During my career as a child psychologist, I prided myself on my directness. I ensured that every child who entered my office left with a precise diagnosis. I often looked down on parents who hesitated to disclose their child’s autism diagnosis, fearing the stigma of labels.
However, when I became a parent to my own son, Noah, who is on the autism spectrum, I found myself doing the same thing I once criticized.
I would only mention the term “autism” when absolutely necessary—like on insurance documents, during discussions with specialists, or when searching for resources online. In casual conversations, Noah was simply “my sweet boy.” If anyone pressed for details, I would describe him as having “unique needs” or “some developmental delays.” Most people didn’t dig any deeper after that.
I was well aware of the nuanced implications of autism, yet I couldn’t be certain how others would perceive it. I effectively placed Noah in a metaphorical “autism closet,” a choice echoed by individuals like actor Leo Schneider, who reflected on how keeping certain aspects of their identity hidden felt safer for them.
Now, as a mother, I hesitate to lead with the term “autism.” It’s merely one facet of Noah’s identity, much like my own struggles with vision. My glasses help me navigate the world, while the available treatments for autism haven’t provided Noah the same level of support. Additionally, my thick lenses are immediately noticeable, unlike the subtleties of Noah’s autism.
When Noah was five and about to start kindergarten, we visited a local play center filled with themed rooms. Dressed in a sparkly black ensemble complete with a cape, he took to a mini-stage with a toy guitar. As I snapped photos of him, another mother remarked on his talent, saying, “He’s adorable!”
“Thanks,” I replied, beaming. He was more than adorable; he was impressive.
Then Noah sang a line from a song that took a dark twist: “He killed his grandmother and tortured his mother’s dog. My kinda guy. Carnage!” The other mother’s face turned pale, and she quickly gathered her daughter and left. I rushed to explain, “I’m sorry, he has autism and is quoting a line from a show,” feeling like I had betrayed my son.
In that moment, I used his diagnosis as a shield against judgment, labeling his inappropriate behavior instead of acknowledging the full spectrum of who he is. While awareness of autism has increased, discussions often focus on apologizing for negative behaviors rather than celebrating the diverse experiences that come with it.
I’m not advocating for a campaign where I declare, “This is my autistic son, Noah,” but I realize that in brief encounters, I need to be more open about his diagnosis. Many people in our lives—our neighbors, coaches, and teachers—may not be aware of Noah’s autism, and it’s time for me to share that part of his identity to foster understanding.
For the sake of Noah and others like him, embracing and discussing autism in a balanced way is essential. It’s a journey I was aware of before motherhood, and I’m learning it yet again.
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Summary
The journey of parenting a child on the autism spectrum can lead to moments of self-reflection and realization. The author shares her struggle with openly discussing her son’s diagnosis and the importance of embracing and acknowledging the complexities of autism for a better understanding in society.
Keyphrase: autism parenting journey
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