“Grasshopper, you are the expert” By Sarah Coomber

The Fifth 'Letter from a Caregiver,' Winter Season 2025/26

The ‘Letters from a Caregiver’ Collaboration series continues with this article, the fifth letter of the Winter 2025/26 Season.

Previous letters, this season:

1. The Winter Season of ‘Letters from a Caregiver.’ Life’s Tapestry: the nuances, choices, and caregiving despite the fear. By Victoria

2. ‘You Each Deserve Your Own Life’ By Jodi Sh. Doff

3. ‘Relearning Hope In A Time Of Darkeness’ By Victoria

4. ‘Having Compassion for Your Earlier Self’ By Anna Du Pen

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Hello, Friends and a warm welcome to the new Carer Mentor subscribers.

If you’re new to Carer Mentor, you can learn more about me through Who Started Carer Mentor and Why?

Today’s letter is by

Sarah Coomber

. We first connected on this Substack platform in late 2023 when Sarah was sharing her journey caring for her Mom, who had Dementia. I knew she was juggling a lot as part of her Sandwich Season (I always think 'grilled' like a panini would be a better analogy!). I now have a deeper appreciation for everything she managed while caring for Max, starting in 2008.

As caregivers, we may second-guess ourselves and defer to trained experts. Sarah underscores how we know our loved ones the best.

I remember anticipating Dad’s needs before he needed to ask for something, and I could see when he was especially unwell and needed something. I grew my confidence to advocate for him and us in emergencies. But early on, I assumed the experts would know better than me… so I deferred to them.

I don’t do that now, even if there is an unspoken expectation to do so. This is where we take on more burden and responsibility as caregivers—and it’s often how we find the most appropriate care for our loved ones.

Thank you, Sarah.

Author’s Bio: Sarah Coomber is a Minnesota-based writer, writing coach, communication consultant and yoga instructor. She currently writes Sandwich Season, a weekly Substack about caring for her aging parents and young adult son. Sarah is the author of The Same Moon (Camphor Press, 2020), a memoir about how running off to Japan for two years helped her find her way home.

“Grasshopper, you are the expert”

Dear Sarah-of-January 2008, Washington state, USA,

I recently gave a piece of unsolicited advice to a young father. I had never met him before, so it surprised even me that I would do this.

But when I learned he had recently adopted an infant son, I couldn’t help myself. I walked up to him and said:

Never forget that you are the expert on your child.

Really, I was speaking to you, Sarah, thinking back to your situation in January 2008.

You won’t yet understand why I’m sending you this advice, because you are just on the cusp of adopting 3-year-old Max and becoming a mom. What you don’t yet realize is that being Max’s mom means you will also become his caregiver and advocate.

You’re entering this new chapter fatigued from dealing with mounds of paperwork and all manner of officialdom. That’s what it takes to adopt a toddler from India.

I know you’re thinking that parenting Max will be easier than the preparations. You feel so much love for this little guy that you’ve only seen in photographs. Your heart is full to bursting.

Oh, Grasshopper, I wish I could tell you that all you need is love. But I think even you have a bit of Spidey sense that it will take more, much more, than that. What you have been through so far—not just preparing for adoption but other challenges you’ve faced in life—is minor compared to the journey on which you’re about to embark.

Before I go on, hear me: You are going to make it through. Remember, I’m writing to you from 2025—and you’re still vertical! Still married! Still a parent! And—plot twist—in addition to being a writer, you are now a yoga instructor. (Because, believe me, you will need the yoga.)

But life is going to get hard. You’ve heard of adoption honeymoons, where the first six weeks or six months or whatever are lovely, and then challenges arise. For you, there will be no honeymoon. It’s going to start hard on Day One and stay hard for a long time.

You are not going to understand your son. You will not know how to motivate him, how to calm him, how to console him, how to redirect him. You will struggle to figure out what makes him tick in every way.

You will pull out every trick in the disciplinary book, the one by which you were raised. You responded well to a stern look. A few sharp words. The silent treatment. The occasional shout. Guilt trips. The rare but impactful slap to the cheek.

But as a child, you were born into a safe, loving home. You had everything you needed and then some. That gave you the bandwidth to want to be “a good girl” and to be successful. Not to say it was all easy—it wasn’t—but your people-pleasing ways helped your childhood go relatively smoothly.

Max’s life started so differently from yours. His agenda to date has been survival, and it’s hard to let that go. You will find his strategic default is set to resistance and control.

You will spend days on end holed up with a toddler throwing tantrums. You’ll wonder at first if they are seizures, because in all of your years of family gatherings, babysitting jobs and work as a camp counselor, you’ve never observed a real tantrum.

You will spend days holding Max as he flails, hollers and screams, so he won’t hurt himself or you or the house. You will start timing his tantrums and find that some days you’ve spent four hours in this state. Your arms will hurt. Your ears will hurt. Your whole body will hurt. You will be frustrated beyond all measure. You will yell. You will threaten. You will sing. You will pray. And I am sorry to say it, but in your desperation, you will even try spanking. (It didn’t help.) You will finally learn to put in earplugs.

When you talk to other parents and professionals, they will offer lots of advice:

“Have you tried sitting him in a corner?” (Tell them, “You try.”)

“Be patient, he’s just settling in.” (Tell them, “Months/years have passed, and we seem to be stuck.”)

“Just let him be. He’ll be fine.” (Tell them, “That is a recipe for chaos, and it’ll take way more work to put the genie back in the bottle.”)

Here’s the truth: You’re going to spend years serving as Max’s external regulator. Like an external hard drive stores data, you will help him hold and regulate his emotions.

And you’ll spend decades as his advocate, seeking help and answers, asking questions, making requests, implementing strategies. You must learn to live by the Japanese proverb: Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

What no one has told you—maybe what nobody yet knows (or do they?)—is that Max’s brain is not like the average bird’s. He has disabilities and challenges related to learning … settling into a family … settling into social situations ...

Max won’t talk for a long time, but don’t worry. You’ll find he has a wonderful sense of humor. And he will sing with a voice that spans octaves. And he has fabulous color sense. And curiosity. And energy. And empathy.

You will come to realize that Max’s brain is beautiful in its own way—it just doesn’t conform to expectations. And he doesn’t seem to care.

But, trust me, eventually he will start finding his place in the world, and you will experience joy like you never imagined.

I could share with you the many paths you’ll go down, looking for ways to help him learn and fit in. But mostly I want you to remember this:

You are the expert on your child.

I know you’re thinking, I’m a first-time parent. I really don’t know what I’m doing.

Look, nobody knows what they’re doing. There is no dress rehearsal for parenting. No trial child. No control child—let’s try this technique on Child A and that technique on Child B and see which is more effective. No, there is only the main event, and you are days away from taking your position on that field.

You’ll be surrounded by armchair quarterbacks, people who think they know how to parent your son. You know the type. (I hope, Sarah, that you’ve kept your parenting advice for others to yourself.)

You’ll seek help from professionals—doctors, teachers, social workers, psychologists, therapists, adoption groups, alternative health practitioners. They’ll offer potential diagnoses. They’ll offer treatments, suggest books, and lifestyle and parenting strategies.

But you’re the only one who will be able to predict whether these suggestions will work for Max. Pray, listen and make a decision.

I’ll say it again: You are the expert on your child.

You were raised to be polite and diplomatic. That’s how you’ve gotten along in your family. It’s how you’ve moved through the world. Be ready to use this hard-earned skill to your advantage.

Because to help Max navigate his new world—medically, educationally, socially—you’re going to need to be persistent to the point of being fierce. Yes, fierce. And people accept fierce better when the person delivering the message or demanding answers is doing it while being … nice.

A mentor of yours will pass out cards describing participants in a yoga class around 2018 and will select this one for you: FIERCE. You will tell her it’s a mistake, but she will look at you knowingly and assure you that this is what she sees. She will give Max one that says “GENTLE,” or something like that, and you will think, “What the heck?” Later you’ll realize she was onto something.

Why will you need to be fierce? Because at every turn you will encounter people who will try to convince you that they know better than you what your child needs.

Some of them might know or understand him better than you in certain areas. But you will know the whole of Max better than any of them.

So don’t buy into the idea that you aren’t the expert, just because you’re a new parent and you don’t have a degree in child development, neurology, medicine, education, social work, physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech or dietetics.

Or because you don’t know his genetic background.

Or because you don’t know what Max experienced in his first three years of life.

You will spend more time with him than any other person in the world. And every moment you’re together, your brain will gather data on his. Your heart will gather data on his.

Observe, pray, listen and trust yourself.

You are the expert on your child.

Here’s a small preview: Soon after you and Jon return from India with Max, his doctor will tell you that his stool sample came back clean. You’ll say great … and you’ll request deworming medication anyway. (Look at you, listening to your gut, trusting yourself!)

The doctor will resist—The test shows he’s fine. But you will insist. Finally the doctor will shrug and hand you the prescription, OK, Mom, if it makes you feel better.

A few days after giving Max the pills, lo and behold, you will encounter an enormous worm, still wriggling! You will report this to his doctor, but he won’t care that you collected it. He won’t want to see it. It’s OK. You got the job done. And, by George, you do feel better!

I don’t want to spoil all of the surprises, but please remember what I’m telling you: Follow your gut, follow your hunches.

You are the expert on your child.

You might be wondering, Where is Jon in all this? Good question. When you return from India, he will be plunged into the most intense work period of his life. I’m sorry to tell you this, but just forget about your dream of equal opportunity parenting or anything along those lines. To keep the company he works for afloat through the coming housing crash, he will need to be at work from early in the morning until late at night and on many weekends too.

You’ll feel as if you’ve lived weeks each day, waiting for Jon to arrive home. And when he opens the front door, Max will be ready to play nicely (mostly). Jon won’t understand why you are so overwhelmed. You will dub Jon “Special Guest Daddy.” Because Max will save his best behavior for Dad.

When you suggest trying a new therapy or taking Max to see a specialist, Jon’s first question will be, “Does he really need that?” Because being away so much, he won’t see what you are seeing, and he won’t be the one doing the research. When you press the matter, Jon’s second question will be, “How much does that cost?” You will want to say, My sanity, man! Forgive him for not knowing what you know. And wait.

Because in 2015, seven years into parenting, you will trade roles. You will go back to work full time, and Jon will pull back to working part time. He will become the primary parent. And he will develop a new understanding. Then, when you suggest a new type of therapy or parenting strategy, Jon’s first question will be, “When can we start?” Because he too will become an expert on Max. (Try not to say “I told you so.”)

Does it all sound exhausting? It will be exhausting. Your first therapist will tell you, This is not a sprint but a marathon. Listen to her. (You won’t.)

But you will be OK—remember, I’m writing to you from 2025! Over time, you will see that you were meant to be Max’s mom. You will never (well, mostly never) regret undertaking this role.

Becoming Max’s mom will change you in ways you could never have expected. You will lose friends you thought would be there forever and gain ones you can’t imagine living without. Your career will end up a bit of a hodgepodge, but you will make peace with that.

What you value will change. Who you value will change. What you learn will heal you and your relationships. You’ll sacrifice the life you imagined. But in the process, you’ll find redemption and a sense of purpose.

So take the reins, Grasshopper! Trust yourself. Be the expert. Be fierce and kind! Love and nurture (and research and advocate …) that little boy into health and hope. You can do this. You will do this.

With love,

Sarah, December 2025, Minnesota, USA (Oh—surprise! You’ll move Home, but not for a while yet … and it will be good.)

Discover more of Sarah’s writing, for example, “2 things that kept me in the parenting game”, an article that connects with the letter.

The Closing Rapid Fire Questions from Victoria:

1. Fill in the blank: ‘Courage to me is … persisting when the way forward is unclear..’

2. Thinking of someone you admire/respect (friend/colleague/well-known person), name three of their standout qualities/characteristics

My friend and neighbor Jill Kandel. She is persistent, creative and welcoming. Around the time my family moved back to Minnesota and into her neighborhood, she experienced an acquired brain injury. She has spent the past several years pursuing treatments and learning to live in new ways. Meanwhile she has been a font of creativity—writing a book about her injury and recovery experience (manuscript now complete!), painting, knitting and gardening, all while learning how to live with a brain that functions differently than it did before. In addition, she welcomed me, a newcomer to her neighborhood, into her garden, her home, and her book and writing groups. Now she and her husband are dear friends of Jon, Max and me.

3. What’s one quote/movie/book that’s inspired you?

   Proverbs 3:5-6 (ESV):

⁵ Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not lean on your own understanding.
⁶ In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths.

This might sound contradictory to the advice I offer above. But this is my life verse, and the most important part for me is that first phrase: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” This verse helped me keep going as Max’s mom at the times when everything in my little human mind said, “Cut and run!” “Give up!” “This is impossible!” I’m not sure my family’s path has been exactly straight, but maybe it is from God’s perspective.

A prompt for readers’ discussion

“What is something—small or big—you accomplished that you didn’t think you could do?”

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