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When Nick was 15 or 16, a stranger asked something about him. I don’t remember the exact question, or even much about the conversation itself. What I do remember is feeling judged.
A person who didn’t know my child judged me as a parent without knowing our situation.
All she knew was that Nick is autistic—and, in her opinion, he didn’t “look autistic.”
What that means—or what autism is supposed to look like—I honestly have no idea.
I’ve heard comments like that hundreds of times, and I still don’t know what people think autism looks like.
The woman went on to tell me that Nick’s autism wasn’t immediately visible because I had “chosen to normalize” him. She suggested that by normalizing Nick, I was clearly not accepting his autism.
It was a strange conversation. Because I didn’t know what “normalize” meant in that context, I ended the conversation and left.
The way she spoke about it, I knew normalization was probably something negative. But I also knew that Google wasn’t going to judge me when I looked it up.
Let’s pause here and talk about what normalization means.
Normalization, in this context, refers to efforts to reduce or eliminate behaviors associated with autism so that a person appears less autistic and more “typical.”
I spent a lot of time thinking about that word. There were sleepless nights after that conversation.
I thought I was preparing Nick for his future, helping him build toward an adult life. But what if I was doing it wrong?
Was I unable to accept him and his autism?
Was I forcing him to be someone he wasn’t?
Those questions rolled around in my head long after the conversation ended. For every moment I reassured myself that I did accept him, there were five more when I replayed every mistake I’d ever made.
I talked to JP about it. I talked to my mum. They listened. They asked questions. They reminded me of things I couldn’t see in the middle of my own doubt.
I looked at the many “tricks” Nick has learned over the years.
Nick has sensory issues and was often overwhelmed. From the time he was about one until he was seven, stores were incredibly difficult for him. I didn’t make him go with me every time. There were days the sights and sounds of life were simply too much, so we stayed home.
But when we did go out, I brought a sweatshirt or jacket with me. When he became overwhelmed in public, it comforted him to sit in the carriage, covered and contained. Avoiding public spaces altogether wouldn’t have helped him, so I tried to make those spaces more manageable.
Nick didn’t speak until he was four and a half. We didn’t force speech. We taught him sign language so he could communicate in a way that worked for him.
When he was older, he became self-conscious about flapping in public. Together, we explored other movements that felt regulating but drew less attention. When he realized he was the only one not making eye contact, we taught him to look at the space between someone’s eyebrows instead.
I have countless examples like this.
Helping Nick adjust behaviors was not easy. It was often emotionally painful to watch.
Do you know what it feels like to take your four-year-old food shopping and have him sit silently under a jacket because the world is too loud, too bright, too overwhelming for his senses? It’s hard. It’s painful. It’s heartbreaking. And I did it anyway—sometimes nearly in tears—because my long-term goal was for Nick to have a job, to go shopping on his own, to move out someday, and build a life that felt meaningful to him.
I never tried to change who Nick was. I tried to give him tools.
There’s a difference between pretending a child’s challenges don’t exist and helping them learn to navigate the world successfully.
At the time Nick was growing up, I couldn’t foresee a world where adult Nick could flap and jump freely and still keep a job.. So I focused on helping him function in the world as it existed.
After all that self-doubt, I talked to Nick about it. He was the person I had supposedly “harmed,” so I felt his opinion mattered most. I explained the conversation to him and what normalization meant.
Nick took time to think about it. He asked a few questions. I answered them.
And then he told me he was glad I had taught him those “tricks.” He was glad he had tools that helped him navigate the world. He was glad he was no longer that overwhelmed child who struggled in public spaces.
For a moment, I wondered if I should have talked to him about it sooner. But I realized I needed to look honestly at my own parenting first. I needed to decide whether my choices came from fear—or from love.
When I look at Nick now and think about where he was 10 or 15 years ago, I can see how far he has come. He is no longer the little boy sitting silently in a carriage.
Maybe he doesn’t navigate the world like most 20-year-olds. But what does that really matter?
What matters is this: I gave him tools. I gave him options. I gave him independence.
I gave him wings.
He took those tools, those tricks, those options—and he chose to fly.
⭐ Like or share if this resonated with your experience as a parent navigating hard choices.
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