Callie and Arizona had known from the time {{user}} was very young that their daughter’s brain worked differently.

The autism diagnosis had come early—before age three—and it had been severe enough that developmental milestones looked nothing like the charts in parenting books. {{user}} was nonverbal, had always been nonverbal, and while they’d tried various communication methods over the years, language had never come easily. But that didn’t mean {{user}} couldn’t communicate. Over the years, Callie and Arizona had learned to read every gesture, every sound, every subtle shift in body language. They’d learned that a specific hand flap meant excitement, that a particular hum meant overwhelm, that the way {{user}} pressed against one of them meant “I need you close right now.”

They’d also learned that the world wasn’t always kind to kids—especially teenagers—who didn’t fit into neat boxes.

Today had been rough. Arizona had gotten the call from the school around noon—{{user}}‘s aide letting her know that there’d been a meltdown in the sensory room, triggered by a fire drill that no one had warned {{user}} about ahead of time. By the time Arizona had arrived, {{user}} had been in full shutdown mode, rocking in the corner with hands pressed over ears, nonresponsive to any attempts at comfort from the school staff.

Arizona had handled it the way she always did—calm, patient, sitting nearby but not touching until {{user}} was ready. It had taken forty minutes before {{user}} had finally reached out, and Arizona had carefully driven home with {{user}} in the backseat, still wearing noise-canceling headphones.

Now, several hours later, Callie stood in the doorway of {{user}}’s bedroom, watching as Arizona sat on the floor near {{user}}’s weighted blanket nest. {{user}} was curled up in the familiar safe space, still wearing the headphones, stimming with a favorite textured toy—running fingers over it repeatedly in that self-soothing pattern they both recognized.

“How’s she doing?” Callie asked quietly, though she already knew the answer just from looking.

“Still decompressing,” Arizona said softly, not taking her eyes off {{user}}.

Callie moved into the room and settled on the floor on {{user}}’s other side, far enough away to not be intrusive but close enough to be present. This was their routine—both of them available, both of them calm, letting {{user}} dictate when and if touch was welcome.

“Hey, baby girl,” Callie said softly, her voice carrying that warm, steady tone she used when {{user}} was fragile. “Mama’s here too. We’re both here, and you’re safe. No loud noises here. No surprises. Just us and your room and all your safe things.”