Holding Space for How Good It Can Get

All morning, I found myself struggling to figure out what I wanted to say for Autism Awareness Day. But then, stopped at a red light, I went to text my son’s speech therapist, and a video from last week popped up. In it, she captured him saying, “I love my mom.” It made my heart swell, and in that moment, I knew exactly where I wanted to begin.

That video holds so much more than just words. It came from a session that was especially tough—one where I spent most of the time crying in the car after a really hard transition. He had a meltdown in the parking lot and was being so unsafe that the only way his therapist could coax him inside was by offering Easter eggs to play with.

This kid loves an egg—so hooray for Easter being right around the corner! The way he lights up opening and closing anything, tucking tiny treasures inside—you can actually see his brain working. Once he figures something out, he’s got it down forever. One try is all it takes. He doesn’t miss a single detail on anything. He’s brilliant. Honestly, I think he might be smarter than me—and what a wild and humbling thing that is to parent.

So when that video popped up this morning, on a day when I felt unsure of what to say or how to start, it felt like a little gift. A reminder of the beauty that so often finds its way through the hard.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this question: how do I raise my neurodivergent son to see all people with empathy and equality?

Last week, his best friend had surgery, and I almost ran out alone to put together a get-well basket. But something in me said he needed to be part of it. I knew it might be a tough ask after a long day at school—especially since his sacred after-school routine involves going straight home to indulge in Cheetos (his most prized possession/obsession… IYKYK).

He really pushed back at first, but I reminded him that when he was recently in the hospital, this same friend had sent him a care package to brighten his day. We were simply returning the love. That clicked for him—and with the added incentive of picking up an extra bag of Cheetos at the store—he was in.

While we were there, I noticed someone glancing our way a few times. I could feel myself wanting to shrink into the floor—because people always stare. We were going up and down the aisles, and I was in full-on mom mode: constantly narrating every single item, trying to keep Jace focused and entertained so he wouldn’t bolt or accidentally cause a scene.

Eventually, the man walked over and handed Jace $5. He told us he used to work in an elementary school and missed being around kids—that seeing Jace brought a little light to his day. It was such a beautiful, unexpected moment, and it reminded me exactly why these small acts matter.

Because this is how we teach empathy. This is how we raise boys to see the world—and everyone in it—with compassion.

And witnessing my son practice kindness, not just in theory but in action, was one of those moments that stays with you.

That experience, and others like it, matter even more to me as a mom of a neurodivergent child. So often, autistic and neurodivergent people get unfairly labeled as lacking empathy, and it just isn’t true. My son feels deeply for others.

There’s even a term now—the double empathy theory—which suggests that neurodivergent and neurotypical individuals often misunderstand each other, not because one group lacks empathy, but because they experience and express emotions differently. That perspective has stuck with me. And I hope it sticks with you too. Because it is important.

So when I think about raising him with empathy, I don’t just mean encouraging kindness. I mean helping him see, value, and connect with people whose experiences—and ways of expressing care—might not look like his own.

Last year on this day, I posted a TikTok of myself crying, saying, “It’s okay if you don’t love autism right now”—because I didn’t. Sometimes it’s not all rainbows, butterflies, and sunshine. Some days, it’s messy, heavy, and isolating. And honestly? I still feel that way more often than not.

But this month, something feels different. I feel called to bring him out into the world more—into the unpredictability, into connection, into moments of learning and growth. I truly believe he has something to teach the world.

So here’s my challenge: the next time you see a neurodivergent child in public, interact with them. Say hi. Be kind. Because as a mom, watching my son bring joy to a stranger brought tears to my eyes.

More often, the comments I hear are things like, “You’ve got your hands full,” or “He sure is busy.” But that day? Someone saw his light. And it meant everything.

Stay tuned for the adventures this month brings. I’ll be sharing them here—the beautiful, the hard, and everything in between—because I’m holding space for how good it can get!

If you’re a parent to a neurodivergent child, I want you to know:

• You are going to be okay.

• You are not alone.

• And we are in this together.

And I’ll leave you with a poem that’s beloved in the neurodivergent world. Maybe you’ve read it before, maybe not. But I return to it often, because it’s always the reminder I need:

Welcome To Holland
by Emily Perl Kingsley
"I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......
When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."
"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."
But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.
So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."
And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland."

xoxo

T

Leave a comment