Otto The Octopus

What a safe space can do for your child.

I laugh now—but it hasn’t always been that way.

I’ve shed so many tears over the mindset of “I just want my child to live a normal life.”

And as my therapist once told me, gently:“Marial, what part of your life is normal?”

Frankly? None of it.

So it feels fitting that a swimming pool has become a “safe place” for my son.

Yes, the fear of drowning always lingers in any coherent mother’s mind, but there are moments that outshine those doubts—moments when Otto submerges himself into the aquatic unknown and sheds his fears like a second skin. Just like an octopus, he morphs into a creature of mystery and surprise.

Now that I think about it, Otto is a lot like an octopus...

...experiencing the world through a sensory and neurological system so different from the majority of his species, yet thriving through adaptability, innovation, and his own rules of engagement.

Today, thanks to the serendipity of spontaneous friends, we visited a swimming pool much bigger than our trusty store-bought kiddie pool.

As we stripped down poolside with feral audacity, I noticed a rusted metal plane tucked into the garden of the family home. A sign, I thought. And instead of dismissing it, I quietly waited for what was to come.

We were joined by two other families with toddlers close to Otto’s age. Typically, he’s slow to warm up—hesitant with unfamiliar faces—but today he greeted them calmly, with a willingness to join in.

Once the goggles were suctioned tightly to his puffy cheeks (something he’d normally rip off immediately), he slipped into the deep blue like he was returning to his natural habitat.

As the moms chatted about potty training and swimming lessons, Otto explored with a new motive: being under the water.

What was happening?

What started as a tentative nose-dip turned into full-body dives. Today, he had courage. Today, he was weightless in a world that often feels unbearably heavy.

“Let’s go potty,” he said, and we scurried into the house. While Otto whistled from his porcelain throne, I noticed a stool with another hand-painted airplane on top. Another sign—a reminder that today had meaning.

I smiled, realizing the women I was with were mothers I’d met through Ocean State Kids. Even though this wasn’t one of our organized group days, we still gathered, played, connected—and Otto thrived in this “safe place.”

Not only was he cannonballing off the side of the pool, he let me use the restroom alone, shared plenty of words with his peers, and showed no signs of stress or urgency to leave.

He was Otto the Octopus—floating beneath a silver canopy of comfort—experiencing a rare, grounding sense of belonging in a world where he often feels like a fish out of water.