The Domino Effect—When Every Win Adds to the To-Do List

By: Allison Westrup Pianka

Victory in a Broken System

Recently, I achieved what felt like a miracle: I secured outplacement for my daughter, Hannah, fully funded by the school district. This wasn’t just a logistical battle—it was an emotional one. I had to re-live trauma, document every injustice, and stare down my own guilt.

Those are the triumphant moments I wish I could enjoy… but the reality is: I’ve only won one of many small battles to come – the bigger war is always looming.

Having achieved the goal of outplacement, a new wave of responsibilities crashed over me.

Because when you are raising a neurodivergent child, progress doesn’t mean peace. It means more forms, more therapy, more recalibrating, more evaluations / assessments / tests… it’s a never ending cycle.

The Fine Print of Progress

Hannah began using new words—victory! Except now I’m managing a newly revised IEP,

scheduling even more therapy appointments, and preparing myself for public meltdowns that will be judged by strangers who don’t understand her autism.

One meltdown was triggered by a bee. She screamed, “That f*cking bee!” in public. I wasn’t

embarrassed about the language. I was calculating: How far will this spiral? Will I lose my job

again? How long will it take me to get a new job and how will I reconfigure all of my expenses to accommodate the time between jobs? How much time do I have for wiggle room?

Every success knocks over a line of dominos and I’m running around trying to catch them before they fall.

The Invisible Labor of Love

I work full-time. I parent full-time. I’m an advocate, a cook, a referee, a cheerleader. I jump on

trampolines and cry in closets. I am a master juggler (and no, I never could juggle balls), but

throw more at me and I’ll catch it.

There are no PTO days for single moms. There’s no “off” button. And when I do feel peace, I

often feel crushed by the guilt of it.

What I’m Not Supposed to Say

I love my daughter fiercely—but I’m also scared. I see my ex in her. The traits that hurt me most. And then I hate myself for even thinking that. I want silence more than connection sometimes. But I still show up. Because that’s what mothers do.

A Final Word

If you’re in this place, I see you. If this post helps you survive one more hour, then it’s done its

job. We’re not monsters. We’re mothers. Doing the impossible. Every day.