Unlocking a New World: How One Sleepover in the Driveway Gave Us Hope

Max in the travel trailer- aka "Max's Mobile Motel"

Fear and I go way back. I'm a master of the “what-ifs.” And when you're raising a severely autistic child, the “what-ifs” aren’t just hypothetical—they feel like looming, real-world threats.

What if Max can’t handle it?What if a new experience sends him into meltdown mode?What if we’re away from home, far from the tools and spaces that help calm him down?

For years, those thoughts kept me frozen in place.

Thankfully, I married my opposite. My husband is fearless—an eternal optimist who has always believed Max would grow, change, and rise to new challenges. To him, the joy of traveling as a family, visiting our other kids, and exploring new places far outweighed the risk. “We’re going. We’re doing this,” he’d say whenever I launched into one of my carefully crafted fear spirals.

At the time, it felt impossible. My anxiety was sky-high. But I trusted his judgment—and more importantly, I trusted that if this was being placed so firmly on his heart, God would walk with us through the fear. So I took one shaky step at a time and leaned in.

We didn’t start big. In fact, we started just outside our front door—literally.

We parked our 32-foot travel trailer right in the middle of our driveway and turned it into a mini Max sanctuary. We filled the bunkroom with comforting favorites: Incredibles bedding, Lightning McQueen posters, and the same twinkling Christmas lights that hung in his bedroom. It had to feel safe. It had to feel like his.

On the first night, we kept things simple. A Pixar movie and couch cuddles. Then teeth brushing, story time, and bed. We whispered goodnight and closed the bunkroom door.

That’s when the tears started.

Max doesn’t cry often—almost never. So when I heard his sobs, it hit me hard. I went back in, reassured him that we were right there, reminded him we were still next to the house, rubbed his back, and tried again.

This time, the sobs faded into his usual squeals and sounds. And then—silence.

He slept through the night.

In the morning, Max woke up smiling. We celebrated like he’d just climbed Everest. And in a way, he had.

The next night, we added more: dinner in the trailer, another movie, even a bath in the tiny tub (no showers—Max is firmly team bath). Then books, goodnights, and... we waited.

No tears. Not even a hint of hesitation. Just peaceful sleep.

In that moment, we knew we’d cracked something wide open. We’d found a way forward. And for the first time in years, the road didn’t look so scary—it looked full of possibility.