My son Lucas lives in a world without traditional worries. At 12 years old, non-verbal and with autism, he doesn’t lose sleep over spelling tests or unexpected gatherings. The things that weigh heavily on most people’s minds barely register with him.

Lucas’s concerns are immediate and tangible. If I temporarily take his iPad away to help him put on his shoes, a flicker of apprehension crosses his face – as if he fears it might vanish forever. Suddenly, he’s fixated on having a bag of mini-muffins and he’ll do everything in his power to get my attention. These are the kinds of worries that come and go quickly, partly because he knows I always have his best interests at heart.

And with good cause, because I’m constantly thinking about his future. Not just the short term, but the long journey he’ll take through life. Like a reel of movies playing in my mind, I envision his growth and try to spot any challenges that might lie ahead.

On a personal note, I’ve learned not to stress about many things. After undergoing a life-changing quintuple bypass surgery in 2012, I’ve adopted a calmer approach. I usually don’t let things overwhelm me. Not because I don’t care, but because I know I perform better when I’m cool, collected, and in control. Just like Tommy Chong mouthing the word “mell-ow”, that’s me. Mellow Yellow, as they say. Drink it in, man.

But when it comes to my kids, especially Lucas, it’s a whole different story. They are my responsibility and my legacy. I’m well aware that the people they become will reflect the person I am. We shape these little humans and send them out into the world to either make a difference, cause some chaos, entertain, or maybe all of the above.

For a special needs child like Lucas, my worries stretch beyond the usual dreams and aspirations. His unique situation adds layers to my concerns, all stemming from the simple fact that he doesn’t worry about a single thing.

Even the things he can’t comprehend don’t bother him. I remember times when I had to physically prevent him from reaching into a hot stove to grab something. He couldn’t grasp the danger, and his response was puzzling – crying, screaming, and reaching for the fire. It was a different story when he was younger, and I made it my mission to teach him about these hazards. You see, while he might not fully understand the situation before him, it doesn’t change the facts. Danger is danger, and the world is full of enticing yet risky temptations. The last thing I want is for him to have a Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial moment.

These moments of peril linger in a parent’s mind, stirring lasting concerns even after we’ve instilled proper safety measures. Despite weeks and months of warnings, I can’t be entirely sure if Lucas won’t just randomly put his hand in the fire again. Maybe he gets that it’s bad, but his compulsion to grab anything sizzling might be too strong. Or perhaps he understands not to touch the stove, but not why. His perspective on these vital lessons might differ from the intentions I had when I started, and because he can’t share those thoughts, I might never truly know.

All these worries keep me up at night. They weigh on my mind, yet they don’t touch him. None of it fazes him.

Lucas isn’t concerned about whether his Individualized Education Plan covers all his needs. He’s not fixated on whether he’s in the right school or surrounded by the best people. He’s not worried about where he’ll be when he’s 30 or what life will look like when I’m not around. Long-term worries just don’t register with him.

So, I carry that weight for him. I’m his dad, and I understand the pitfalls that could come from making the wrong decisions. Even though I’m driven by the best intentions, my missteps could have real consequences for his life. I bear that worry like a badge of honor. But for him? He’s content with his iPad, his family, and the food on his plate.

In many ways, that’s the essence of being a parent. This sentiment applies to any caregiver out there. We always put our kids’ needs first, always. We fuss over our teenagers’ choices, knowing they could shape their adult lives. We’re concerned for our adult children as they navigate their own paths. Even though they might not fully grasp our worries, we understand why they matter.

This truth is magnified when you have a child with special needs. Lucas’s future rests largely in my hands, and I’m more than okay with that. I worry about him not so he doesn’t have to, but because he simply can’t.

My priority is Lucas’s well-being, and he relies on me more than most. I can’t imagine what his life would look like without me, but to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t imagine my life without him either. For that reason alone, I’ll happily bear the weight of my worries until the very end.

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