worked for my daughter five months ago doesn’t necessarily work today. We are always learning, always adjusting, always growing right alongside our kids.

And that’s exactly why this space matters.

We want this to be more than just a blog. We want it to feel like a community. A place where you can relate, learn, question, and feel seen. A place where you can show up exactly as you are.

So follow along. Ask questions. Share your experiences. Get comfortable here.

Because we’re building this together—and you belong in it.

Ally Fetters