1. What problem did I see?
Parents of autistic children often navigate an overwhelming landscape of medical advice, therapy options, support organizations, government services, and educational resources. The information exists — but it is scattered across dozens of websites, often written in clinical language, and difficult to evaluate without prior knowledge.
The question I kept asking: why is it so hard to find a clear, organized starting point? A parent dealing with a recent diagnosis shouldn't have to become an expert in web research just to find useful help.
2. Why did I care?
I had seen, from within my community, how much time and energy parents spent trying to navigate these resources — time that could be spent with their children or on their own wellbeing. The problem wasn't a lack of information. It was a lack of organization, accessibility, and trust.
I was also interested in what "accessible" really means in a web context — not just screen reader compatibility, but whether someone with limited technical experience and significant emotional stress can actually find what they need.
3. What did I build?
I built a platform designed to aggregate and organize resources for parents:
- A categorized resource library (therapies, educational support, community organizations)
- Plain-language explanations of common diagnostic and treatment options
- A simple navigation structure designed for first-time users, not researchers
- An accessible, mobile-responsive design with high contrast and clear typography
I intentionally avoided making claims about medical effectiveness or recommending specific therapies. The goal was organization and accessibility, not curation of clinical outcomes.
4. What went wrong?
The hardest part wasn't building the platform — it was understanding the users. I made early design decisions based on what I thought parents would want, rather than what they actually needed. My initial information architecture was organized the way I thought about the topic, not the way a parent encountering it for the first time would.
I also underestimated how much the tone of the content matters. Clinical language, even when accurate, feels alienating. Parents reading about their child don't want to feel like they're reading a medical journal. Rewriting content to be warm without being condescending took much longer than building the site itself.
5. What did I learn?
The most important thing I learned is that technology is only as useful as the thinking behind it. A website can be technically perfect — fast, responsive, accessible — and still fail to help anyone if it's organized around the wrong mental model.
This project also made me understand why "human-centered" design is a real discipline and not just a phrase. The hard work isn't the code. It's understanding the person who will use what you build.
If I rebuilt this today, I would start with interviews with actual parents before writing a single line of code. I would test the navigation structure with people unfamiliar with the topic before adding any content. And I would be more honest about what the platform can and cannot do.