Hello, it’s lovely to meet you!
I arrived at the school swim gala and it was loud. And frenetic. There were kids running around, announcements on the public speaker system, whistles blowing, starter gun bangs. I guess if you were on the inside of all those logistics, it made sense to you. From the outside, it looked like chaos.
At first, scanning the scene to look for your own child (as we all do), I couldn’t see my son, until in the distance I could see his little seven-year-old body in his swimsuit, holding his teacher’s hand as they walked at the pace that full-body sobbing could allow for. He was crying uncontrollably, and I could see his very kind teacher bent over talking to him with every step.
It took a lot of control to stop myself from swooping in to see how I could fix this, but the teacher asked for space to handle it, so I walked away from the stands, entirely undone. I stood by myself, looking up at the sky, holding in the jerking tears because I was physically experiencing his panic. This was pure sensory hell. I just didn’t have the words for it yet.
Looking back, all the signs were hiding in plain sight. As a baby, he was really sensitive to movement and sound. As a toddler, he played on the fringes of parties and activities and tended to prefer doing his own thing.
He was diagnosed on the spectrum in his third year of school. At the time, my only reference point for autism was watching Rain Man back in the day. This was a period of intense overwhelm and raw dysregulation.
But through all the psychologist meetings and working through all the resources I could find, I started to see my own reflection in my son’s experience of the world. I guess it was a little bit like the photographer, Hank, in the series Parenthood, after reading a book on Asperger’s.
My own Asperger’s diagnosis arrived in my 40s, after a formal clinical consultation process. The clarity that comes with making sense of past misunderstandings, failed relationships, and traumatic experiences is truly freeing.
Now read this again: it freed me.
It freed me from trying to live by neurotypical norms, to fit in, only to be more miserable. It freed me to build a most beautiful life that’s designed around my own needs and interests—proof that a diagnosis, self-care, and courage can transform your world.
If any of this sounds familiar, I am building this shared space for you.
Whether you are a parent trying to understand a new diagnosis, a family member feeling overwhelmed by how much work this takes, or an adult wondering why you’ve never quite fit into a loud world—you belong here.
This is my commitment to you: I’m going to keep showing up in your mailbox to share this journey.
Thank you for being here.
Chat soon, A
P.S. No, AI didn’t write this. It doesn’t know what it feels like to hold back tears at a school swim gala. It will never tell you my story. I will.