The Spectrum 2

In this episode, we shift the focus to the siblings—Riley and Maya—who grew up in the shadow of their brothers’ autism diagnoses. Through quiet sacrifices, hidden resentment, and fierce love, we explore how being “the other child” shaped their identities, their dreams, and their place in a home where crisis often took center stage.

Transcript

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Welcome back to Take Care of Time. The Tales and Exhales of caregivers. They were the quiet ones, the patient ones, the ones who learned to self-regulate, self-soothe, and step back. Riley and Maya were just two years old when their younger brothers, Sean and Greg were born. Diagnoses Came a few years later. But the shift in attention, in energy, in household dynamics, it started long before anyone said the word autism. Today we turn our attention to the sisters. The siblings often asked to be understanding before they were old enough to spell it. This is episode two of the Spectrum. The photo albums tell a story. Before the words ever did, Riley Martin age four smiling wide beside her baby brother Sean, matching red sweaters. The kind of picture you see in a holiday card. But if you look closely, you see Riley holding his hand, not the other way around. Maya Sadler also four Peeking into her brother Greg's baby bed with a mix of curiosity and confusion. There's a second photo six months later where Maya stands by the living room window while Greg rocks in place on the floor, she's staring out her body turned away. These are the forgotten moments. The silent shifts. The years where the sisters were still children, but already learning what it meant to come second. Michelle Martin often said, Riley's always been so good, so calm. She just gets it. And Riley did get it, sort of. She got that. Sudden noises bothered, Sean, that her parents were tired. That the rules were different. Now she got that if she stayed quiet, she was helpful. Karen. Satler remembers when Maya started pre-K. The teacher called home to ask if everything was okay. She doesn't talk much. She stares out the window, doesn't join. Circle time at home. Maya learned to wait. Wait to speak, wait for a meltdown to pass. Wait for the next appointment, the next evaluation, the next, I'm sorry, not today. These weren't taught as rules, but they became the rhythm of their lives. By age nine, Riley could redirect one of Sean's meltdowns better than some aids she'd seen it. All the pacing, the escalating breath, the flapping hands, the suddent silence before the scream, she kept chewy fidgets in her backpack. She reminded her parents, when it was picture day because Sean couldn't handle the flash and needed, the alternative session. Riley was the family's second line of support, and sometimes it's first Maya meanwhile became her household's emotional thermostat. If Greg had a bad day, she played quietly. If Greg was calm, she dared to turn the TV volume up one notch. Karen didn't realize it at the time, but Maya had learned to disappear when things got bad. I find her sitting in the closet just waiting like she was giving us space We didn't ask for, but somehow needed at school. Both girls were part of normal, but home was anything but. Riley once bought a friend home. In third grade, Sean had a meltdown over the friend moving his Lego mini figures. He screamed through the box and curled into a ball. The friend never came back. Maya never bought anyone home. By sixth grade, she stopped asking at birthday parties. They played the role, grateful, adaptable. But every balloon pop, every loud laugh was a reminder of what couldn't happen at home. Riley began saying no to sleepovers. Maya began lying. My brother is sick. My mom said, I can't. I have homework. In reality, they just didn't want to explain again. Riley had one close friend in middle school named Ava. She never judged. Sean never stared, but one night during a sleepover, Ava quietly asked, do you wish your brother was normal? Riley didn't answer. She said he is normal, but inside she felt sick because sometimes yes, she did. Not forever, not really, but just for one weekend, one school play, one family trip without sensory maps and backup plans. She kept those thoughts locked up. I felt like a monster for even thinking it. But I also just wanted to be a kid and sometimes I wasn't. Maya wasn't as close with her friends, but in eighth grade, her classmate Lacey asked why she never came to pool parties. Maya gave the usual answer, busy weekend, but Lacey pushed. You always say that. What are you really doing? Maya shrugged and said, babysitting my brother. But what she wanted to say was. I'm watching my parents lose themselves. I'm watching the world forget me. In their own ways. Both girls began performing. Riley became the strong one. Maya became the distant one, but under both mass was the same truth. They resented the attention. They resented the cancellations. They resented the expectation to understand even when no one explained it to them. Riley Journaled obsessively. Maya drew pictures and threw them away. Neither wanted to say the words. I'm angry because in their homes, anger felt like betrayal. As the girls got older, a strange kind of guilt took root. Riley excelled in school. She joined student council, got straight A's and made the National Honors Society. It felt like that's what I was supposed to do. Make it easier for them. Be the kid they didn't have to worry about, but it came at a cost. Riley never talked about her stress, her sadness, or her jealousy. Maya struggled more. Her grades slipped. She got into fights. At school, one teacher labeled her. Difficult at home. She never acted out. But in private, she wrote, no one sees me unless I disappear. Riley chose psychology as her college major. She now works in behavior therapy. When asked why, she says, I was raised in a data-driven home. Every day was a behavior plan, but beneath that is another truth. Her career became an extension of her childhood role. The helper, the interpreter, the explainer. Maya went in a different direction. She moved far away. She works in retail lives alone and rarely talks about Greg unless someone prys. But when she visits him, she brings a photo album and narrates each picture like he's listening. Maybe he is. Both sisters became adults, but neither had a typical childhood. They lived. In homes where their needs were shelved, and often so were their emotions. Even now, Riley Flinches at certain sounds, doorbells alarms, they remind her of her brother's triggers. Maya panics when plans change. Not because she's rigid, but because she was trained to expect chaos. They don't blame their brothers. They love them fiercely fully, but they know that love doesn't erase the toll. People think having a sibling with autism makes you more patient. I think it makes you lonely in a way, no one prepares you for said Riley. It's not that I wasn't Loved, I just wasn't prioritized. Ever. said Maya. When we talk about autism, we often talk about parents. Sometimes we talk about the person with the diagnosis, but we rarely talk about siblings. The ones who feel responsible, the ones who learn to speak calmly, think ahead and grieve quietly. Riley and Maya aren't unique. Their stories echo across millions of households. And while their parents didn't mean to neglect their daughters, none of it was intentional. Michelle and James, Karen and Daniel, they were just trying to survive. They were managing meltdowns, coordinating therapies, navigating IEP meetings and responding to crisis after crisis after crisis that seemed to come out of nowhere where we're usually always building. It became instinct. When Sean Flinched or Greg screamed, the world shifted around them. Conversations stopped, plans were canceled. The focus, immediate, intense, went to the child in distress, and somewhere in the background, Riley and Maya learned to dim, not because their parents didn't love them, but because there was no space left. The Saddlers and the Martins told themselves it was temporary, that they'd make it up to the girls later. That they plan a special outing, carve out one-on-one time, but later never came years past in a blur of doctor visits and behavior plans. And what they didn't realize what they couldn't realize at the time was that their daughters were quietly needing them. Not in a loud, chaotic way, but in smaller, more fragile ones. A glance, a question, a conversation that wasn't about autism, but those things were rare and by the time the parents looked up, the girls had already learned how to stop asking. That's sometimes life in the household with autism. If you're listening to this and nodding along, I want to remind you caregivers deserve care too. The take care time Respite box is a bimonthly self-care box created, especially for caregivers. Each box includes soothing items like calming teas, feel good snacks, wellness tools, and little reminders that you matter too, whether you're parenting a child with autism. Caring for a sibling or supporting an aging parent. This is your permission to pause, subscribe, or send someone who needs it to Takecaretime.com and order your box today. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of the individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed do you have a story that you would like to have told? Please contact us at podcast@takecaretime.com. We'd love to hear from you. Next time on the podcast, we turn our lens towards the media. Why some autism stories are celebrated while others are ignored. From viral videos to brilliant talents and inspirational soundbites to the complete erasure of family struggling with severe autism. We explore how the media often chooses feel good over full truth, because when only certain stories are told, entire lives are left out of the narrative. Until next week, take care.