“Ethan. Ethan has autism,” my son, Noah, declared one sunny afternoon. We had just gathered fresh strawberries, and I glanced at my three-year-old, who was attempting to fit a berry in his ear, then back at Noah.
“I understand why you might think that,” I replied carefully. “But Ethan hasn’t been diagnosed with autism.”
“Who else? Who else is like me?”
“Well, many people live with autism, Noah.”
“WHO?”
What should I say? Sure, I could share the statistics. “Noah, one in every 44 kids is diagnosed today, so there are literally millions like you, kids who might see Thursday as blue and can remember what their teacher wore last summer.”
But that would mean nothing to him. Instead, I focus on the bright sides of autism: his incredible memory, his compassion, his determination, and the progress he’s made. Yet, it does little to ease the evident loneliness, the feeling of being the only one in his family, his class, perhaps in the entire world with a diagnosis on the spectrum.
It’s almost as if I am saying this to him: “Noah, you are a magnificent unicorn in a field of ordinary horses. You’re stunning! We know there are countless others like you—millions, even—but we just can’t show you where they all are. And, oh, magical unicorn? We don’t quite understand you. Your vibrant beauty dazzles us, but your outbursts can be frightening. Honestly, maybe it would be easier if you were just an ordinary horse like the rest of us. Then we could teach you math.”
When I began my blog, I didn’t have a specific purpose; I just wanted to share my experiences. Over time, I realized I was also seeking connection. From my little workspace, I could express my joys and struggles while reaching out to others navigating the complexities of autism and parenthood. If there was a hint of raising awareness in the process, that was just a nice bonus.
But ultimately, I felt I had let Noah down. Although I connected with a broader community, the boy in the next room—the one with autism—felt confused and ashamed. He felt alone.
So, I turned to my readers on social media, asking them to help show Noah that there are indeed millions like him—people who create beautiful art, hold jobs, enjoy movies, and love ice cream after dinner. The outpouring of responses was overwhelming.
“Hey, Noah. My son, also named Noah, is seven and has autism. His social skills might be lacking, but he has the ability to light up a room! You are not alone.”
“Hi, Noah! This is my 15-year-old grandson, who also has autism. He is my wonderful unicorn.”
In those messages, I recognized Noah. I recognized myself. I inhaled the hope, encouragement, pain, and love.
“I have a son who’s 14 and has autism. Even though I had hoped to teach him sports, I cherish his brilliant mind, his humor, and his kindness. My role is to ensure he lives his best life.”
Friends from high school reached out, old coworkers checked in, and one mother shared a photo of her child’s radiant smile.
“Hi Noah! My son is six and doesn’t speak. But he has a smile that can brighten any room… just like yours.”
Teachers from across the country chimed in. “I’ve taught many students with autism, and each has impacted my life profoundly.”
We read a message from a family in Spain together during dinner. Noah’s face lit up, and he exclaimed, “Madrid is the capital of Spain!”
“My younger son is eight and loves soccer and Minecraft. He is kind, loving, and brings so much joy. You are not alone!”
Some bravely shared their own stories. “I have autism and a fulfilling life. I’m 25, have achieved much, and love who I am. He is certainly not alone.”
Throughout the week, Noah asked for my phone to read the comments. With each glimpse, his face brightened.
“My amazing 11-year-old has autism and ADHD. Even in a crowd, she feels isolated.”
If I’ve discovered anything, it’s that autism encompasses a vast and unpredictable spectrum. Sometimes it affects multiple members of a family, and sometimes it singles out just one.
“I have two wonderful boys on the spectrum. Autism is just one aspect of who they are, like having brown eyes or curly hair.”
One morning, as I sat at my laptop, Noah hovered nearby, hoping for some screen time. Yet again, he became engrossed in the Facebook thread, gazing at the photos and stories of other kids, teens, and adults. Then he paused.
“Dad. Martin,” he whispered.
I squinted at the screen and noticed a comment: “Hi Noah. My son has autism, and I have adored him since his birth.”
I had assumed “millions” was just a whimsical way to quantify responses to a simple blog post. But I was mistaken. It isn’t just a number.
Millions represent confusion and fear, whimsical dogs named Max, kids from Texas, and teens from Oregon. It is filled with anger and disappointment, but also grace and unity. It’s about sitting across from each other at dinner, feeling the same knot in your stomach while your son wails because the pasta is too soft. It is animated movies, extraordinary memories, and the unique gifts that these individuals bring to the world.
Millions is both vast and intimate; it is both a lot and a little. Yet, on some days, it simply means two brothers navigating the complexities of autism together, laughing under a clear blue sky.
In conclusion, the journey through autism can be overwhelming, yet it also connects us to a broader community of support and understanding. For anyone seeking guidance on this path, we encourage you to explore resources like this for insights on family planning or this for additional information on pregnancy and related topics.
Keyphrase: autism community support
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