Parenting Through ASD

There are so many things I wish I could explain to people when they meet my child—or when they see us in public, navigating a moment that looks different from their normal. I don’t mean that I want to justify his behavior nor our actions when we are trying to co-regulate or prevent harm. What I really mean, is that I wish I could turn those difficult moments into teachable ones for adults and other children that look at our family with discomfort and fear. I used to feel embarrassed and try to explain everything- to translate every behavior in an effort to soften their stares, their judgement. But I don’t do that anymore. I no longer force a pained smile upon their glaring eyes to ease their discomfort. And I definitely don’t try to rush my son’s or our family’s process in order to get out of everyone’s way. I realize, now, that such moments are too complex to fully address several people’s experiences and emotions all at once.

In these moments, I tried for years to help others feel less afraid and, as a result, more comfortable with us. At the same time, I wanted to feel less judged and stigmatized, all while helping my son through an awkward introduction or a public meltdown. And, mostly, the main characters in these moments included strangers to whom we definitely owed nothing, least of all an explanation. It reminds me of the more common scenario where people feel offended by a baby crying in public because they somehow earned their right to peace and quite. In a similar way, it often feels like we, with our son, are walking in a world where everyone feels a right to be unbothered by his Autism.

So, I want to share some of the things that I no longer try to make everyone understand when I sense fear or awkwardness. These are things I wish the world truly understood about my child, spontaneously and without judgement or unease:

He is not broken.
My kid is not a problem to fix. He is a whole human being with his own rhythm, needs, and way of experiencing life. He is beautiful, intriguing, and layered. And when his way of being doesn’t fit your expectations, it doesn’t make it wrong, or him broken. He is just as he was meant to be, same as anyone else.

He is not misbehaving, acting out, or looking for attention. Behaviors are communication. What might look like “bad behavior” is almost always a message. Meltdowns, shutdowns, scripting, or running away—these are signs of overwhelm, discomfort, or a nervous system asking for help. Our job isn’t always to stop it, it’s to understand it. Yes, some behaviors can be aggressive and should be redirected or tempered, but even seemingly aggressive behaviors need to be decoded safely when the time is right.

Joy doesn’t always look the way you want it to.
You might see jumping, hand flapping, spinning in circles, or repeating lines from a show. These moments aren’t weird—they’re joy. They’re excitement, celebration, and regulation all rolled into one. You might want him to look you in the eyes and smile or turn to you and say, “I’m happy!” But his joy is about him, not you. Listen closely, and if you’re lucky enough to enter his world, you will feel like jumping and spinning in circles, too.

His strengths might be invisible to you—but I see them every day.
My child notices patterns others miss. He remembers the smallest details, offers the kindest gestures, and loves fiercely. He may not walk up to people and introduce himself like others do, but he can feel your emotions from across a crowded room. He is creative and “punny”, even with the limited language he has. He is adventurous and spirited and faces a harsh world bravely, every single day. The world may overlook these gifts, but my family doesn’t, and we are honored to be alongside him.

He is not purposefully trying to make things harder.
Difficult moments are not defiance or noncompliance. They aren’t a sign of permissive parenting or a child being stubborn. My kid is often doing the best he can with the tools he has. Sometimes his actions aren’t tidy or convenient. That doesn’t mean they’re intentional.

He hears and understands everything—even if he doesn’t respond the way you expect.
He deserves respect, dignity, and kindness in every conversation. He deserves to be spoken about with equivalent respect and dignity. Maybe he looks preoccupied or in his own world, so you think he is unaware. Maybe you hear his limited speech and think he won’t understand your criticisms or cruel words. But he is present, he is capable, he is aware, and he deserves common decency.

Progress is not always linear.
Growth in our home looks like one step forward, two back, then a quiet leap no one saw coming, and even a zigzag now and then. Don’t measure him by checklists or timelines. Don’t assume his journey is random. Trust his path. Trust him. He has the same right to self-determination as anyone.

Your judgment is loud. But your kindness is louder.
The kind look you give, the patient words you say, the way you choose compassion instead of criticism—these things matter. They stay with us longer than you know. These acts of understanding and acceptance are the only anecdote we have against a world full of harsh rejection and ignorant fears.

He doesn’t need to change to fit a world that was never meant to fit him.
What he needs is a world that’s willing to flex, to learn, and to get to know him. He, we all, need a world that values learning from our differences, willing to change the shape of us, willing to face the assumptions and biases that breed fear. Inclusion isn’t just about creating spaces for others—it’s about accepting, reflecting, challenging, and growing with one another.

So if you see us, and it looks a little different than what you’re used to, take a breath. Smile. Ask yourself if we’re really that different from you. Choose curiosity over judgment. Choose compassion over control. Because what you’re witnessing isn’t a child in need of fixing—it’s a child worth knowing.