Monica Meyer

Welcome to my consulting services, where years of diverse experience and deep insights come together to meet your unique needs. With a lifetime of expertise, I provide tailored consulting for employers hiring or considering hiring individuals with neurodiversity or intellectual disabilities, as well as job coaches who support them. My services include specialized training focused on creating a more inclusive workplace and improving both employee and customer service through Universal Design for Learning principles.

As the parent of an adult with autism and an intellectual disability, I also offer valuable personal experience and knowledge to families and guardians. I am here to support you with resources and guidance as you navigate the service system and plan for the future. Together, we can create more inclusive, supportive environments for all.

What’s new with Michael?

A Moment of Grace

It’s been eight years since I wrote the blog below, and Michael’s life has changed significantly. He is now in a wheelchair; the result of a serious tibia and fibula fracture he sustained 18 weeks ago. The injury required surgery, and two separate 10-day hospital stays. His seizures, too, are becoming increasingly difficult to manage, impacting his days in ways that we are still adjusting to. Just this past week, Michael experienced a seizure so severe that he lost control of both his bowels and bladder. At the moment, he remains in his wheelchair, only getting up for short walks to the bathroom or his bedroom. Doctors anticipate he’ll be in the chair for at least another 8 weeks.

This morning, his direct support provider called to let me know that Michael had several drop seizures and that they were planning to keep things calm today. The blog below serves as a reminder that our loved ones’ lives are always evolving—sometimes for the better, and sometimes in ways we never expect. It’s important to find the silver linings in the small, everyday moments, because the lives of those we care for will always change.

November 2016 – Blog

It’s Sunday—my day with my son, Michael. Michael is a 33-year-old man, handsome and full of life, but his journey is not one that fits neatly into a box. He experiences classic autism, a condition that shapes his world in ways both visible and invisible. Though Michael is verbal, there are times when he struggles to express his wants and needs, and his social anxiety only adds to the challenge. On top of that, he lives with a partial complex seizure disorder that, like a storm cloud on the horizon, can arrive without warning.

Our Sundays are a ritual, a disciplined routine that offers us both comfort in the familiarity of it all. First, we head to his favorite burger spot, a small, unassuming place where he can indulge in the meal he loves most. After that, we take Ava, our lively Standard Schnauzer pup, to the retreat house he calls his sanctuary—a convent-retreat house surrounded by apple orchards and peaceful grounds. We walk together, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging a few words. After the walk, it’s back to my house for a “quick-rest,” followed by time at the computer so Michael can print out his latest Google finds—curated treasures from the internet that fascinate him.

Michael lives about twelve to fifteen minutes from me, depending on traffic or the urgency of the day’s rhythm. He rents a house, supported by a state-contracted agency that helps with daily living. Friends and family often ask, “How is Michael doing?” and my standard answer is always, “Fair.” His life is neither perfect nor terrible—it’s somewhere in between. Fair feels like the right word. But as his mother, I can’t help but wish for more, always hoping that life could be a bit easier, more fulfilling, more him.

It was at the burger restaurant today, as we sat across from each other, that I saw something in Michael that stopped me in my tracks. He had been drawing—his usual activity when we dine out—and then, without warning, he paused. For what felt like a long time—two, maybe three minutes—he simply stared out the window. The silence stretched, and for a moment, I wondered if a seizure was coming on. But no. There was no sign of distress. Instead, he seemed to be drinking in the sunlight, which had been absent for weeks here in the Pacific Northwest. The winter rains had been relentless, but today, the sun was breaking through the clouds in soft golden rays.

Michael sighed, mouthing a few words to himself—words I couldn’t catch—and then returned to his drawing, as if nothing had happened. But something had. There was a shift in the air, a calmness that seemed to settle over him like a blanket. It was a tranquility I couldn’t quite place, but I could feel it too.

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking—what had caused that moment of peace, what had made him pause in such a way—but he looked so content, so serene, that I didn’t want to interrupt it. I could see that his mind was in a place of stillness, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to probe or analyze. I simply wanted to let him be.

In that moment, I found myself reflecting on how much Michael gives me without even realizing it. In his quiet, unspoken way, he offers me lessons in patience, in acceptance, in the beauty of simply being. His life may not always be easy, but there are moments—like this one—when he teaches me something far deeper than I can explain.

And as I watched him, I realized something else: there is a greater power at work in our lives, a force I can’t always see but that Michael seems to tap into. Maybe it’s a kind of wisdom, a knowing that transcends words, a connection to something beyond our comprehension. I can’t quite grasp it, but in that moment, I felt it. I felt the grace that was flowing through us both, something far greater than either of us alone.

Michael may not have the life I envisioned for him, but he has a life of his own—a life that holds its own kind of beauty and peace, one that I am privileged to witness. And in that quiet pause, I understood that sometimes it’s not about asking questions or seeking answers. Sometimes, it’s just about being in the moment, together. And in that moment, I felt nothing but gratitude for the grace my son brings into my life.