By Charlene Pinnock
Every night, it’s the same routine.
We wind down, we brush teeth, we read a book or watch a video—but when it’s time to sleep, Marcus still reaches for what comforted him in the earliest years of his life: breastfeeding.
And he’s not a baby anymore.
He’s five. He’s growing. He’s learning. But this part of our journey—the part I thought would’ve ended by now—has lingered longer than I expected.
It’s not hunger. It’s not habit in the usual sense. It’s comfort, routine, and sensory soothing—something that makes him feel safe enough to fall asleep.
And trying to explain to Marcus that “those days are gone” hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been one of the most emotional and confusing parts of our autism journey.
In our culture—especially in Jamaican households—breastfeeding beyond a certain age is met with side-eyes and sharp words.
“Five?! That’s too big.”
“Him going to suck out all your strength.”
“You spoil him too much—just stop cold turkey.”
But people don’t see what I see.
They don’t see the fear in Marcus’s eyes at bedtime.
They don’t see the way he clings to me—not out of manipulation, but out of genuine emotional need.
They don’t see the meltdown that comes with being told ‘no.’ The crying, the head-butting, the restlessness.
They don’t see how heartbreaking it is to want to move forward—but know your child isn’t ready to let go.
They don’t understand that children with autism often have deeper, longer-lasting sensory attachments than neurotypical children.
For Marcus, breastfeeding was never just food.
It was bonding. Warmth. Regulation. Security.
And even now, his body still remembers it as the easiest way to calm down and feel safe.
I’ve tried so many things to help Marcus transition:
Some nights, none of it works.
But there’s one little trick I’ve used that has helped on more nights than I expected:
I place band-aids over my nipples and tell Marcus, “Mommy has a boo-boo.”
It might sound simple or even funny to some, but for him—it creates understanding. It’s something he can relate to.
Sometimes he looks, says “boo-boo,” and accepts it. No crying, no fight. Just a quiet shift into cuddling instead.
It doesn’t work every night, but when it does, it feels like a small miracle.
If you're a mom reading this and quietly going through the same thing—know this: You are not alone. And you are not failing.
Here’s what I’ve come to accept:
So now, I focus on finding what else makes Marcus feel safe—whether it’s soft touch, deep pressure, lullabies, or nighttime routines that give him predictability.
And slowly, over time, I believe he’ll let go—when he’s ready.
Every child is different, and what works for one may not work for another—but here are some gentle strategies I’ve found helpful, or that other autism moms have shared with me:
Weaning, especially with children on the spectrum, is not about cutting off love—it’s about redirecting it in new ways.
If you’re still nursing a child who others say is “too old,” or if you’ve stopped but your child still begs to return, I want to say this:
You are not weak.
You are not doing something wrong.
You are responding to the needs of your child in a world that rarely understands those needs.
Every child’s journey looks different. And for those of us raising children on the autism spectrum, the path isn’t always straight, or fast, or what others expect.
But it’s filled with love.
And that love will carry both of you—past this stage, and into the next one.