I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to explain autism—
What it means.
What it looks like.
What it feels like to live alongside it every day.
And every time, the words fall short.
If I ever made a documentary about autism, I’d call it Autism Is…
I’d talk to everyone—autistic individuals, parents of autistic kids and adults, siblings, therapists, teachers, friends, co-workers.
Anyone and everyone whose life has been touched by autism.
And I’d ask them just one question:
“Finish the sentence: Autism is…”
I can already imagine the answers.
Some would be just one word.
Some, many.
Some would sound clinical.
Some would sound like poetry.
Some would be hopeful.
Some would be hard to hear.
Some might just be, “I don’t know.”
Because every person carries a different experience.
For some, autism is personal.
For others, it’s a sibling, a student, a co-worker, a child.
And some only know what they’ve been told.
I used to think I had to find the right words.
The perfect way to explain it—to family and friends, to strangers, to professionals, to myself.
But the longer I live with it, the more I realize:
Autism doesn’t fit in a word or even a sentence.
It shifts.
It grows.
It contradicts itself.
Still, if I had to try… here’s how I’d finish the sentence today:
Autism is loud.
Autism is quiet.
Autism is pure joy.
Autism is sorrow.
Autism is beautiful.
Autism is the unknown.
Autism is grief.
Autism is tight hugs.
Autism is dysregulation.
Autism is dancing in the rain.
Autism is laughter.
Autism is panic.
Autism is seeing the world differently.
Autism is confusion.
Autism is looping.
Autism is isolation.
Autism is the deepest bond.
Autism is the little wins.
Autism is the big wins.
Autism is the regression.
Autism is love.
Autism is complicated.
And my little boy is complicated.
He isn’t just autism.
It’s a part of him—touching every corner of his being—but it’s not the whole story.
He is also him.
He loves the first snow—
how it softens the world, how it lands on his face like a little kiss.
He watches rollercoasters with fascination,
tracking every twist and drop, memorizing their paths like he’s always known them.
He studies maps and landmarks,
finding comfort in knowing where things are—
as if anchoring himself in a world that rarely feels predictable.
He laughs at funny videos and reads silly books with his dad,
his belly-full giggles echoing with joy.
He sits close—right next to you—
elbow pressed to yours, shoulder to shoulder,
as if to say, “Don’t move. I need you right here.”
He is sad not to have friends—
you can see it in his quiet questions and lingering glances at the playground—
but he doesn’t quite know how to be a friend yet.
He doesn’t want to give up his space or his way.
He wants to see the world.
He talks about cities, landmarks, amusement parks.
But the noise, the crowds, the unpredictability—
they pull at his anxiety.
He loves to cuddle.
“I need a hug,” he whispers late at night.
As if to say, “I need you. I need comfort. I need regulation and love.”
He is a part of my heart I didn’t know was missing. He has changed me.
And I know him—his looks, his sounds, his needs—
maybe better than I know myself.
The way he moves through the world has taught me to slow down.
To listen harder.
To love deeper.
So if you asked me today to finish the sentence, I’d say:
Autism is love I never expected, in a world I’m still learning to understand.
And maybe tomorrow, I’ll say something else entirely.
Because Autism is…
like my son—growing, shifting, and impossible to define.
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