The Autistic Four - By Elfreda Baartman

Written By: Elfreda Baartman

Category: Memoir

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Elfreda Baartman presents "The Autistic Four," a poignant memoir that invites readers into a deeply personal narrative of family, faith, and discovery. Participating in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Baartman shares her family’s unique journey through the lens of autism, offering insight and inspiration to others facing similar paths. This memoir is an exploration of love, resilience, and the power of understanding, as it navigates the complexities of embracing differences and finding strength in authenticity.

About the Work

"The Autistic Four" is a touching exploration of a family's encounter with autism, revealing the profound beauty found in their everyday lives. Baartman crafts a narrative rich with emotion, capturing the essence of love, loss, and acceptance. Through vivid storytelling and sincere introspection, the memoir offers readers a glimpse into the challenges and triumphs that define this family's journey. It is a testament to the human spirit's ability to find light in the darkest of moments and to celebrate the unique tapestry of life.

The Autistic four

Original Submission by Elfreda Baartman

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 1

Preface

This book began as a simple attempt to capture our family's journey—our pain, our breakthroughs, our faith, and the love that holds us together. What started as a few scattered memories became a story I knew needed to be told—not just for us, but for every family searching for light in the midst of confusion, fear, or isolation.

When Abigail was born, we had no idea that our entire household was uniquely wired. It took years of searching, struggling, and surrendering to realize that we were not broken. We were not less. We were simply different—and beautifully so.

This memoir is not just about autism. It is about discovery. It is about loss. It is about finding peace with who we are. It is about faith, and how God used every part of our story—yes, even the hard parts—for something meaningful.

If you are reading this and feeling unseen, misunderstood, or overwhelmed, I want you to know that you're not alone. There is strength in embracing the truth about who you are. There is healing in sharing your story.

May this book offer you hope, courage, and a reminder that your story matters.

"We’re not your typical superheroes. Our capes are invisible, our battles are quiet, and our victories often go unseen. But make no mistake—we are the Autistic Four. This is our story."

Chapter One: The Autistic Four

> Before we were the Autistic Four, we were just two. Two people who loved deeply, lived quietly, and dreamed of something more.

There was a time when the house was silent—not the kind of silence that follows bedtime stories and toddler giggles, but the kind that lingers when dreams are still just dreams. It was just the two of us—me and him—navigating life, slowly learning that the world didn’t always speak our language, and we didn’t always speak each other’s. But we made it work. Somehow, we always made it work.

We wanted children—fiercely, tenderly, and achingly. That desire ran deep. It wasn’t about creating a picture-perfect family; it was about legacy, love, and the longing to pour ourselves into something bigger than us.

Then it happened. We were pregnant—with twins!!!

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 2

I remember the moment we found out. It was August 2007. My husband and I were overjoyed. We had longed for children, prayed, hoped, waited. And suddenly, two lives were growing inside me.

We spent months preparing, dreaming, planning for the day we would meet them. But in March 2008, just one month before they were due, everything changed.

The doctor’s words felt like a lightning strike and a sunrise all at once two heartbeats, two lives. Double everything—double joy, double chaos, double dreams. We were scared, but in the best kind of way. We imagined the two of them holding hands in the womb, being best friends from the very beginning. We picked out names. We whispered to them through belly and skin.

But life—cruel and uninvited—stepped in.

We lost them.

I still remember how everything blurred after that. The way the days folded into each other. The hospital walls, the silence. The way the world kept moving, as if nothing had changed, when for us, everything had. Our twins never got to take their first breaths, but they had already filled our lives with meaning.

That grief was the seed of something else. It changed us. Not just in sorrow, but in depth, in resilience. And maybe, just maybe, it opened something in us that helped us later understand love in new and different forms—love that would eventually come wrapped in autistic brains and fierce little hearts.

Chapter One: The Autistic Four

We had spent months dreaming of our sons, two boys, identical, inseparable, growing in the same sacred space, the same amniotic sac. I was seven months pregnant. The finish line was near, and our hearts were full.

Our dear friend, Tracy Sunshine, had come to visit from Cape Town—it was her first time in Kimberley, the Diamond City. She brought so much joy, laughter, light, she also brought excitement. "Let’s go find out the gender!" she said.

That day, everything changed.

My husband and I went to the doctor while Tracy waited at home. The moment we stepped into the room, the doctor gave me a strange look and asked, “Do you still carry twins? Your tummy dropped.” I didn’t understand his words. I didn’t want to understand them. He told me to lie down for sonar. Five minutes passed in heavy silence.

Then: “No heartbeat for baby A. But baby B still has a heartbeat.”

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 3

I went numb. There was no time to process. The doctor handed us a letter and told us to go to the hospital immediately. They might be able to inject baby B’s lungs, to help him survive. There was still hope. Small and fragile, but it was there.

We arrived at the hospital around 3 p.m. The first nurse we encountered looked at us with irritation instead of empathy. “Is this the time to get here?” she asked coldly, unaware—and uninterested—in the horror we had just faced. We gave her the letter. She called the doctor on call, which simply refused to come. The nurse came back and told us, “There’s nothing we can do. Come back tomorrow. The babies will come down by themselves.”

I was in shock. No exam. No compassion. No care. We went home, hearts broken, heads spinning. That night around 9 p.m., I felt baby B move—three strong kicks, then, stillness. I turned to my husband and said, “He’s gone too.” I knew.

The next day, we took a taxi and walked to the hospital from the taxi rank. When we got there, the doctor confirmed it. No heartbeat for baby A. No heartbeat for baby B. Our sons were gone.

We didn’t cry. We didn’t speak. We were beyond words. Someone led us to another room and tried to explain what had happened, but I heard nothing. I was somewhere far away. I was floating above it all, unwilling to come back down.

Then the blame game started. The hospital head arrived, and uproar broke out—because I had been sent home the day before. The doctor who wrote the letter, the one on call, and the head nurse argued in my hospital room, shouting over my broken body. No one wanted to take responsibility. My husband, furious and protective, asked them to get out of my room. They were supposed to care for me. Instead, they fought like children while our babies were gone.

I was left in that hospital bed for a week, with both my sons still inside me. It was Easter weekend, Passover. On Good Friday, they finally induced me. Not with kindness or sedation, but with raw pain through the drip. One of the twins was breech. The doctor inserted his hand inside me to turn the baby—without anesthesia. My body convulsed in agony. I screamed. I shook. I wept. It felt like I was being crucified with Christ that Friday.

They wanted me to give normal birth to dead babies.

There are wounds that never close. This was one of them.

Chapter Two: The Resurrection

My parents came all the way from Cape Town to be with us. It was Easter weekend, and the trains were full. There were no seats left. So they stood—stood—for 24 hours, from Cape Town to Kimberley. Elderly, exhausted, determined. That’s what love looks like when it’s desperate to hold your pain.

My brother and his wife, and my sister, sat with my husband in the waiting room. We were surrounded by family, but I had never felt more alone.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 4

The doctors told me to walk up and down the passage, as if walking would bring the babies down. I remember thinking—how can dead babies come down by themselves? The logic was lost on me. Everything was lost on me. I obeyed, because I didn’t know what else to do. I was just trying to survive.

Saturday, they tried to induce me again, this time with a tablet. I was meant to receive just a quarter of it every hour, to slowly build up contractions. But the nurse gave me the entire tablet at once. My body reacted violently. I went into shock again. They put me on oxygen while my family, my husband—they knew nothing of what was happening behind those closed doors.

Later that day, I was asked to identify the nurse responsible. I was told she had been dismissed. I didn’t feel relief. I felt hollow. These were supposed to be trained professionals, and yet every step felt more like neglect than care.

They moved me next to the theatre, just in case. I lay in that space, surrounded by the sounds of life—and death. I saw mothers give birth. I saw babies who didn’t make it. I saw mothers who didn’t come back. I saw fear, pain, and silence. And I lay there thinking, what if I’m next? What if I also don’t come back?

I was scared. I was broken. I was utterly alone inside my own body.

Easter Sunday at 3 am, the day Christ raised from the grave… they finally decided to cut me open.

A C-section, a moment of mercy far too late. After days of being ignored, brutalized, and silenced—someone chose to act. And just like that, my sons were born into silence. There were no cries. No movement. No joy.

Only the stillness of two perfect, lifeless bodies.

Chapter Three: Asher and Jasher

After the C-section, I told myself I didn’t want a funeral. I couldn’t. The pain was already too much to carry, and the thought of watching tiny caskets lowered into the earth was more than I could survive.

But my husband—he needed to see them. He insisted.

The nurse warned us before he went in. “It’s not a good sight,” she said softly. “They’ve started to decompose.” We didn’t know how long baby A had been gone. I had still felt movement—kicks, flutters—but I didn’t realize it was only baby B holding on. By the time they were removed from me, baby A had already changed.

His tiny body told the truth we hadn’t known: it had been a while. There were no fingers. His skin was dark brown, his head flat. His face… wasn’t there. My husband saw him. I saw him. And I wish I hadn’t. It was a sight I will carry forever.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 5

But baby B… he was beautiful, fully grown. Light brown skin, soft curly hair, broad little shoulders. He looked peaceful. He looked ready to live.

That contrast broke something inside me.

Two babies, two stories written in silence. One whose body had given in before we knew, and one who fought until the end. Neither made it into this world breathing, but both had been so very real to us. Loved, dreamed of, named in our hearts.

There are no words for what it feels like to walk away from the hospital with empty arms, knowing you entered it full—full of life, full of expectation. We were now parents with no babies. A mother, with milk and no mouths to feed and a father with no sons to raise.

Chapter Four : Our community

When I came home from the hospital, I was hollow—but my body hadn’t gotten the message. My breasts were sore, swollen with milk for babies who would never drink. They gave me tablets to dry up my milk, Folic acid. And another tablet… one I didn’t question at the time.

A few days later, a friend of mine—who happened to be a doctor at that same hospital—came to visit. I showed her the medication. Her face dropped. She picked up one of the tablets and said, “My friend, if you drink this, your blood pressure will drop so low you might never wake up again.”

She looked shaken. Not long after that, she resigned from the hospital.

I don’t know what shocked me more—that they gave me a potentially fatal drug, or that I never would have known if she hadn’t come by. I had trusted them. Even after everything. Even after the trauma. I had still trusted. That moment shattered what little faith I had left.

Our home quickly filled with people, friends, family and church members. All of them came to pay their respects. They cried. They hugged us. They told us how sorry they were.

But strangely, we couldn’t cry. Not me. Not my husband. We were the ones comforting them. Telling them it’s okay, telling them not to be sad. Maybe it was shock. Maybe we were trying to be strong. Maybe we had cried everything out in the spirit and there was nothing left. My husband was a pastor—one of the pastors at our church, not the senior leader, but still someone deeply involved in the life of the congregation. When the news spread, the church sisters came. They brought food. They prayed with us. They sat quietly. They showed up not just for him, but for us.

I experienced community for the first time in a way that felt tangible, solid and real. Not because they had all the right words, but because they refused to let us grieve alone.

In the weeks that followed, I started to let go—slowly. I gave away the baby clothes, one piece at a time. But I kept the soft little tracksuits that Tracey Sunshine had bought. I couldn’t part with them. They held something deeper than cloth—they held memory, hope, friendship, love.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 6

We sold the twin pram and gave away the cot. Pieces of a dream we had to release.

The baby books—those I kept, carefully. Tucked away like sacred relics. They were filled with pages waiting to be filled: milestones, memories, firsts that would never come. But I couldn’t throw them away. Not yet.

Years later, our house flooded. Water soaked everything. The baby books were ruined. The pages swelled and blurred words and pictures melting into mush.

And just like that, it felt like my heart had been ripped open again, another loss, another goodbye.

This time, I had no choice but to throw them away.

Grief doesn’t leave you. It just waits—quietly—for unexpected moments to rise again.

Sometime after the loss, my husband and I joined a support group for parents who had also lost children. Sitting in that space, surrounded by shared pain and silent understanding, we found something we hadn’t expected—permission, permission to name them, to fully acknowledge their lives, no matter how brief.

We named them Asher and Jasher Baartman.

Asher, means Happy.

Jasher, means Righteous.

In giving them names, we gave them identity. We gave our grief a shape. And we gave ourselves a small piece of healing.

What Grief Taught Me

Losing Asher and Jasher shattered me in ways I didn’t know a soul could break. But even in the wreckage, life whispered lessons I carry with me to this day:

Grief has no script. It doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like silence, like making tea for guests who came to comfort you while you feel absolutely nothing. And that’s okay.

Community matters. That week, I experienced community in its purest form. People showed up with food, prayers, and presence. They didn’t fix it—they simply stood with us. Systems can fail us, but healing comes from elsewhere. The hospital experience was painful and unjust, but healing came through naming our babies, through support groups, through each other.

You are allowed to grieve in your own way. I didn’t cry when everyone expected me to. I gave away baby clothes one piece at a time. I kept the tracksuits Tracey Sunshine bought. And when the baby books were destroyed years later in a flood, it felt like losing them all over again.

Hope can live next to sorrow. Even after loss, new life can grow. Not as a replacement, but as a reminder that joy is still possible.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 7

What I’ve Learned — Lessons from Loss

Losing our twin boys was the most heartbreaking experience of my life. It left a permanent imprint on my heart, but it also taught me deep, unspoken truths that I want others to understand—especially those who truly care, but may not know what to say or do.

1. Never ask a mom where her baby is after she comes home from the hospital. You might mean well, but it can break her all over again. Sometimes silence and presence speak louder than words.

2. Never tell a woman she looks pregnant.

You don’t know her story. You don’t know what battles she may be silently fighting, or what she’s just been through.

3. Never ask, “How is the baby doing?”

If she hasn’t brought it up herself, there might be a reason. Give her space. Let her lead.

4. Just don’t ask anything baby-related unless the mother does first.

It may seem small, but it protects her heart. She’ll talk when she’s ready.

Chapter Five: Hope Kicks Again

Two years later, in 2010, something shifted.

It was the year of the Rugby World Cup—a time when the whole country seemed alive with noise and celebration. Vuvuzelas echoed in the streets, flags waved from car windows, and for the first time in a long time, even my heart began to stir with a different kind of energy.

We were pregnant again.

After everything—after loss, grief, silence, and healing—new life was growing inside me. It didn’t erase the pain of losing Asher and Jasher, but it brought a kind of breath back into our home, a flicker of joy, a tiny heartbeat of hope.

We were so excited—this time, we prayed for a girl. After everything we had been through, it felt like daring to dream again. We began thinking about names, imagining her little face, her laugh, her tiny fingers curled around ours.

The pregnancy went smooth and peaceful.

No complications, no major concerns, just growing anticipation and quiet hope.

It was time to book my hospital bed, and we made our way there, hearts light. The process was simple and routine. Afterwards, we were about to head home. I stopped at the toilet before we left—and that’s when I saw the blood.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 8

Panic hit instantly. My husband rushed to tell the nurse, and she didn’t hesitate—she called the doctor. He examined me and said words I wasn’t ready to hear:

“You’re in labor.”

I had no pain. No signs. No idea.

It had been an elective C-section, a plan, a timeline. But within minutes, that plan was out the window. They prepped me quickly, rushed me into theatre, and not even 30 minutes later—

She was here.

It was a girl, our answered prayer, a beautiful baby girl.

She didn’t make a sound.

After all the rush, all the urgency, all the prayers and hopes, she entered the world in near silence. The nurses gave her a few gentle raps on the bottom, encouraging her to cry, but she was in no rush, just a soft, faint sound. A breathe, really. As if to say, I’m here, but on my terms.

They wrapped her up and handed her to my husband, who had been waiting with great anticipation just outside the theatre doors. I didn’t get to hold her—he held her first.

I can still picture him walking through the hospital corridors, beaming, smiling so big. Calling family with a voice full of joy, announcing her sudden arrival—the first baby girl in the family.

I lay there still on the operating table, my heart full.

She had arrived, quiet, but whole.

And we were no longer just a couple.

We were parents.

Later, when I finally held her in my arms, I couldn’t stop staring. She was small, soft, and quiet—but there was something strong about her, too, a quiet strength. As if she had carried something sacred into the world with her.

We named her Abigail—Father’s Joy.

And she was exactly that. Not just to her earthly father, who couldn’t stop smiling from the moment he laid eyes on her, but to our Heavenly Father too. A joy gifted to us after sorrow, a light born from darkness.

Chapter Six: Abigail’s First Battles

Abigail was barely two years old when we noticed something wasn’t quite right. Her eyes were squint—so visibly that strangers would often point it out. But it wasn’t just cosmetic. She was falling often, bumping into things, and struggling to make sense of the world around her. We later learned from the eye specialist that she was literally seeing double.

Imagine trying to explore life as a toddler, only to have the world split in two. At such a young age, Abigail had to undergo three corrective eye surgeries.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 9

With every eye operation we had to put in eye drops that dilated her pupils and also caused her not to be able to see for a while. This will cause her to totally go in distress coz she couldn't see. This was a very heart breaking thing for us to do. But we had no choice. I am so happy that those days are over now.

Abigail's milestones were all delayed. She never babbled as a baby, no joint attention, no smiling, no laughing, no facial expressions, just a serious blank stare! We used to jokingly say that she takes life very serious.

When Abigail was about a year and a half we took her for a brainwave scan because we thought that something might be wrong with her brainwaves... It came back normal. After that we took her for an MRI which also came back normal. This baffled us coz now we felt lost and did not know what to do next.

One night as my brother and his wife visited us, my sister in law mentioned that Abigail is showing signs of autism. This was the first time my husband and I heard this word. We immediately googled and there it was! Abigail ticked every box. She didn't like to be cuddled or held. She didn't want to be lulled to sleep; she wanted to be left alone. She never cried and that made it difficult to figure when she is hungry or needed a happy change. She was a very quiet baby, and the sweetest too.

She started wearing glasses at just two years old. Tiny frames on an even tinier face. But somehow, she owned it. The glasses helped her see clearly for the first time—and from then on, we started to see even more of her shine through.

It was only when Abby reached a year and a half when she started crying, early morning hours between one and two am. Hubby and I will literally sit with our backs against the wall, not knowing what to do.

During this time, I discovered something strange but precious — the only thing that would soothe Abigail was biting and sucking on my finger. It was incredibly painful, but it was the only way she would fall asleep. She completely rejected her pacifier, so my finger became her comfort. I endured the pain for weeks, just grateful to see her calm. Eventually, while shopping one day, we found something unexpected in the pet aisle — a strong rubber toy tough enough to withstand her biting. It became her new comfort, and to our relief, it lasted a month or two at a time.

This season taught me about sacrificing yourself completely as a parent — not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically too. It just felt right to give her what she needed, even when it hurt me. As much as my husband stood by me, there were things I had to go through alone — things only a mother can feel in her body and heart. Abigail, without even knowing it, became my greatest teacher. Through her, I learned patience. I learned resilience. I learned perseverance. And I discovered that love is often quiet, raw, and deeply sacrificial.

In those early years, my faith was stretched — and ultimately strengthened — like never before. I had to totally rely on God for guidance, every single day. What made it harder was that Abigail didn’t cry, not even when she needed something. As a first-time mom, I often felt lost, like I was walking blindfolded through a storm. There were no obvious cues, no cries to respond to. I had to lean fully on instinct, prayer, and trust in God to help me understand her needs. It wasn’t easy, but it deepened something in me — a spiritual muscle I didn’t know I had.

Abigail’s speech didn’t begin to develop until she was about three years old. For the longest time, we waited for a “Mama” or a “Dada” — but the silence continued. It was tough,

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 10

watching other kids reach their milestones while ours was locked in her own quiet world. At age four, it was time for preschool, but every door seemed to close. No preschool wanted to take her in. She was seen as too fragile — she would fall from even the slightest bump, or sometimes just when someone walked past her.

But then my sister, who was a preschool teacher at the time, stepped in and offered to take Abigail into her class. “Let’s just give her a chance,” she said. “She needs stimulation, not rejection.” That decision changed everything.

Those first few weeks were challenging, but as the year went on, Abigail began to show us what she was truly capable of. She was absorbing information. She was observing, learning, taking it all in. At the end of the year, during the preschool graduation ceremony, Abigail had a moment that will stay with me forever. She stood in front of a room full of parents and children, holding shape cutouts. While she

didn’t speak, my sister called out the shapes one by one, and Abigail silently, confidently, identified each one — triangle, square, circle, star.

Not one mistake. She knew every single one.

My sister gently asked the parents not to clap — because Abby was still sensitive to loud sounds. So instead, the room filled with warm smiles and nods of admiration. No applause. just quiet wonder. And in that moment, my little girl stood tall, not for what she couldn’t do, but for everything she could.

Abigail’s speech began to blossom beautifully. Every word she learned felt like a sunrise — gentle, warm, full of hope. Though she still struggled with things like running and jumping, we celebrated every bit of progress. Every step forward was a victory.

Then came a new milestone — big school.

We were thrilled when we got the news: Abigail was accepted at Jannie Brink Special School. A place designed to support children like her. We were overjoyed. Our baby girl was going to school! It felt like a new beginning.

But with the joy came anxiety — waves of it.

She would be taking school transport — strangers driving her to and from school. That thought alone stirred a flood of questions in my heart. Will they treat her kindly? Will they notice if she’s scared or hurt? Will she be able to tell someone if something is wrong? Will the teacher understand her? Will she be patient? Will Abigail say when she needs the toilet? She doesn’t speak to strangers — what if she doesn’t speak at all?

Will she make a friend? Will the other children understand her silence, her way of being? What if they don’t? What if she’s isolated? What if she gets hurt — and no one sees — because she still doesn’t cry?

I wanted to protect her from everything. But I also knew I had to let her go — to grow. And as parents, especially of children like Abigail, we carry our hopes in one hand and our fears in the other. But we walk forward anyway.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 11

Chapter Seven: First Day, First Leap

Abigail’s first day at Jannie Brink Special School was a swirl of emotions. The excitement of her finally going to a school that understood her needs was almost drowned out by the weight of our fears. We had waited so long for a school that would accept her, and now that day had come.

The morning felt surreal. We dressed her in her school uniform with trembling hands and hopeful hearts. She looked so grown-up, but also so small, so fragile. She didn’t fully understand what was happening—why we were waking her up earlier than usual, putting a heavy backpack on her shoulders, and walking her out to strangers in a big van.

The school transport arrived, and we watched through the window as she was gently guided into the vehicle. My heart sank. Every possible worry raced through my mind: Would they treat her kindly?

Would she understand what’s happening?

Would she tell someone if she needed the toilet?

Would she eat her lunch?

Would she make a friend?

Would she cry… or worse—suffer in silence?

Abigail didn’t cry. She just stared out of the school van’s window with her usual blank look. No waving. No goodbye, just quiet.

The house felt painfully quiet that day. It was the first time she wasn’t under my constant watch. I kept checking the time, imagining what she might be doing at that very moment. When the van pulled up that afternoon, I ran outside. The door opened and there she was— still serious, still silent, but safe. That was all I needed in that moment.

We didn’t get any stories from her that day. No excited chatter or complaints. But as the weeks went by, we saw her begin to change—slowly, subtly. She began humming to herself. She seemed more aware. More present. And we realized… she was ready.

Every day, I would call her teacher—sometimes every half hour—just to check up on her. My heart couldn’t rest until I knew she was okay.

Teacher Joey was incredible. She was patient, understanding, and full of compassion. She would send me photos and videos throughout the day—Abigail sitting quietly at her desk, focused on an activity, or just observing the class. She wasn’t smiling, but she was calm. That alone was enough to ease my heart. Over time, as the months passed, I slowly began to relax and trust that she was in good hands.

Abigail made her very first friend—Fatso. The bond between them was instant and unshakable. Fatso loved her, and Abigail loved Fatso. It filled my heart with unspeakable joy to know that she had found someone who truly understood her.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 12

Although Abigail was the smallest in stature, she loved in a big way, and her classmates loved her just as much. She blossomed beautifully under the gentle guidance of Teacher Joey. For a few years, that classroom became her safe haven.

Then came the transition to a new teacher—Teacher Anje Coetzee. And with that, all the old fears resurfaced. Will this new teacher have the same patience and compassion? Will her new classmates accept her? Will she cope with the change, or will she regress and lose all the progress she’s made?

All I could do was whisper, “Lord, help me.”

Teacher Anje Coetzee was an incredible blessing. What a woman—her warm and radiant smile could light up any room, and she was exactly what Abigail needed in that next season. While Teacher Joey had laid a strong and loving foundation, Teacher Anje Coetzee welcomed Abigail with excitement and open arms, making every effort to help her feel safe and comfortable in her new class. Her genuine care gave me complete peace of mind. Abigail continued to thrive—not only in her schoolwork, but also in her relationships. She was blossoming before our eyes.

After her time with Teacher Anje Coetzee, Abigail was placed in the class of Teacher Martenique Kotze. The name itself sounded soft and graceful, and I prayed her heart would be the same.

Transitions had never been easy for Abigail, but what made it bearable — even beautiful — was when the right people walked with her through them. Teacher Martenique quickly became one of those people. From the very first week, I sensed a gentleness in her approach and a genuine excitement to get to know Abigail on her own terms.She didn’t rush her. She didn’t force anything. She simply created the space for Abigail to settle — and bloom.

I watched my daughter grow in new ways in Teacher Martenique’s class. Her confidence continued to build, her sense of belonging deepened, and once again, I felt a quiet sense of peace knowing she was seen, known, and accepted for exactly who she was.

With every teacher, a new chapter opened — and with Teacher Martenique Kotze, that chapter was filled with even more light.

In Teacher Martenique’s class, Abigail stepped into a whole new world of learning — one that focused not just on academics but on practical life skills that would serve her far into the future.

Teacher Martenique introduced her to hospitality training, where Abigail learned how to serve others with grace and care. She was also encouraged to take part in gardening, and I watched her connect with the earth in a way that was both grounding and joyful.

But perhaps the most moving moment came when Teacher Martenique Kotze discovered Abigail’s dream — to one day become a veterinarian. Instead of brushing it off as childish fantasy, she nurtured it. She believed in it. She went as far as to arrange for Abigail to spend a Saturday working at a local veterinary practice.

That single gesture did more than give Abigail a glimpse of her dream — it told her she was worthy of it.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 13

The staff at the veterinary clinic welcomed Abigail with warm smiles and open arms. They quickly picked up on her eagerness to learn and included her in small but meaningful ways. They allowed her to listen to the heartbeats of a cat and a dog — an experience that lit up her entire face with awe.

To my surprise, Abigail even gave the vet a few tips of her own. With confidence and clarity, she explained that cats don’t like loud noises or sudden movements — facts she’d learned from years of immersing herself in her special interest. The vet nodded thoughtfully, clearly impressed. I sat quietly, soaking in every moment, my heart bursting with pride.

When her time was up, the staff didn’t just thank her — they invited her to come back again. And in a final gesture of kindness, they handed her a gift: a bag of dog food for our two dogs, Codi and Zane. Codi, of course, belongs to Abigail. Zane is Nathan’s. But that day, it felt like the whole family shared in her joy.

Abigail was overjoyed by the experience at the vet. She talked about it for days, replaying every moment with a gleam in her eyes. It only deepened her love for animals — especially cats.

Determined not to wait to pursue her dream, Abigail enrolled in an online course about feline behavior and psychology. She tackled the content with her usual focus and curiosity, and when the results came in, we were stunned — 93%! Her face lit up with pride as she told us, “I want to learn more about cats now. I don’t want to wait until I’m grown up.” That’s our girl — driven, passionate, and already chasing her dreams. We were, and still are, so incredibly proud of her.

Chapter Eight: Nathan ( Gift of God)

After Abigail, we decided to wait about three years before trying again—and as if perfectly planned, we fell pregnant right on schedule. This time, we prayed for a boy, and once again, God granted the desire of our hearts—just as He had done when we hoped for a girl.

My pregnancy with Nathan went fairly well, though I developed high blood pressure and gestational diabetes, which made things a bit more complicated. Like his sister, Nathan arrived via emergency C-section. He was originally due on his dad’s birthday, the 7th of November, but he had other plans—our little boy decided to make his grand entrance on the 3rd of October. He clearly wanted his very own special day.

That evening, everything moved fast. I had begun to bleed heavily due to my high blood pressure. My husband was prepped and ready to witness the delivery, but things quickly took a turn. The anesthetist struggled with the epidural, and with the situation becoming urgent, my husband was asked to step outside. He waited with our family, full of anticipation and concern.

In the operating room, I lost a significant amount of blood and required an emergency transfusion. That’s when I realized how critical blood donation truly is—because at that moment, the blood bank didn’t have enough. It was a sobering and life-changing experience.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 14

Nathan was born prematurely and placed straight into an incubator in the neonatal ICU. I was unconscious for many hours and only got to see my baby boy the next morning. But the care we received at Medi-Clinic was something I will never forget. Unlike our past experience at KH, I was treated with gentleness and dignity. Before I went to meet my son, the nurses came to wash me and prepare me. That simple act of kindness moved me deeply.

My heart swelled the first time I laid eyes on him. He was so tiny, so perfect, and already a fighter. Our journey with Nathan had begun.

Nathan was born with neonatal diabetes and had to stay in the ICU for two weeks. Leaving the hospital without him was heartbreaking. Every day we traveled back and forth to be with him and to feed him. It never got easier to walk away when visiting hours were over.

Eventually, the doctor decided to remove his feeding tubes and encouraged us to try cup feeding him instead. It was a small victory that felt so big. After two long weeks, we were finally allowed to bring our boy home. We were overjoyed—our little family was finally together under one roof.

But that joy was short-lived.

Back at home, Nathan wasn’t getting enough breastmilk, though we didn’t realize it at the time. At his 6-day check-up, the doctor immediately rushed him back to ICU. His blood sugar levels had dropped dangerously low. We were in complete shock when the doctor explained that, had it not been for that scheduled check-up, Nathan could’ve slipped into a coma—or worse.

I stood there frozen, a lump in my throat, my heart pounding with fear and gratitude all at once. God had stepped in. He showed us mercy, and in that moment, we knew: we owe everything to Him.

Having Nathan back in the hospital broke something inside us. We felt overwhelmed with guilt. Why didn’t we see the signs? Why didn’t we know his cries meant hunger? We were first-time parents to a medically fragile baby, but that didn’t silence the voice of blame in our heads. We felt so incredibly stupid.

The thought that we almost lost him hovered like a millstone around our necks—heavy, cold, and unforgiving. Every night we went home without him, and every morning we returned with hope and fear battling in our hearts. It was a dark and uncertain time. But knowing he was in the best care brought a thread of comfort through the weight of it all.

He was so tiny—so fragile it felt like he could break in our arms, that scared me. For a whole week, I couldn’t bring myself to bathe him. I was too afraid I’d hurt him.

Eventually, I took him to one of the sisters from our church. She was also a medical nurse and graciously offered to help. That first bath was unforgettable—Nathan screamed like he was being tortured. It was heartbreaking. It was also clear: water was not his friend.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 15

Every bath after that brought the same tears and shrieks. He wailed so loudly the neighbor once knocked on the door to ask what was wrong. We still wonder if it was colic, but whatever it was, those bath times were intense.

Chapter Nine: Nathan

Nathan was a dream sleeper. He slept through the night with no trouble at all—our only real struggle remained bath time. But outside of that, he met all his milestones right on schedule. From the moment he could walk, he wanted to do it on his own—no hand-holding, thank you. Just like his sister, Nathan was fiercely independent.

He, potty- trained quickly, showing us early on that he preferred to figure things out on his own terms. Nathan was a busy boy, full of life, and absolutely loved the outdoors. He and Abigail spent hours playing in the sand, their laughter echoing around the house as they zipped past us on their scooter bikes. Watching their bond grow, seeing the love they shared—it filled my heart to overflowing.

When Nathan turned two, he started crèche at the same place Abigail had attended. He adjusted beautifully. He spoke clearly and confidently, and he could already recite Bible verses from memory. It amazed us how quickly he progressed—so eager to learn, so full of promise.

It was time for Nathan to move on to big school—and that’s where everything turned upside down.

He started Grade R, and his teacher was truly amazing. She noticed that Nathan wasn’t quite settling in like the other children. During playtime, instead of joining the group, he clung tightly to her leg. In class, he often complained about the noise and persistent headaches. He was so anxious that he struggled to write at all.

These signs raised some red flags, and his teacher gently suggested that a smaller class environment might suit him better. Together, we filled in forms and signed the necessary paperwork. The following year, Nathan started Grade 1 at a special school, where children with different disabilities learned together.

That same year, we took Nathan for an assessment. We didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but we strongly suspected autism. After the assessment, we were told he had a language disorder and sensory processing disorder. Still, as the year unfolded, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on.

Nathan would jump up and down repeatedly, spin around in circles, and show distress over small changes in routine. He had to get his food first, he had to be the one to open the door when we got home. He’d open and close the cupboards all day. His behavior didn’t make sense to me, but I knew it meant something.

We took him back for another assessment. This time they did the ADOS test, which is commonly used to evaluate autism in children. But again, the result came back: “No autism.”

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 16

They said he spoke fluently, made good eye contact, and only used one word that was beyond his age level. That was it.

Nathan moved on to Grade 2, and things became even more difficult. He couldn’t sit still in class, and his teacher sent home daily complaints. He always finished his work first and would get up to “help” everyone else. We also noticed that he reversed his letters—M, P, and D—which pointed to signs of dyslexia.

At home, he was constantly on the move and needed frequent body breaks. One day, while he was talking to me, I made a shocking discovery: he was repeating his words. It was then that I knew with absolute certainty—Nathan was autistic.

Chapter Ten : Nathans Diagnosis

We called Dr. Griessel, the same specialist who diagnosed Abigail, and scheduled an appointment. The drive to the hospital was quiet. Each of us sat with our own thoughts, unsure of what to expect. Then Nathan asked, “Mommy, what are we going to do? and just like that, God gave me an idea. I told him we were going to visit a real life professor— someone from a college, just like he had always wanted to see. His eyes lit up, and excitement replaced the nerves. I explained that the professor might want to talk to him, and he agreed.

At the appointment with Dr. Griessel, our suspicions were confirmed.

Nathan was officially diagnosed with Autism, Dyslexia, ADHD, and Anxiety. The news came as both a relief and a shock, because we finally had answers. Shock, because seeing it written down, confirmed, somehow made it all more real.

On the drive home, silence hung in the air. But this time, it wasn’t quiet with uncertainty—it was an emotional silence. I sat in the front seat, staring out the window, trying to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. The children wouldn’t understand why mommy was crying, and I didn’t want to scare them.

As the year progressed, despite the diagnosis, the complaints from Nathan’s teacher continued. He simply couldn’t cope in a traditional classroom. It became clear that he needed a different kind of learning environment—one where he could be understood, supported, and nurtured.

We made the difficult decision to withdraw Nathan from school and enroll him in a homeschool facility. It was the best of both worlds: he could still be around other children, but with the benefit of one-on-one learning, at his own pace.

To everyone’s surprise, Nathan flourished. He was often placed with the Grade 5 learners because, although he was only in Grade 3, he was intellectually ahead of his peers. His teachers quickly saw his potential and began calling him “the little professor.”

He soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and with the right support, he began to shine.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 17

Nathan followed the Impaq curriculum and, for the most part, he loved it—until Afrikaans entered the picture. That one subject quickly became his greatest source of anxiety. He absolutely hated Afrikaans. Every lesson brought tension, and the pressure only escalated during exam season.

One day, during his Afrikaans exam, his teacher called us: “Please come fetch Nathan. He’s not coping at all.” She suggested that he complete the paper at home where he might feel more relaxed. We agreed. But even at home, things didn’t improve.

On the first attempt, his handwriting was too small—he had to redo it. The second time, it was too big—he had to redo it again. By the third attempt, his writing was cramped together with no finger spaces. It was heartbreaking to watch. The mounting pressure was too much. Nathan’s anxiety was clearly taking over. We made a tough but necessary decision: this wasn’t working. It was time to stop.

We switched to a different curriculum and thought, “Okay, this time it will work. This will be better.” And for a while, it was—until he reached the math section that required speed thinking. He had only a few seconds to answer each question. What started as a hopeful turn quickly spiraled. Nathan’s anxiety flared again. He complained of headaches and said his heart was racing. Once again, we were watching school hurt more than help.

That was when we decided to pull him out entirely. We paused formal education and gave Nathan space. We began to unschool him—to allow him to learn naturally, at his own pace, free from pressure and fear. Traditional schooling was triggering his anxiety far too deeply. Once we stepped away from the pressure of formal schooling, Nathan finally exhaled. He was more relaxed, and for the first time in a long time, learning became something he enjoyed. At his own pace, in his own way—he began to thrive.

To our amazement, Nathan developed a deep love for language. Afrikaans was still firmly off the list, but he explored so many others on his own. His favorite places in the world became Korea and Japan. He even taught himself an entire song in Korean, along with basic greetings and words in Korean, Japanese, Chinese, French, and Spanish.

Nathan was thriving, soaking up knowledge like a sponge. Dinosaurs fascinated him. He could rattle off facts about the solar system and different types of plants with ease. It was as if the freedom to learn on his terms unlocked something in him. He was no longer defined by what he couldn’t do—but by everything he could.

Even though Nathan was thriving academically and exploring his passions, he struggled socially. Making and keeping friends didn’t come easily to him. Goodbyes were especially hard—something we noticed from a very young age. Whenever we visited people, parting ways would leave him heartbroken. He felt things deeply, sometimes more than we understood at the time.

Nathan was an emotional child—sensitive to the smallest slights, and easily hurt. Later, I learned that this emotional intensity was linked to his ADHD. Children with ADHD often experience emotions more intensely. They can be impulsive, quick to feel rejected, and may interpret a simple “no” as a personal rejection. Understanding this helped me see Nathan not as “too sensitive,” but as someone feeling the world at full volume—with no filter to soften the edges.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 18

Nathan also struggled with fine motor skills. Simple tasks like tying buttons or laces were incredibly difficult for him. He dreaded haircut days—the sound and vibration of the hair clipper overwhelmed his senses. Brushing his teeth was another daily battle; the feeling of the bristles against his teeth was unbearable for him. He also had difficulty with midline crossing—tasks that required him to reach across the middle of his body with his arms or legs. These may seem like small things to others, but for Nathan, they were mountains to climb every single day.

Nathan needed structure—and that’s exactly what we gave him, just as we did for Abigail. Structure helped him feel safe and in control. Nathan also showed signs of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Certain things had to be just right, or he would become unsettled and anxious. His need for order and repetition was clear in the smallest details—whether it was how his toys were arranged or how his routines played out. Interestingly, I began to notice similar behaviors in his father, and that raised some quiet suspicions in my heart. Perhaps there was more to uncover in our family story than we first thought.

Nathan, just like his father, has a deep love for knowledge—an insatiable curiosity to understand how things work. The two of them could sit for hours on Google or YouTube, diving down rabbit holes and exploring everything from science to history to the most random facts. Watching them, I began learning more about myself too. The pieces started falling into place, and we began to suspect something we had never truly considered before: maybe we’re all autistic.

Chapter Eleven: The Autistic Four

This thought led us to take an online assessment for adults on the Embrace Autism website: Aspie Quiz. The results were eye-opening—we soon discovered that yes, we are indeed on the spectrum.

Getting the results was overwhelming. I had to sit with it—think, rethink, and somehow process what this meant for me. Do I tell people? Would they even understand?

For the first time in my life, I saw myself with clarity. I finally understood why I do things the way I do. I understood why I could never speak up as a child. Why math—especially Algebra—felt like an impossible puzzle. I think in pictures, not symbols. I could never “find the x” because I couldn’t grasp the logic of how they explained it.

I now understood why I preferred certain textures and foods, why I had vivid conversations in my head but couldn't speak them aloud. Why I always felt awkward, out of place. Why I only ever had one close friend growing up—my best friend Angel (Anthea Fisher), who’s still in my life. Why my emotions were always so intense—whether joy or pain, everything ran deep.

It hit me like a wave. The silence outside, the whole worlds we carry inside without words. Even now, as an adult, I still have those inner conversations. I didn’t know what to feel— should I cry? Laugh? Grieve? It was too much, all at once.

And then the questions came. What do I do with this? Do I tell my workplace? Do I tell my family? What if they think I’m making excuses for the way I was as a child?

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 19

I thought back to my childhood, the beatings. The punishment for “being rude” or “disrespectful” because I didn’t answer my parents. But I did answer them—just not out loud. I answered in my head.

My diagnosis brought something unexpected—a deep and growing compassion for my children and my husband. We began to see each other through a new lens. We understood one another on a level few others ever could. There was comfort in that. We didn’t need to explain ourselves to each other. We just knew.

But even more than that, I began to have compassion for myself, grace, understanding and love. For the first time, I didn’t feel lost anymore. I could finally name what I was feeling. I could finally make sense of why I’d always felt so different. What a relief. What a gift.

Yes, knowledge is power, but it is also pain, pain from years of being misunderstood. Of being labeled rude, shouted at, beaten. Told I was “too much,” “too sensitive,” “a drama queen.” My childhood wasn’t filled with mischief—it was filled with survival. With trying to figure out how to exist in a world that didn’t know how to meet me where I was, so I did what I thought would help me fit in. I smoked. I drank. I experimented with drugs. I went clubbing. I laughed loud when I didn’t feel like laughing. I said yes when I wanted to say no. I did all of it to belong—but none of it lasted. It was exhausting, the masking, pretending, copying others, social choreography I had to learn just to get by—it wore me down.

Now I understand that exhaustion. Now I see myself clearly—and it’s changing everything.

Getting the results of the adult autism assessment was overwhelming. I had to sit with it—to think and rethink, to process and ask myself what this meant for my life. Do I tell people? Do I keep it to myself?

For the first time, I fully understood why I was the way I was, the quiet child who couldn’t speak up. The teenager who struggled with math—especially Algebra—because I think in pictures and could never grasp the abstract concept of “x.” The adult who still had full conversations in her head but found it difficult to speak them out loud. I always felt like an outsider, with one true friend, Angel (Anthea Fisher), who understood me.

I had always felt things deeply—whether it was joy or hurt. It never occurred to me before, but in many ways, Nathan is me, and I am him. Abigail is me too. Watching them helped me understand myself. Abigail with her quiet inner world and Nathan with his emotional intensity and sensory needs—both reflections of who I had always been.

My diagnosis brought both clarity and sorrow. Relieved in knowing, but pain in realizing how misunderstood I had been my entire life. I had been labeled as rude, dramatic and disrespectful. Beaten for not responding—when all the while, I was answering in my head.

One of the first people I told was my colleague Vicky Oettle, who had shared the link to the online assessment. I messaged her immediately. She reassured me, told me it was okay to feel overwhelmed, and reminded me that sharing was entirely my choice. Because I work for Autism South Africa, disclosing my diagnosis at work was met with immediate understanding. No questions, just acceptance.

Slowly, I began opening up to some friends and to my sister.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 20

It was during one of our talks that my sister shared something I had never fully processed. She reminded me of the disability I had as a child—that I wore orthopedic shoes because one leg was longer than the other. She told me it was visible. Suddenly, so much physical pain made sense. The limping, the fatigue, the pressure on my left leg—all connected. She also told me how little I spoke as a child and how people misunderstood my silence as defiance. But now, after learning about my diagnosis, she began to understand me more too. That shared understanding brought us closer. A gentle shift happened between us. There was empathy and healing.

One of the most heartwarming responses came from my dear friend, Jose Philander, who’s been in my life for over 30 years. Her response was nothing but grace and compassion. No judgment. No confusion, just love and acceptance. In that moment, I felt held.

Chapter Twelve: My Husband

As time went on, I began noticing more and more fixated behaviors in my husband—patterns that mirrored so much of what we were seeing in ourselves and the children. He developed a deep fascination with watching people ride bicycles across the country, as well as videos of camping, camping hacks, and DIY repair projects. He could sit for hours completely absorbed, analyzing every detail, every tool, and every technique. Then came the obsession with making walking sticks.

It started as a small hobby, something to do with his hands—but soon it became a full-blown passion. He began collecting branches and sticks, each one chosen with care. He would sand, carve, and varnish them until they became beautiful walking sticks. He made one for each of us, thoughtfully engraved with either our initials, names, or our favorite animals. Each stick

tells a story—his story, our story—etched into wood.

Our home now holds a collection of these sticks, each one standing proudly like a symbol of love and creativity. And just like the walking sticks, he also became obsessed with motorized bicycles. He could spend hours watching people repair old bikes, completely captivated by the mechanics and the transformation.

What some might call obsession, I’ve come to understand as expressions of deep interest and joy. These fixations are not distractions—they’re passions, and they bring him comfort and purpose.

My Husband (continued)

My husband is a gentleman in every sense of the word. He is thoughtful in ways that don’t always occur to me—like warming the car on cold mornings so that I don’t have to sit in the chill, or bringing us breakfast in bed just to make us feel special. We’ve been married for nearly 20 years now, and from the very beginning, he has served our family with quiet strength and unwavering love. He helps with the washing without ever being asked. He hangs up laundry, washes floors, sweeps the house, and cleans the kitchen. Nothing is ever beneath

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 21

him when it comes to caring for our home. I often say I have his mother to thank for raising such an extraordinary man.

He’s also the most lovable, present father—teaching our children not just by word, but by example. He raises them on biblical principles, modeling kindness, patience, and respect. No, our marriage hasn’t always been a bed of roses, but then again, whose is? Still, love truly does cover a multitude of sins. And our love has stood the test of time.

I see it clearly now, my husband is autistic for real. The signs were always there, but only after understanding myself and our children, did the pieces begin to fall into place. His fixations, the way he stims when stressed, the intense focus on topics like bicycles or camping, and his deep dives into YouTube videos about how things work—these are more than hobbies; they’re how he self-regulates and finds joy.

He often corrects me when I mispronounce a word—not out of criticism, but because accuracy matters deeply to him. He also has obsessive-compulsive tendencies. If we visit someone’s home and a portrait is skew, it bothers him so much that he’ll ask to change seats just to avoid looking at it.

After social events or training sessions, he often just wants to sit in silence. He masks so much during the day that by the time we get home, he’s emotionally drained. And I get it. I feel it too. We understand each other in those quiet moments, where nothing needs to be said. Our silence is not distance it is understanding. We both know the toll masking takes. And so we give each other the space and grace to just be.

Chapter Thirteen: Our Parenting Journey

As parents, we do our utmost to teach our children manners, life skills, and discipline. And I must say—with humility and gratitude—we’ve done a good job so far. Our children are kind. They say please and thank you, they help each other, and they have a deep, unspoken understanding between them. Their bond is truly special, and it warms our hearts to see them care so deeply for one another.

They learn love from us—from what we show, not just what we say. Even though Nathan sometimes doesn't like it when his dad kisses me, we know it's important to model affection and healthy love. One day, they will need to know not only how to give love, but how to receive it too.

We rarely have to discipline them—they seldom need it. Their hearts are gentle and respectful, and they truly are amazing children. We know without a doubt that they are a blessing from the Lord.

We value our children's input and views on life, and we do our best to guide them with love, wisdom, and grace. One of the most meaningful moments in our journey as a family happened in January 2025. Both

Nathan and Abigail made the decision to receive the Lord. Gavin gently guided them through the sinner’s prayer, and as I watched, my heart burst with pride, awe, and deep thankfulness.

God answered our prayers.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 22

Our deepest desire has always been that they may know You, Lord, You have been faithful. Chapter Fourteen: How I got my job.

I started working at Autism South Africa in 2017, the year Abigail turned seven. I had been unemployed for seven long years, so this opportunity felt both surreal and divine. I remember the day so clearly—as if it happened yesterday. My dear friend Mavonine Bantom, who had since moved to New Zealand, sent me a message saying she heard on the radio that Autism South Africa was looking for a representative in the Northern Cape. I also received the Autism SA newsletter regularly, and when I saw the job advertised there too, I felt a strange mix of excitement and hesitation.

I applied, more on a hopeful whim than with confidence, just taking a chance. But when I saw the scope of the role and the weight of responsibility it carried, fear crept in. I panicked and sent an email asking to withdraw my application. I told myself I wasn’t ready, that someone else would do a better job.

Then the phone rang.

It was Sandy Klopper, the National Director of Autism South Africa at the time. She had read my email, and instead of letting it go, she called me personally. “I think you are the perfect candidate,” she said. I was speechless. This woman didn’t know me from a bar of soap. But somehow, she saw something in me. She refused to accept my withdrawal.

That moment changed everything. I still don’t know what made her fight for me, but I know now that it wasn’t just her—it was God, working through her, making a way where I was ready to close the door. What I feared almost stole from me. But God had other plans. My very first training session was with the therapists at Kimberley Hospital. I was a bundle of nerves—my hands were sweaty, my voice trembled, and I was shaking like a leaf. I rushed through the slides, barely catching my breath, just trying to get through it. Unsurprisingly, the feedback wasn’t glowing. But I didn’t let it crush me. I reminded myself: it was my first time. I gave myself grace.

With each training session, each opportunity to present and engage, I grew. I improved. Slowly but surely, I found my voice. I found my rhythm.

I used to tell my former colleague Vicky Oettle, “One day, I’ll speak like you—with that confidence and passion.” And you know what? I think I’ve reached that goal.

As the years went by, my confidence blossomed. I developed stronger strategies, more impactful training sessions, and my autism awareness campaigns became increasingly successful—so much so that I was invited to appear on national television more than once. I even published a book about our journey with autism, a deeply personal project that touched many. My work took me across nearly every corner of the province. I discovered places I never knew existed. I embraced every opportunity to take the road less travelled—driven by a deep commitment to reach those so often forgotten by society.

Of all the proud moments in my journey, one stands above the rest. My daughter, once a quiet, withdrawn little girl, spoke out on national television about how parents often don't

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 23

understand their autistic children. Watching her finding her voice and speak with such clarity and confidence brought tears to my eyes. My heart swelled with pride. In that moment, I saw not only how far she had come, but also how her voice could bring hope and understanding to others. It was more than a milestone, it was a miracle.

Closing Reflections

Living in a home where everyone is autistic is not always a walk in the park. It comes with its unique set of challenges, meltdowns, shutdowns, sensory overloads, communication struggles—but it also comes with extraordinary beauty, deep empathy, and shared understanding.

We’ve learned how to meet each other halfway. When one of us is overwhelmed, another instinctively steps in with silence, space, or support. When one of us is overflowing with joy or fascination, we all lean in and celebrate together—even if it’s over sticks, dinosaurs, or obscure languages. We have built a rhythm that works for us, not despite autism, but because of it.

We understand the condition intimately—because it lives in each of us—and that has become our strength. Our house may echo with stims and quiet days, passionate interests and emotional intensity, but it is also filled with love, grace, and the kind of connection that doesn’t always need words.

Autism shaped our family, our faith, and our future. It brought us heartbreak, healing, and a deep, fierce kind of joy. And though it isn't always easy, it is always real—and that’s what makes it ours.

Final Words

We are the Autistic Four—and we are exactly who God ordained us to be. We are not broken. We are not less. We are fantastic, just the way we are.

I am reminded of the scripture in John 9:1–3, where the disciples asked Jesus about a man who was born blind. They wanted to know who had sinned—was it the man himself or his parents? And Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

This scripture echoes in my heart every time someone questions the reason for an autism diagnosis—whether it's a parent, a family member, or a friend. The truth is, our children were fearfully and wonderfully made. Their autism is not a punishment, nor a mistake. It is a part of a greater purpose—so that the work of God may be revealed through their lives.

Our journey is sacred, beautiful, and filled with lessons we never expected to learn. And through it all, God's grace carried us, molded us, and made us stronger.

We are the Autistic Four.

And we are living proof that God doesn’t make mistakes.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 24

Dedication

To every family who has ever struggled to understand, accept, or embrace a diagnosis— whether for their child, their spouse, or themselves—this book is for you.

May you find hope in our journey, courage in your own, and the reminder that being different is not being less. You are not alone. You are not broken. You are beautifully wired, wonderfully made, and deeply loved.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my husband, Gavin Baartman, my children, Asher, Jasher, Abigail, and Nathan Baartman—for understanding me and loving me through it all. You are the reason I am a mom, and the reason I keep going. Your love, patience, and presence have been my anchor and my light.

To my friend of 30 years, Josevina Philander—thank you for never giving up on me, for seeing me when I felt invisible, and for loving me through every season of life. Junita Van Wyk, my sister, my confidant since 1998, thank you for your unwavering support when I needed it most.

To my sister, Racheline Swanlow—thank you for embracing the crazy, beautiful, unpredictable side of me and for walking this journey with both laughter and grace.

To my mom and dad Margaret and Frans Maneville, thank you for giving me life. I now understand so much more of it.

And to God—who made it all possible. You saw me, knew me, and loved me through it all.

The Autistic Four

[Type text] Page 25

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating diverse voices and compelling narratives. It offers writers from around the world a platform to share their stories, poems, and essays, fostering a global community of creative expression. Participants engage with a wide audience, contributing to an enriching exchange of ideas and experiences across cultures and genres.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Elfreda Baartman for sharing "The Autistic Four" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her memoir serves as a beacon of hope and understanding for families navigating similar journeys. Thank you, Elfreda, for your courage and for allowing us a glimpse into your world through your evocative storytelling.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.