Christmas, Expectations & Reality When You’re Raising an Autistic Child

Every year I tell myself the same thing:
This Christmas will be calm. Connected. Together.

And every year, I have to gently remind myself that when you’re raising an autistic child, Christmas doesn’t follow the script you see online — and that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special.

This year, our Christmas looked different before it even began.

We found out at 3:30pm the day before Christmas Eve that my partner had to work on Christmas Day. So, like many families who are used to adapting quickly, we shifted everything forward and celebrated on Wednesday, Christmas Eve instead.

There was no time to prepare the kids.
No time to talk it through.
No gradual transition.

Just… go.

For most children, that kind of sudden change might feel exciting.
For my daughter Scarlett, it was overwhelming.

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When routine disappears overnight

Scarlett thrives on predictability. Wednesdays usually mean school — getting dressed, leaving the house, seeing familiar faces, moving through a routine her body understands.

But this Wednesday was different.

No school.
No leaving the house.
Christmas music playing.
Presents everywhere.
People busy.
Energy high.

She couldn’t absorb the change quickly enough.

From the moment she woke up, she was overstimulated — crying, unsettled, and constantly seeking reassurance and connection. Throughout the day, she kept taking certain toys that weren’t hers and retreating to her room to play by herself.

Not because she was being naughty.
But because she needed control and quiet in a day that felt loud, unpredictable, and emotionally full.

She didn’t eat.
Not breakfast.
Not snacks.
Not lunch.

Just one apple the entire day.

And while that worried me, I also knew that pushing food would only add more pressure to a nervous system that was already stretched thin.

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The plan vs the reality

We always map our Christmas day out carefully to reduce overwhelm.

Our usual rhythm looks like this:

• Santa sacks in the morning

• Coco Pops for breakfast

• The kids play while I cook and bake

• Lunch at 1:30pm, with snacks available all morning

• Presents under the tree, opened one at a time so everyone gets a turn

• Dessert for dinner

• A Christmas movie

• Bedtime

It’s slow. It’s intentional. It usually works.

This year… it was messier.

Scarlett didn’t want a bath or shower — and that was one of the moments I knew just how overwhelmed she was. Water is usually her safe place. It’s her go-to regulation tool, the thing that helps her reset her body and calm her nervous system. So when even that felt like too much, I knew the day had already asked more of her than she could give.

When our usual regulation tools stop working, it’s often a sign that the day has already been too much.

She was tired, sticky, and dysregulated. Victoria and Spencer were bickering. When it came time for presents, Tori was Santa, like we do every year — passing out gifts one by one — but she got distracted partway through, because she’s six and excitement takes over.

It all still happened… just not smoothly.

Scarlett cried quietly on my lap for a while — not because she was sad, but because everything was simply too much.

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But the day wasn’t ruined

And this part matters.

The day wasn’t ruined — not for Scarlett, and not for the other three.

Even neurotypical children can become overwhelmed and overstimulated on Christmas. It’s a big day, full of noise, anticipation, sugar, change, and emotion. As parents, Steve and I weren’t trying to force one version of Christmas onto everyone — we were constantly adjusting to what each child needed from us in that moment.

For Gabe, the magic was simple.
It was waking up to the Christmas lights already lit, music playing through the house, and the excitement of a morning that felt different from any other.

For Victoria and Spencer, it was seeing the Santa sacks lined up — and this year, seeing their names on them (thanks to my mum). That small detail made it feel extra special, like Santa really knew them.

For Scarlett, the magic looked quieter.
It was keeping her routine.
Climbing into bed between mummy and daddy for morning snuggles before the day truly began.
Starting Christmas from a place that felt safe and familiar before the world woke up around her.

The magic was there for all of them — just in different ways, at different stages, and at different volumes.

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Food, expectations, and letting go

Dinner ended up being dessert.

Scarlett had jelly.
That was it.

We started a Christmas movie, but halfway through we looked at each other and made the call — this was enough. The day had been big. Bedtime came early.

Not as a failure.
But as a kindness.

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The moments no one posts about

There were moments that day where I wanted to hide in the pantry and cry.

Not because Christmas was ruined — but because I wanted so badly for it to feel calm and connected, and instead it felt rushed, loud, and emotionally heavy.

Scarlett was out of routine.
Out of school.
Out of her usual supports.

She needed more from me than usual — and I gave it.

She had extra cuddles.
She had her tablet for most of the day, because it helped her stay regulated.
And I let go of the guilt around that.

Because sometimes regulation matters more than rules.

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What helped us this year

This Christmas reminded me that sometimes it’s not about fixing the day — it’s about getting through it together.

A few things that genuinely helped us were:

• A bottle of Moscato and a box of Favourites
  Not as a coping strategy — just a small moment of comfort once the kids were settled and the pressure lifted.

• Fidget toys tucked into Scarlett’s Santa sack
  With a few kept aside to bring out later in the day as a surprise when her energy dipped or boredom crept in.

• New games downloaded onto her tablet
  Familiar, but new enough to hold her attention when everything else felt unpredictable.

• Low expectations around screen time
  The tablet wasn’t a “reward” — it was a regulation tool, and we treated it that way.

• Connection for the adults too
  Steve had a beer, the PlayStation, and a phone call with his brother. Familiar comforts matter for grown-ups as well.

None of these things made the day perfect.
But they made it manageable.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

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What I’m learning (again)

Christmas with an autistic child isn’t about forcing magic.
It’s about creating safety inside the chaos.

It’s about:

• Letting go of expectations

• Allowing quiet retreat

• Accepting that food may look different

• Understanding that overstimulation doesn’t mean a bad day — just a hard one

• Knowing that joy might be subtle, delayed, or expressed differently

Our Christmas wasn’t picture-perfect.

But it was:

• Full of love

• Full of effort

• Full of flexibility

• Full of small moments of connection

And Scarlett felt safe enough to fall apart in my arms — which, in its own way, means we did something right.

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Why this matters to me (and to Sensory Planet)

This is exactly why Sensory Planet exists.

Not to promise calm days.
Not to “fix” hard moments.
But to support families through them.

Because regulation looks different for every child.
Because tools like fidgets, screens, quiet spaces, and sensory supports aren’t shortcuts — they’re lifelines.
And because sometimes what a child needs most isn’t more structure, but more understanding.

What worked for Scarlett this Christmas won’t work for every child — and that’s okay. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s connection, safety, and knowing when to soften expectations instead of pushing through them.

That lived experience — the messy, real kind — is what sits behind everything I create and share through Sensory Planet.

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And at the end of the day

After the cooking.
After the cleaning.
After showing up for each child in the way they needed us.

Steve and I got to go to bed a little earlier.

A movie on in the background.
A beer for him.
A glass of wine for me.

We lay there, exhausted, grateful, and quietly proud of a day that was messy, loud, emotional — and still lovely.

And we thanked Santa that Christmas only comes once a year.