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10/06/2025

Last night, not even 30 seconds after leaving a family gathering, I heard that cry. The one I know too well. The cry Isa lets out right before a seizure takes him.

I glance in the rearview mirror and see what I feared. Anas is already next to him, voice steady but eyes heavy:
“Mama, he’s having a seizure.”
“I know baby.”

This seizure is different. His eyes roll back. His convulsions are strong. This time, he isn’t “there but not there.” He’s completely gone.

Anas watches closely, trying to act nonchalant, but I can see the worry on his face. “This one is a strong one, mama.” “I know baby.”

It feels like we’re both holding our breath. Then I see Anas grab the magnet and swipe Isa’s VNS with calm precision. He knows what to do. He shouldn’t have to know what to do.

The seconds drag on. Over a minute. It feels like forever. And then finally… the seizure stops. Both of us exhale.

“He’s okay mama,” Anas says, relief in his voice.
“I know baby. Thank you.”

He goes right back to his phone like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, I’m shaken. Traumatized. I haven’t seen a seizure this strong since before Isa started medication, over seven years ago. We just increased his meds two days ago. Wasn’t it supposed to help? It doesn’t make sense. But since when has epilepsy ever made sense?

We sit in the garage, still processing. I turn to Anas.
“Are you okay? I know that seizure was really strong. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine mama.”
“Do you think about Isa’s seizures after they happen?”
“No mama, I’m used to it. I don’t think of things that bring me down.”

My wise, brave boy. At 12 years old, he already knows how to compartmentalize emotions most adults can’t. He’s had to grow up too fast.

And my heart aches, for Isa, who endures the seizures, and for Anas, who carries the silent trauma of being his brother’s protector.

09/29/2025

The other day a friend asked me a question that really made me stop and think. With all the conversations around autism lately, people often ask about cures or what could be “fixed.” My son Isa has profound autism, and because of that I feel like I can speak honestly as a mom who lives it every single day.
What many don’t know is that autism often comes hand in hand with other conditions. Isa has a rare genetic mutation that not only explains his autism but also causes his epilepsy. His seizures are part of our daily reality and he takes four to five different medications just to keep them somewhat under control. The medicines affect his brain, the seizures affect his brain, and they both affect his development. It is an exhausting fight.

So when my friend asked me what I would change about Isa if I could, my answer came without hesitation. I told her I would take away his epilepsy. I would take away the seizures that knock him off his feet, the ones that steal his comfort and his peace, the ones that make me hold my breath every single time.

She was surprised. She said she thought I would wish for him to talk, to be able to communicate. But for me, my first prayer has always been for his seizures to stop. Autism is not what hurts him. If anything, autism is what makes him who he is. His quirks, his stims, his sweet little sounds and the way he lights up a room. Those are the parts I love most. Those are the parts I would never want to change.

But epilepsy. That is the battle. That is the thief. If I could give Isa one gift, it would be a life without seizures. And I would choose that in a heartbeat.

09/25/2025

The absurdity of this whole announcement really had me cracking up so I leaned into some humor. I saw a meme like this floating around and decided to create my own version because sometimes laughter is the only way to cope with the nonsense. If Tylenol really caused autism, this is what it would look like.

09/23/2025

There’s so much noise right now. So many autism moms feeling guilty. So many pregnant moms worried and scared.

Mama if that’s you I want you to know something. If you took Tylenol last night to break a fever or months ago when you didn’t feel well you did what you had to do. You protected yourself and your baby. That little pill may have even saved your life or your baby’s life.
I never took Tylenol during my pregnancy with Isa and he still has autism. Autism isn’t something you caused. And if your child does have autism I promise you they will still be the most beautiful soul you’ve ever laid eyes on. You will not want to change a thing about them.

So breathe mama. Let go of the guilt. You and your baby are enough exactly as you are.

09/15/2025

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I haven’t posted here in a while. Honestly, I don’t even know exactly why. Maybe it’s a mix of things, maybe it’s just life. Lately, it feels like everything has gotten so busy. Between raising Isa and Anas, trying to balance being a mom, showing up for my loved ones, and focusing on my career, I don’t get much time on social media anymore.

As Isa grows, we’re entering a different season of life with him. His growth brings so many beautiful things, but also more responsibilities and more to navigate. Some days it feels like my heart and my energy are spread across a thousand different places, and there just isn’t much left over.

When I do open social media, I try to only look at things that spark joy in me like home renovations, creativity, and lighthearted content. But it’s impossible to filter everything. There are times when I see things I can’t just scroll past, and it stays with me. That’s the part that’s always been hard for me. I’ve always felt deeply. Sometimes too deeply. It’s the same reason I changed career paths years ago; I’ve never been able to detach from other people’s pain.

With everything happening in the world, especially in Palestine, I find myself carrying grief and empathy in ways I can’t always put into words. And recently, it’s made me notice how selective empathy can be. Watching compassion rise up when tragedy touches people who look like them, but silence when others suffer, it’s hard to sit with. It opened my eyes in a painful way and made this space feel heavier for me.

This page was always a safe space. It was my therapy, my way of connecting, of sharing our journey, of reminding myself and others that we’re not alone. I still love what this community represents, and I am so grateful for everyone who continues to be here. I’m not shutting this down, but I am allowing myself grace in this season. I’ll share when I feel inspired or when I feel that nudge, but I’ve learned I also have to protect my peace.

So if you’ve wondered why it’s been a little quiet, this is why. Thank you for holding space for me the way I hope I’ve held space for you.

Love,
Nazia

08/29/2025

There’s been a lot of conversation in the autism community again lately, and I feel like I need to share what’s been on my heart.

Autism is such a wide spectrum. Some children need minimal support while others, like my son, need full support every single day of their lives. For families living with profound autism, life can be incredibly hard. There are days you don’t even know how to put into words what you’re going through. Days that feel endless. Days that test every part of you.
I understand why parents sometimes share from a place of exhaustion, because I’ve been there too. But as my son gets older, I’m learning something deeply important.

I have to be intentional with how I advocate for him.

The words I use matter. The way I tell his story matters. Because these stories don’t just live on social media… they will shape how the world sees him, and one day, maybe how he sees himself.

I can share our struggles honestly. I can raise awareness. I can educate. I can fight for his needs. But I refuse to do it by stripping away his dignity.

My son is not a burden. He is not a horror story. He is not broken. He is my child. He is a human being. And he is worthy of love, respect, and dignity ALWAYS.

Parents, I know some of us carry heavier loads than others. I know how overwhelming this life can feel. But for the sake of our children, please remember: what we say about them matters. We can tell the truth without ever dehumanizing them. We can advocate fiercely and still protect their dignity at the same time.

08/24/2025

When I became a mom for the first time with Anas, I was that parent. The “all-natural, holistic, no-medicine” parent. I hesitated before giving him even Tylenol. I cooked every meal from scratch, used the baby bullet to make his baby food, and sanitized every bottle every night. I thought that was what it meant to give my child the very best.

Then Isa came into my life. And everything I thought I knew about parenting changed. My whole perspective shifted. With him, I had no choice but to step into the world of specialists, hospitals, and medications, the very world I was so privileged to never have to experience.
Today, Isa takes 18 pills a day. Eighteen. Every single one is necessary to keep him safe, stable, and alive. And while I still believe in natural care where I can, modern medicine is what keeps my son here with me. That’s a humbling reality I never imagined I’d face.
Sometimes I still get triggered when I hear other parents casually say they “don’t like giving Tylenol” or that they “don’t depend on medicine.” I once said those very things. And now, here I am, depending on more than I ever thought possible, because I have no other choice.
This life has taught me a hard truth: privilege isn’t just about money or status, it’s about health. With my first child, I had the privilege of choosing natural. With Isa, medicine isn’t a choice. It’s survival.

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