The Gift of Understanding

The Power of an Autism Diagnosis

For five years, I quietly questioned why parenting F felt so different. Raising him always felt like trying to construct a piece of furniture while reading the wrong instructions. There were moments when I’d sit back, exhausted, thinking, “This shouldn’t be so difficult. What am I missing?” He’s my middle child, and I know all children are different, but this—this felt like I was always one step behind, not understanding what he needed from me.

From the time he was little, F had his own unique ways of processing the world around him. He would run up and down the living room, his feet pounding against the floor, lost in his own rhythm. I didn’t know it then, but this was how he stimmed—something that made him feel “happy and free,” as he once put it. His special interests became his safe places. Hot Wheels cars, flags, and Avicii’s music were more than just hobbies—they were lifelines, giving him something to anchor onto in a world that often overwhelmed him.

But as F got older, I noticed other struggles. Emotional regulation became harder, especially at home. His anxiety grew, and he began avoiding situations that most kids looked forward to, like birthday parties. I remember the way he told the professional during his assessment, clear and firm, “I don’t like jokes,” as if the very concept of jokes made him uneasy. There was no ambiguity in his voice—he knew exactly what he disliked, even if the world around him couldn’t always see it.

It wasn’t until F started preschool that someone outside our family noticed the same things. His teacher, observant and patient, saw through the mask he wore. She saw the little things—how he tried to blend in, how he coped in ways that weren’t always obvious to others. It was then that we received the first referral for an autism assessment. He was just four years old.

And then, we waited. Five long years of waiting. During those years, F navigated school without additional support, hiding parts of himself, while I often questioned my own parenting. People around me would say, “Maybe you just need to be stricter,” or “He’ll grow out of it.” But deep down, I knew there was more. I knew there was something bigger at play.

My darling F

This week, after years of uncertainty, F was diagnosed with autism. And instead of feeling overwhelmed by the label, I felt relief. This wasn’t just a diagnosis—it was validation, a key to understanding him better. A key to understanding why parenting him sometimes felt so different, why it had felt like we were both navigating the world in ways that didn’t always align.

When I told F about his diagnosis, his eyes lit up. I explained to him that his brain understands information in a different way to mine. “I’m learning about your way of thinking,” I said, and in that moment, he looked at me like he was seeing himself clearly for the first time.

“So that’s why I like the things I like? That’s why I don’t like birthday parties or jokes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, feeling a rush of love and clarity. “That’s exactly why. And it’s okay.”

Later that night, we sat together and Googled famous people with autism. When he saw Albert Einstein’s name appear, his face broke into a smile. “Einstein had autism?” he asked, like the world had just expanded in front of him.

“Yes,” I said softly, “and look at all the amazing things he did.”

In that moment, F understood—his brain might work differently, but it doesn’t make him any less capable. If anything, it makes him even more extraordinary. And I realized that this diagnosis wasn’t just about getting answers. It was about empowerment. It was about giving F the tools to advocate for himself, to know that his way of navigating the world is not only valid, but valuable.

My goal now is simple: I want F to feel empowered to speak up for himself as he grows older. I want him to walk into a job interview or any social situation with confidence, knowing he can articulate what he needs. I won’t always be there to advocate for him, but I want him to trust in his voice and in who he is. I want him to know that his differences are his strengths, and that they will carry him further than any mask ever could.

To other parents who may be walking a similar path, I would say this: trust your instincts. If you feel like something is different about your child, even if others don’t see it, believe in yourself. And in them. Don’t be discouraged by long waits or by people telling you “they’ll grow out of it.” Celebrate your child’s uniqueness, because what makes them different is also what makes them shine. Advocate for them fiercely, and when the time comes, help them learn to advocate for themselves. Because they will.

As I reflect on these past five years, I realize that while the wait was long, the understanding that’s come from it is worth everything. F now has the language to understand himself, and I, as his mother, have a deeper understanding of the incredible person he is.

And so I leave you with this:

"The things that make me different are the things that make me." – A.A. Milne

Kathryn

(Joyful Sarcasm)