She had no idea where her body was in space. She would get out of the car, and back up into on-coming traffic. Not meaning to, she'd gradually run you off the sidewalk as you strolled beside her. She needed something that would help her be in her body.

In my twenties, I studied martial arts. I'd never been the most coordinated person. I could not stand on one foot for any length of time. Almost twenty years later, I maintain the gains in balance and coordination I acquired from just under two years of martial arts training with a phenomenal instructor.

It would be great for Riley, but who could possibly teach her?

Observing various classes, none were a good fit. Too macho. Too wild. Too punitive. Too BS.

Then we found her. An instructor who runs a therapeutic school. But would it still be good "karate?" Would it be real martial arts? I watched with a critical eye. The teacher had good form. The upper belts did too. I let out my breath and signed Riley up.

First day, Riley lasted five minutes before having a meltdown. It all went so fast. She was overwhelmed, confused. She screamed and begged to go home. She sat on my lap sobbing. The teacher did not say, "Your child is a hopeless case, she can't come here." She said, "Let me work with her one on one." They did, until Riley was ready to be folded into a group.

The first exam, Riley tested for a stripe (half way to her yellow belt). She spent most of the time in the teacher's office crying, went out to do her form, then straight back in. Terrified.

Her second test. Not so bad. She made it without a problem until the end, when a judge unfamiliar to her gave his feedback. She took it to mean she did a terrible job. She did not "get" all the positive non-verbal cues coming her way, the smiles, the nods. She only heard what needed improvment. Devastated, she ran from the floor sobbing.

Third test. She stayed with the group and made it through her form, and through the feedback. She was scared, but she did it. Then came board breaking, and she choked. She could not muster the power. She flinched every time, and wound up merely tapping the board. Her teacher had to help her, and she ran crying from the room, feeling like a failure, a "baby." She'd worked so hard and came home defeated.

Last week, she strutted in like she owned the place, Jingle the new service dog by her side. She smiled as she lined up with the other students. She kept up with no problem. There were lots of kids behind her rank-wise, which seemed to make her feel proud. She's been at this year round, for almost 15 months.

Before the test we talked about how the judging instructor has been studying martial arts for decades, and how his feedback is like a gift from his heart. He gives it to kids because he cares about them. He's not saying she's not good, he's saying he values her enough to want to help her be an even better martial artist(how had I never spelled this out before)? We talked about rejection letters in writing, and how it is actually a compliment when editors care enough to give writers personal feedback.

The students took a bathroom break after forms, before board breaking. Riley came over to pet Jingle and I whispered in her ear, "When you get up there, don't stop at the board. Go way beyond it. Go through it."

"Okay," she nodded, stroking Jingle's ear.

Below is the face of a martial artist. A martial artist who aced her test, and broke a board with a right side kick, all by herself.

She went through it.

And the only tears shed that day were mine.

Michelle O’Neil has contributed to A Cup of Comfort for Parents of Children with Autism, and Special Gifts: Women Writers on the Heartache, the Happiness and the Hope of Raising a Special Needs Child. She has written for Literary Mama, The Imperfect Parent, Age of Autism, Cool Cleveland and some of her blogs about Riley's new service dog Jingle have recently been picked up by The Bark! She blogs about family, personal growth, spirituality, Asperger's, and the Law of Attraction at www.fullsoulahead.com.