Time Passes

Time has a way of slipping through our fingers, doesn’t it? One moment you’re cradling a newborn, marveling at her tiny hands and the quiet wonder of her existence, and the next, she’s a grown woman, navigating the world with her own voice and stride. Watching your autistic niece grow up must feel like a whirlwind—a mix of pride, nostalgia, and maybe a touch of disbelief at how fast the years have flown.

I can imagine you still see her birth so clearly. That day she came into the world, perhaps a little chaotic, perhaps serene, but absolutely unforgettable. She was this fragile, perfect thing, and you were there, part of the family holding its breath as she began her story. Back then, time felt slower—each milestone a small eternity. Her first sounds, her first steps, those early signs of who she’d become. Autism might have shaped some of those moments differently—maybe there were extra challenges, extra patience needed—but it also made her uniquely her, a puzzle you all learned to piece together with love.

Then came the growing years, a blur of memories stacking up like snapshots in an album. You’d see her toddling around, her personality peeking through—maybe quiet, maybe fiercely determined, maybe both depending on the day. I bet you can still picture her with a toy she fixated on, or the way she’d light up at something others might overlook, her mind working in ways that taught you as much as you taught her. Those days felt endless sometimes, didn’t they? The routines, the little victories, the setbacks that tugged at your heart. But they passed, each one folding into the next.

School was a whole new chapter. Dropping her off that first day—did it feel like a leap into the unknown? For her, maybe it was overwhelming, with all those noises and faces, but you’d have watched her adapt, find her footing. Teachers might’ve told you she surprised them, or maybe you saw her struggle and triumph in ways they didn’t catch. You’d remember the backpack dwarfing her little frame, the lunches packed with her favorites, the parent-teacher meetings where her quirks and strengths came up. Time sped up then, didn’t it? One grade to the next, summers vanishing, winters piling on coats and years. You’d blink, and she was taller, her voice surer, her world expanding beyond what you could hold close.

Now she’s grown, and it hits you—how did we get here? That baby you once rocked is an adult, maybe still with that spark you recognized from the start, shaped by autism but not defined by it. She’s out there, doing things you couldn’t have dreamed up back when she was born. Maybe she’s got a job, or she’s chasing a passion, or she’s just figuring it out like everyone else. And you’re left with this ache, this beautiful ache, because time didn’t wait. You remember her being born like it was yesterday, her growing like a reel of film you can replay, her school days like echoes you still hear. But she’s not that little girl anymore, and that’s both a marvel and a quiet loss.

It’s fast, too fast—this relentless march of time. Your niece’s journey, with all its twists and joys, mirrors that speed. You’ve watched her unfold into herself, autism and all, and though the years have raced by, they’ve left you with a story that’s hers and yours together. Maybe you wish you could slow it down, rewind to those simpler days, but here she is—grown—and that’s a testament to her, to you, to the love that carried you both through. Time passes, yes, but it doesn’t take those memories. They’re yours to keep, as vivid as ever, no matter how grown she gets.