Welcome to Our World | An Introduction to My Son and the Moment I Knew He Experienced the World Differently.

raising an autistic child

Welcome back!

Before I even begin, I have to admit—every time I share one of these posts, I get anxious. Not because I doubt what I’m writing, but because it’s vulnerable. Personal. Every word I put out there feels like opening a window into our lives and inviting the world to look in—and sometimes, to judge.

There’s always that little voice that whispers, What if they misunderstand? What if they question my choices?

If you’ve ever shared something close to your heart, you probably know that voice too. Still, I write anyway—because I believe the value of honesty outweighs the risk of judgment.

So, deep breath. Here’s our story.

The Moment I Knew

From the time my son, Liam, could move on his own, I sensed he experienced the world differently.

While other toddlers scattered toys in joyful chaos, he lined them up in perfect rows, studying each piece with deliberate focus.

When children around him cried or laughed too loudly, he watched, puzzled but calm—as though observing an unfamiliar weather pattern.

Even before any diagnosis, I could see it: his mind was organized, curious, and precise.

That was many years ago. Now he’s in sixth grade, taller and funnier, with a vocabulary that rivals mine. But beneath all the growth, he’s still unmistakably himself—brilliant, sensitive, exacting, and beautifully complex.

The Early Years

My nephew was born just six months after him, and in those early years, our family couldn’t help but compare milestones. My nephew chased other kids, laughing, jumping right into play. Liam, however, hovered on the edges, observing instead of joining.

The words of advice were countless:

"He needs to make friends. You're stunting him."

"You need to force him to interact. He's too shy."

"Make him play, don't let him sit with you."

But I knew that pushing my son would only harm, and not help, him.

And just as one milestone was moved past, another arose.

My nephew, although younger, began speaking a year before my son. Cue the comments.

At 27 months, Liam was still largely silent—communicating through gestures, limited words of “dhat” or “dhis”  and guiding my hand, or using words that only I could truly understand. All the concerning comments led me to seek out a speech therapist. The evaluation described him clinically: “limited sound inventory,” “prefers to play alone.”

But what the report didn’t capture was the quiet intelligence behind that silence—the mind already building patterns and logic long before the words arrived.

And boy, did the words arrive.

The Growth

Fast forward to today: his language skills have soared (He tests at a college level orally). He devours knowledge constantly, though he hates reading (mostly because school requires it), he loves factual information and history. His primary sources of education are conversation, videos, and websites.

He recalls details effortlessly, and connects emotionally in ways that humble me. His compassion for animals, his honesty, and his curiosity remind me daily that brilliance doesn’t always look the way the world expects.

His father, also autistic, understands him on a level I sometimes can’t. Watching them together—both steady, deliberate, and deeply thoughtful—has taught me more about neurodivergence than any textbook ever could.

The Current Struggles

For all his gifts, the world around him doesn’t always fit easily. Social interactions—small talk, group games, navigating friendship—feel like a language he’s still learning.

Stemming and needs, constant movement, toe-walking, an inoculus yet highly curated selection of toys that he spins and twists in his hands make him "stand out" when he prefers to blend in.

We moved across the country not long ago, leaving behind family and familiarity. This year has been especially hard: new town, new faces, new expectations. But even small steps matter. One kind neighbor, one online friend, one shared laugh—it all counts. And I celebrate those moments fiercely, because connection, for him, takes courage.

He’s growing up fast, ready to sit at the adult table, frustrated by the immaturity of his peers. He wants to be taken seriously, to be understood—and I ache for the world to see him the way I do.

He Knows He’s Different

At twelve, he feels the difference. He knows he doesn’t always fit in, that his mind works in ways most kids can’t grasp. And while I remind him constantly that being different is not being less, the truth is—he still feels the weight of it.

What I see, though, is extraordinary: a child with integrity beyond his years, an empathy that runs deep, a sense of justice that anchors him, and a brilliance that refuses to dim.

If only the world could see what I see.

Why I Keep Writing

Every time I hit publish, that small voice of fear returns—what if I’m judged, misunderstood, or dismissed? But then I remember: silence helps no one.

If one parent reads this and feels less alone, if one therapist or teacher gains a clearer picture of what family life actually looks like behind the reports, then it’s worth it.

This isn’t a polished success story or a tragedy. It’s just our life—real, raw, evolving—and it deserves to be seen.

Thank you for being here, for reading with empathy instead of judgment. We’re in this together.

Until next time,

Vanessa

You don’t need to have all the answers right now. I certainly didn’t when I first started learning how to support my son, Liam. If you’re ready for guidance that understands both the science and the emotions of raising a neurodivergent child, our therapists at Parenting Autism Therapy are here for you. Many are parents of neurodivergent kids themselves—and they truly get it.

Looking for help now? Get Started Here!

Coming Next Week: Different, Not Less: What the Holidays Look Like in Our Neurodivergent Home

Follow me on Instagram @beyondthemilestonesfam for honest autism parenting—a safe space filled with laughter, love, and the messy reality in between, where we celebrate our own timelines and support each other through the highs and lows. You're not alone here.