Parenting a Child With PDA and Autism When Nothing Worked

Parenting a child with PDA and autism was not something we set out to learn, but it became our reality when nothing else worked. Our son, Hyrum, is 8 years old. We've known he was autistic since just after his second birthday. Brittney sensed early signs and pushed for testing. Some doctors later told her how rare it was to recognize these traits so early.

If you're new here, this story is part of a larger journey. You can start with how road trip life with an autistic child changed our family.

As a baby, Hyrum was calm. He rarely cried and was rarely fussy. But we were blindsided by sudden high fevers and occasional seizures that left us shaken.

Toddlerhood changed everything. He began having intense breath-holding spells, turning blue and passing out before finally exhaling. It was terrifying. That's when we started questioning everything, from sensory triggers to whether conventional autism parenting approaches were ever going to work for our son.

Hyrum made huge messes, many times a day, every day.

The First Signs of PDA Autism and How ABA Broke Our Son

Around age four or five, we began noticing signs of intense rigidity. Unlike our daughter at that age, Hyrum wouldn't come to the table, get in the car, or join family activities. Any attempt to coax him often triggered a full meltdown, and sometimes he would stop breathing.

When he was about five, we started ABA therapy. He hated it. Just getting him through the clinic door sometimes took over an hour. When he came home, he was so anxious he would chew on his arm and remain inconsolable for days. His arm became cracked and inflamed from constant self-injury.

We switched to in-home ABA, hoping it would help. It removed the stress of leaving the house, but it didn't change what was happening. Hyrum still struggled deeply.

He began quietly singing little songs to himself as a way to cope. "Go away, scary Maddie, go away…" Over and over, like a self-soothing ritual. Maddie was his therapist at the time.

It was funny in a sad way, but it was also a clear sign of how anxious he was.

Therapists rotated frequently. Only one ever made progress, and looking back, we realized why. She didn't run programs or place demands. She just played with him. When play was present, he was calm. When demands were introduced, he fell apart.

Eventually, the program owner worked with him directly. After a few weeks, she told Brittney: "In my 20-plus years, I've only met one other child like him. And we couldn't help that child either."

We once lost Hyrum for two hours. Police and neighbors searched until we found him hiding with the chickens.

We Didn't Know It Was PDA, But Nothing Helped Until We Did

That's when we first heard the term Pathological Demand Avoidance, often called PDA. It helped explain why traditional approaches kept failing our son.

At the time, we were working with several state-provided specialists. Many of them were kind and well-meaning, but the message was always the same. Hyrum didn't respond like most autistic children.

One specialist warned Brittney that he might stop calling us Mom and Dad. Within six months, he did. He began using only our first names. The emotional distance that followed was heartbreaking.

Brittney immersed herself in research and connected with other parents. It quickly became clear that our days looked very different. There were no breaks. No pauses. No safe reset.

From the moment our son woke up to the moment he went to sleep, he required full-time supervision. He could hurt himself, hurt others, destroy property, or create dangerous situations in minutes.

When There Was No Break, Everything Started to Break

The emotional toll on Brittney was enormous. Hopelessness became a daily companion. There were moments when Preston had to physically hold her during meltdowns to keep her from collapsing.

By age five, our son's meltdowns became violent. Brittney was constantly bruised. Our younger son was often covered in Band-Aids. Preston wasn't spared either. Even our dog showed signs of stress and aging.

If we forgot to lock the fridge, chaos followed.

The Outdoors Was the Only Thing That Helped, Until It Didn't

The only relief came from being outside. We had a fenced yard, and when the weather allowed, our son could play. Even then, he needed constant supervision. Sometimes he played peacefully. Other times, he would suddenly create a disaster.

Schools wouldn't take him. ABA-based autism schools weren't a fit. Public schools warned us he would likely spend most of his time isolated.

So we homeschooled him.

The Moment We Realized Movement Was the Medicine

Eventually, we saw something shift when we left our normal environment. Time away in quieter places brought calm. Not perfection. But relief.

For the first time, we wondered if constant change wasn't the problem, but the solution.

If you want to understand how this plays out day to day, we share more in our post about nomadic life with autism.

Yol Bolsun Means "May There Be a Road"

Near the end of this season, we came across an old phrase: Yol Bolsun. It means "May there be a road."

It became our prayer.

We don't know exactly where we're going. We don't know what will work next. But we keep walking forward together.

May there be a road.