The biggest fear I had when my son was first showing signs of delay wasn’t the lack of speech that would eventually be a part of his life. It wasn’t anything tangible that I could put a name to.

It was the future. More than anything, imagining him as a teenager felt like peering into an unfathomable abyss, filled with unknown challenges and silent fears.

That sounds like a silly concept to anyone who gives it more than a passing thought. After all, we’re all afraid of the future. I don’t know what tomorrow looks like for me. I don’t even know if there is a tomorrow for me. I’m just rolling forward and catching moments as they pass.

A rolling stone gathers no moss and, in the words of the Rolling Stones, you can’t always get what you want. But, if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

Those early days with my son were spent doing just that. I pushed to give him words and life skills beyond his capabilities. I thought that was what I needed. I thought it was what I wanted.

During those formative years, I remember searching online for information about non-verbal autism. It was something I knew nearly nothing about and wanted to find first-hand information about how to raise a boy like mine.

Forgive me in advance, but I don’t remember many of the positive things I read online, but they were in the minority. I do, however, remember the harsh ones. Parents portrayed their children as desperate and shut away. One memorable article had a mother writing out a fantasized version of her son’s future where she tearfully put him into a group home. The story was gut-wrenching and had no happy ending. Misery for the sake of storytelling, it rocked me in ways nothing else had. I wanted to throw up.

In my quest for understanding, amidst a sea of disheartening narratives, I stumbled upon something different—a video that would unexpectedly shape my perspective. Unlike the posts I had read, this one wasn’t negative in my eyes. However, it also wasn’t positive. It was, well, my future.

In it, a father was sitting with his non-verbal son and explaining to the camera who he was. He showed love and admiration for the teenage boy as he recounted the unique life they faced together.

The entire time, this man-sized adolescent bopped around him with a sense of love. You could feel it. He also displayed many of the same quirks and stimming behaviors that my young son was at the time.

Jarring would be a bit of an understatement. This was going to be my son? Seeing this mirror of my child’s potential future sent a whirlwind of emotions through me, blending fear with a budding sense of hope I hadn’t dared to embrace until that moment.

These behaviors would play out as he entered young adulthood? This kid in the video practically had a mustache. Are you kidding me? Despite knowing it was the probable destination, I had never actually imagined what it could look like. Yet, here it was.

In an instant, I was like the final scene in Raising Arizona (see it, it’s great). My mind began to drum up scenarios that stretched beyond the teenage years into his adulthood. What would my sweet boy be like at 20? 30? 50?

Now, with the video playing in front of me, it was the teenage years that were staring me in the face. Seeing this kid, doting around his father with screeches and hugs, really struck a chord. I was barely handling this toddler. How would I ever be able to be a father to a large non-verbal 13-year-old with autism?

Well, I can tell you in less than a week, because I will be one.

My favorite little guy on this planet is going to be a teenager by the close of March and writing that brings a tear to my eye. It’s not a sad tear, but a happy one. He’s grown into such a loving person and I want to do whatever I can to show him how loved he is in our family.

He’s also pretty much the exact version of that boy I saw in that video back in 2014. All the movements that kid made which caused me fear were movements Lucas makes now. If I were to record that video with my own son, it would look nearly identical.

And, like so many other things that I worried about coming to fruition, it will be fine. In fact, it will be better than fine. It will be perfect.

Lucas never needed to speak or do any of those life skills that we were told were crucial for his survival. Would they have been helpful for him on his journey into adulthood? Absolutely. Yet, were they vital for him to be a beloved member of my household and one of the two greatest pieces of my legacy? Not at all.

He’s never said a word, yet he’s still amazing. He hops around me, squeezing my face for kisses and shouting with glee during his happiest of times. Every quirk that I loved about him as a toddler but couldn’t imagine in a teenager is still there. He even has a tiny little peach fuzz mustache that I shave off once a week.

And we’re not only fine, we’re perfect.

For any parent to a child like mine who reads these posts and can’t picture their own kid at his age, I feel you. I get it. Imagining your child at a later point in time is jarring. It should be. The scene you are envisioning is the end result of many years together. It’s a vision out of time and out of context.

Lucas may be on the verge of 13, but we’ve gotten here together. Every step of the way, he’s been by my side and the boy he is now is the culmination of all our time together. It isn’t a sudden image of a future event out of context. It’s today, right now, with the slow buildup to where we are.

I love where we are and I love my children. If you’re reading this and struggling with fear, that means you love yours too. I promise that if you hold on to that feeling and see this as a journey together rather than a hazy view of what could be, things will be perfect too. One day, you’ll have a teenager who is everything you want them to be and you’ll give them the happiest of birthdays.

That’s what I’m going to do.

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