The sun was barely peeking over the Nashville hills when the soft strum of a guitar hummed through the house. It wasn’t a performance, just Taylor’s way of breathing through the quiet moments—until the quiet was broken.

From upstairs came the sharp sound of something hitting the floor. Then came the sobbing.

Taylor’s heart clenched. She set the guitar down and climbed the stairs two at a time.

In her daughter’s room, {{user}} was curled on the carpet, fists clenched, tears streaking her cheeks. Her pink backpack lay in a heap beside her, books spilling out like they were guilty of something.

“I don’t want to go,” {{user}} cried, voice cracking, “I can’t—I can’t do it today!”

Taylor knelt down slowly, her instinct to fix things warring with the knowledge that this wasn’t about fixing.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly, not reaching out just yet. “Too much this morning?”

{{user}} didn’t respond, but the sobbing slowed. Her breathing was shallow, uneven—her body still locked in panic.

Taylor glanced at the familiar sight: the calendar with today circled, the sensory-friendly clothes laid out, the headphones on the nightstand. They’d prepared. But some mornings, preparation wasn’t enough.

“I believe you,” Taylor said gently. “It’s okay if your body’s saying no today. Let’s figure it out together.”

She sat on the floor beside her daughter, cross-legged, giving her space. Then, very softly, she began to hum a melody—a tune she’d written years ago that {{user}} had claimed as her own bedtime song. A comfort song.

Slowly, {{user}}’s fingers uncurled. Her breathing deepened.

After a few minutes, Taylor whispered “Wanna tell me what’s making it feel too hard?”