Why ‘Self-Care’ Made Me Roll My Eyes– Until I Hit a Wall

When I first started swirling about The Savants, I had no idea what I was creating. Maybe a podcast. Maybe a book. Progress was happening with my kids as a result of curated, bio-medical treatments and therapies that weren’t widely accessible to others, that I wanted to share. But what I did know was this: no autism mom has the time—or the bandwidth—to read one of those 350-page books that every relative, doctor, and therapist insists on giving you when your child is diagnosed. Because, let’s be real, when you’re just trying to survive, even finding five minutes to pee feels like a victory.

When I outed me and my kids—floated my deeply personal story to my fancy Hollywood reps—which felt like a possible career suicide and/or purpose-driven victory—they were all in. “Oh, wow! This is amazing! Autissmmmmm Awaaaaarrreeennnesss! You know, they’re really smart, those autistics… you need to write a book about autism!” They threw around big ideas, bigger plans, and bigger dreams, but my gut was screaming no. I felt sick to my stomach.

See, I already had every book on autism sitting on my shelf (code: denial, faux acceptance, and “gonna fix this situation”), and I knew that moms had no TIME to read a book because they were IN IT. And the dads, in my opinion, are usually bummed that the book, the “manual”, didn’t “fix it”. And the kicker? I was finally nervously uttering to my Hollywood peeps that my kids were five, and they weren’t just “busy being kids”—they were on the imploding, exploding, time-bomb spectrum of autism disorders. Shock. Why? Because I was told by my inner sanctum that I would be considered a liability. And realistically, it would hurt my ability to get hired. Yes, this is soooo wrong! But let’s be real—it happens in every industry.

I was known as a workhorse. I didn’t miss a day of work for seven years—156 episodes as the lead of a show. Walking pneumonia? I was on set. No voice? We’d loop the lines later. And don’t get me wrong, the studio took care of me. They’d send in a doctor or make sure I had what I needed to keep going. As a kid who couldn’t believe that my dream of becoming an actor actually happened, I have always felt so incredibly grateful that I got to– that I get to do the job. But rest? Self-care? Those weren’t even on my radar.

So when I became a mom, and my kids had serious health and immune challenges, I was thrust into their intensive care. And right around then, the term “self-care” was becoming this cultural buzzword. I remember thinking, “Self-care? Are you kidding me? My kids won’t eat, they won’t sleep, and potty training is a disaster. You want me to meditate now?”

The only time I used my nice steam shower was for my child, who needed the built-in bench to stabilize his body. I’d sit with him while he held onto the bench for a moment, playing with his toy boat, holding the hand hose and gently washing him with whatever his skin could tolerate. When he was calm, I would quickly rinse myself with whatever organic kids’ soap was in the pump, since that was the closest I got to “me time” back then.

I grew up in church, where the ethos was “Jesus first, others second, and you last.” Take that albatross, add the systemic motherhood archetype, and then layer on the heaviest dose of guilt—guilt that maybe you did something wrong to make your kids autistic, or guilt that you’re even thinking about doing something for yourself when your child is struggling so much. When your kid can’t hold their own body up in a chair or is suffering in pain from medical issues, it’s not exactly the time to sit around and do a face mask.

For the new moms: I’m in a different place now, and I promise you, it does get better. I swore I’d never drop my guilt off and never take more than a three-minute shower. Well… why?

I was resistant to self-care. During that early Hollywood meeting, while we were discussing the podcast pitch, they asked how I was juggling it all—work, kids, the whole chaotic mess of life. They couldn’t believe I’d done some other acting jobs, lost the baby weight (that’s all they f*cking care about in Hollywood! Thank goodness for breastfeeding!), and was managing two kids on the autism spectrum as a– oh no, single mom. As we discussed possible podcast topics, I knew I wanted real, down-to-earth topics that were focused on helping the child and reflected the survival mode factor for the mom listeners. I laughed and said, “By the way, we’re not doing self-care. I have a no self-care policy. That’s the cheesiest, hokiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Maybe it’s the Gen X in me.

Looking back, I realize I, too, was in survival mode… and I always have been. Even as an actress type, I preferred the $30 Olay regenerative cream I grabbed at CVS at midnight on the way home from set to the $350 Crème de La Mer. That wasn’t self-care to me—it was just practical.

But here’s what changed everything: five years in, at a routine specialist appointment for one of my boys, the doctor said, “The kids are doing so well. You’re doing a great job.” I shrugged it off and said, “Thank God! They are doing great. But I’m exhausted. I’m tired all the time. My stomach hurts. I just feel… run down.”

She didn’t sugarcoat it. “When the kids start improving, the moms always collapse at my door too. You’ve got to take care of yourself, Kathryn—for you, and for them.”

And for the first time, I let those words sink in. 

I started taking tiny steps. A quick nap in the car while my kids were in therapy. Turning on Clair de Lune in the Toys “R” Us parking lot, remembering how I’d watched my highly dysregulated son on a trampoline somehow become a calm, Mikhail Baryshnikov-like dancer. I turned the mirror back on myself and thought, Hey, maybe I need that same kind of calm—even if it’s just here, in the car, in a parking lot. Maybe it could work for me too.

Hey girl– the 6 p.m. yoga class and the wine nights with the girls may not be available in the same way they were before. But as motherhood takes a bigger spotlight in our culture and workforce—along with the growing awareness of the autistic community—I believe there’s a movement emerging. A movement for mini-retreats to full-blown events where the whole family can focus on taking care of themselves as individuals. That’s something I hope to bring to life with The Savants.

Lastly, taking care of oneself is something I’ve learned to share with my kids. “Hey kids, it’s important for us to take care of our nails.” For years, we weren’t able to get a mani-pedi, but over time, we’ve made it something we do together. “Graduating OT” for one of my boys and his need for proprioceptive input* has now merged into, “Mama, I need to get a massage today.” Demanding, like a little diva. So cute.

*Proprioceptive input is like the body’s internal GPS, helping us sense where we are in space, how much pressure to use, and how to move smoothly. It’s what allows us to walk without looking at our feet or hold a cup without crushing it. Deep pressure, stretching, jumping, and massages can help regulate this system, especially for those needing extra sensory support.

I know what you’re thinking: There’s no time. There’s no sleep. My meal is whatever scraps are left on my kids’ plate. I get it. Autism moms are some of the most stressed people on the planet—PTSD-level stress—and it feels like it never ends.

But here’s what I’ve learned: “self-care” doesn’t have to be grand. (Also, I still cringe at the term… but I do make time to take care of myself.) It doesn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes, it’s a 15-minute micro-vacation in your car with a cup of coffee and the phone on vibrate. Over time, I’ve realized something beautiful: taking care of yourself isn’t just for you. It’s something you can model for your kids, something they can learn to value, too.

So, mama, I’m here to tell you: take the damn 15 minutes. Find the micro moments. Because you deserve it, and your kids need a version of you that’s not just surviving—but thriving.