Remmy
Or “Remmy Girl,” as I often call her. Just Rem for short.
I’ve always loved her name, though her dad, Chris, wasn’t so sure at first. I’m Meagan, Remmy’s mom, and from the start, I knew our rainbow baby deserved a name as unique as she is. After a few days of pleading, my husband finally agreed to Remmy. Over time, it grew on him, and now we both love it. It truly fits her perfectly.
Remmy is our second daughter, and she has autism—moderate to severe, according to the scale. For short, we call it ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). She’s our rainbow baby. Our son was due in June 2015, but we lost him in December of that year. And here’s the incredible timing: Remmy was conceived in June 2015. It’s almost as if she was destined to be in our lives. Though our loss is still deeply painful, we often reflect that had our son lived, Remmy wouldn’t be here. She was meant for our family, meant to be here.
Remmy was born in March 2016, and her delivery was astonishingly easy—two pushes, and she was here. I looked at Chris and naïvely said, “That was so easy, I can do that again!” He smiled gently and reminded me, “Oh babe, this is highly unusual. It’s not guaranteed to happen this way again.” I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him (sorry, babe!). When our youngest daughter came along two years later, his words echoed painfully in my mind during a labor that was anything but easy.
As I mentioned, Rem is our second child. She has an older sister, Reece, and a younger sister, Rowyn. Yes, I’m that mom—R-names, all five letters. I appreciate symmetry.
Reece and Rem were inseparable from the start. Reece insisted we dress them like twins, and I happily obliged. My world revolved around those two little girls—and still does. I was enamored with these tiny lives we’d created, pouring all my attention and love into them, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But as Remmy grew, differences began to emerge. She missed milestones her big sister reached easily. She wasn’t speaking by her first birthday, avoided eye contact at eighteen months, and played with toys in the way I had observed with some Asperger children—lining them up by color, playing alone, and engaging differently than typical toddlers. Remmy also struggled with head-banging, pulling out the top layers of her hair, and cried often. She resisted hair brushing, teeth cleaning, and had an unrelenting hyperactivity that made sitting still nearly impossible. Did I mention she skipped crawling entirely and walked at eight months? True story.
Remmy’s energy was boundless. High chairs and car seats were challenges, furniture became climbing walls, and spinning and jumping were constant. Her fearlessness was remarkable, though sometimes worrisome when danger was involved. Hyperactivity disrupted her sleep for two straight years—she barely slept four to five hours a night.
These were the tell-tale signs of ASD.
Through time and guidance, we learned Remmy’s behaviors were related to self-regulation challenges and neural differences in her brain. She is a sensory-seeker, requiring constant movement and vestibular input. Alongside ASD, she also has ADHD (Attention-deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder), SMD (Sensory Modulation Disorder), GDD (Global Developmental Delay), and a sleep disorder.
Yes. That’s a lot of terms.
I know it can be overwhelming. Even Chris and I had little understanding of autism before Remmy. There’s a huge lack of education on neurodiversity in society, and few of us truly grasp what ASD entails unless we experience it firsthand. That realization drove us to create Remmy’s Wonderland, an Instagram page dedicated to updates, advocacy, education, and connection for other ASD families. It’s a place to learn, share stories, ask questions, and support one another. Autism is our new frontier, and we welcome anyone willing to walk it with us.
Now, about the diagnostic journey. Living in Southern California, autism medical-diagnosis resources are limited. Insurance hurdles and the lack of structured programs made the process even harder. Thankfully, we found an autism center where both our pediatrician and Remmy’s neurologist occasionally work—this was a true lifesaver. But medical consensus was still required: multiple referrals, assessments by specialists, and paperwork galore. Remmy endured a whirlwind of white coats and strangers, a process exhausting for both her and us.
By June 2020, after years of navigating this maze, Remmy was four and ready for her evaluation. COVID-19 precautions were at their peak, making the experience even more stressful. Masks were mandatory for most, but Remmy could not wear one—and the center respected that. Only one parent was allowed, no siblings, and every procedure was unfamiliar and tense.
Over three days, Remmy met with a pediatrician, neurologist, psychiatrist, occupational therapist, physical therapist, and speech therapist, some in-person, some via Zoom. On June 17th, 2020, we received the life-altering news: Remmy showed signs of moderate-severe autism and Global Developmental Delay. I cried instantly, barely processing the words. The specialists explained with patience and compassion, but I struggled to articulate my grief over the life I had imagined for her. Yet deep down, we already knew. This confirmation was heavy, but it also brought clarity—and hope.
We believe wholeheartedly that God made Remmy perfect. His plan for her is intentional. We cast our anxieties upon Him and trust His guidance as we navigate this new path. The future may look different than we envisioned, but we wouldn’t trade it for anything. Every small triumph—eye contact, a new word, an affectionate gesture—is a miracle we cherish. Remmy has brought a profound, unconditional love into our lives, shaping us to be more patient, attentive, and protective.
Our days now are full: ABA therapy five days a week, occupational therapy twice weekly, special-needs gymnastics, and soon chiropractic care. Speech therapy is in transition, thanks to insurance hurdles, but we’re determined. Call me the family chauffeur—I’m running the whole operation.
Eight months into this journey, we’re still learning and adapting every day. To anyone who encounters a child on the spectrum: extend grace, show kindness, and offer patience. And as for Remmy, it’s her world. We are just lucky enough to live in it with her—and every day, she reminds us just how extraordinary life can be.
