Last week, my autistic son J participated in a Taekwondo graduation and competition with his school, joined by five others. Hundreds of third graders gathered on a big field to show off what they’d learned in a Taekwondo program.
When we first heard about the program, I wasn’t sure how it would go. I didn’t have high hopes, but I was excited for him to just try. It replaced a day of PE for several weeks, and our main hope was that J could stay in the room. He did. He would try for a bit, get distracted, need redirection, but we were proud. He was proud. Even at the little school ceremony a few weeks ago, standing next to typical peers, it was a bit hard, but we celebrated him and he was proud.
But this day was different.
Something about the size of the event — six schools, the energy of all the kids — seemed to make it more real for him. J rose to the occasion in ways I never expected.
He stayed mostly in his spot for the full hour-long event. He tried 90% of the moves and gave most of the vocal responses. As I sat in the stands, blinking back tears behind my sunglasses, I thought, I never saw this coming. It was amazing.
There are two things I want you to know about J:
He really wants to participate with his peers. He just doesn’t always have the concentration or control to do so.
He believes he must do certain things, even when they’re difficult or he doesn’t want to. This can be good — like getting through an airport — but it can also make things harder when something out of his control happens, like a plane is delayed or he can’t complete a task.
This time, there were trophies up for grabs. J has always loved the idea of trophies and medals, like the ones he sees in cartoons.
J believed his school was supposed to win. He needed that trophy.
But his school didn’t win a trophy.
The moment the last trophy was handed out, I knew. I could see his tears from where I sat. I could see the anger, too. The para didn’t notice at first. A sweet classmate did and tried to talk to him. I felt helpless, watching from a distance, wishing I could reach him faster as it was all building.
It was a very sad, very public meltdown.
I gave him space, then stepped in. He ran up a hill, and I ran after him. Some of his classmates, bless them, tried to comfort him. It touched my heart to see them care. But J kept escalating, running farther away, and I followed. At one point, a classmate looked up at me and said, “J is fast!” I had to laugh. “Tell me about it, kid.”
Eventually, the para and I got him to a calm place, and to my surprise, he managed to get on the bus. I knew people would say I should have taken him home, but in his mind, he was supposed to ride the bus. If I had taken him with me, it could have made everything worse. Plus, I knew he was in good hands. He needed to finish what he started.
Once I knew he was safe, snacks in hand, I climbed into my car and cried. I cried the whole way home. I cried as I told my husband about it.
I cried because I was so proud of my son — proud of how hard he worked, proud of the way he showed up.
I cried because of the kindness of the kids around him. They showed kindness even when he wasn’t nice and I know that’s not easy.
I cried because nothing is ever easy. Every win seems to come with a cost.
I cried because I want so much for him, and sometimes I don’t know how to give it to him.
We sit in a middle ground with autism. J can participate, sometimes, but it takes a lot of understanding from those around him. I don’t know how that will look 10 years from now.
But I’m learning how to push him. I’m learning how to sit with the discomfort that comes in moments like today. I know his life won’t be sheltered forever. He may never be fully independent, but he will have to live in the real world.
Later, we talked to J about what happened. He was angry about the trophy. He was disappointed they didn’t get first place. We told him how proud we were of how well he did. We reminded him that trying his best was the real win, and we hoped he felt proud of himself, too.
It was a short conversation, as most of them are with him.
And I was torn. Should I just buy him a trophy?
From the moment I got in the car after, I said I wouldn’t do it. In the past, I would have immediately jumped to soften the blow — buying him the toy he couldn’t find, tracking down a rare video he remembered from years ago, anything to make his hard life a little easier.
But I’m trying to prepare him for life. I won’t always be able to fix things. I won’t always be here to make it easier.
Yet as we talked, I realized something. That day, J earned a trophy.
Not because he should have won and the judges were wrong, the right school won today — but because he outdid every expectation we had. Because he tried so hard. Because he stayed when everything in his body wanted to move. Because he worked harder just standing there, being there, than many kids did performing.
And right now, while I am still here — I will buy him a trophy.
Because, he earned it.
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