By Dr. Ida Sylvia Menezes, Psychologist (clinical) and Autism Specialist
Two heartbeats. One quiet moment. That’s how it all began — a celebration resting on a miracle.
I still remember the day my twins arrived , two tiny cradles, yet one shared heartbeat. They had always known each other before they knew the world. One slept peacefully in dreamland, the other discovered the day with curious eyes. Different paces, but the same path. One led, the other followed. And as their mother, I trusted the journey without knowing where it would take us.
In those early months, joy and exhaustion danced together. I watched one twin crawl eagerly to the mirror, giggling, touching her reflection, locking eyes with herself, signs of healthy curiosity and connection. I thought, This is what milestones look like. But then, without warning, I began to wonder — what changed?
The truth is, sometimes change is so quiet, you don’t hear it until it’s loud.
I can still see myself sitting beside them on the floor, hoping for one perfect photograph, a snapshot to remember their first year. But the camera caught something I didn’t want to see. Two little faces turned away, eyes drifting into opposite worlds. Their names were called, but no heads turned. The silence between my voice and their response felt heavier than I could admit.
I was a neurophysiologist, trained to see signs. But in that moment, I was a mother first, caught between science and denial.
The day of their first birthday, everything looked perfect on the outside. Cakes, balloons, new dresses. But for them, the delicate lace dress felt like thorns. She cried relentlessly until a pacifier brought calm. I didn’t yet understand that this was tactile sensitivity, a whisper from her little body that something was different.
Wrapped in ribbons of joy, there were also layers of silent fear. We celebrated not with the usual milestones , first steps, first words; but with mysteries I couldn’t name. Behind every smile for the camera was a mother holding back questions, shame, and hope in equal measure.
I didn’t know it then, but those small signs were the first gentle waves of a much bigger tide, the journey of autism. And though fear and uncertainty were part of that beginning, so was love, and so was hope.
Because this was just the start. And even in the silence, my heart knew , “we were going to find our way”.