Last year, we made the decision to put my non-verbal son into a school for children with special needs. It was a difficult decision in terms of emotion. In terms of logic, it felt fairly straightforward.

Lucas was turning 13 that school year and, as he was set to enter middle school, it was the best time to make that move, if ever. As a boy who had been in our town’s special education program since kindergarten, he could either continue in that same program or go to a place more suited to his needs.

His school administrators had always been accommodating and, if we chose to keep him enrolled, they would have been glad to take him. When I asked about the more advanced program he would be a part of, they made sure to tell me that they could tailor it to his needs.

For us, that wasn’t right anymore. It felt as though Lucas had long had his schooling specialized to include him. Until now, he was always the boy playing catch-up to the lessons that other kids were working on.

Lucas doesn’t alphabetize or spell his name. His immediate goals don’t involve washing dishes or folding laundry. Rather, he has basic skills to work on and communication obstacles to overcome. His needs from school, while similar to what was happening in his classroom, were somewhat different.

I wanted him to be in a school designed for him, rather than one that needed to be altered for his own personal education. That was what it boiled down to. That was the reason for the decision. The thing is, you have to know Lucas to know that’s the right call. That’s how parenting, especially a boy like him, works.

Right off the bat, I was apprehensive. It was new and, just like his first day at kindergarten, I had no way of knowing if he really liked it. I feared he wouldn’t and beat myself up for it in the first few weeks.

In true Lucas form, though, he knocked it out of the park. After a bumpy transition into his new environment, my son took to it with the same enthusiasm he takes to everything. Before long, he was hitting all the high points and reaching goals.

I knew he would because I know my boy. I know what he needs and I know what he wants. Out of everyone on Earth, Lucas is the person I know the best. It’s an unexpected fact given how much I feared the opposite would be true when he was still a baby.

For some reason, though, people felt they knew better when that time came for us to choose our destination. When it comes to parenting, you’ll find that there are unchosen voluntary advisors who are determined to tell you what you “have to do.”

Right around the time I was making these pain-staking decisions about my son’s education, I ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen in decades. He had never met either of my children or been in my life much since the new millennium started. He asked what was going on with me and, when I told him what we were doing with Lucas, he felt the need to cast his vote…even though he didn’t have one.

Bro. Never take your kid out of mainstream. No, no. You have to keep him there. Fight. Get a lawyer. Get an advocate. Never take them out.

Keep in mind, this guy didn’t know a single thing about my son. He didn’t know whether he had words he could say or medical issues. None of Lucas’s struggles or issues factored into his split-second and demanding position on an issue that would impact the rest of my son’s life.

Rather, he spoke with the same authority he would use to insist he knew the best pizza place to go to…although he had never seen a pizza.

Sadly, this happens all the time. Advice is one thing, but aggressively arrogant opinions are another. It’s an issue that many parents in my position face and something we all learn to handle.

While this guy’s point of view was completely wrong and I’ve learned to tune toxic advice like that out, it can still hit deeply when you’re worried about being wrong. For a new mom or dad unsteady in the important choices they have to make, hearing a resounding “no” from someone – anyone – about it could be enough to make you question everything.

After all, I knew nothing about autism before having Lucas. Depending on the decision and time frame of this unsolicited advisory, I might still have that fear lingering inside. Am I making the right choice? Do I have my son’s best interests at heart? Do I know what I’m doing?

When an outsider comes with doom and gloom that appears to be based on some private knowledge, it makes it even harder. After all, he has to have some sort of inside info, right? I know I would never speak so strongly about something so important that I know nothing about. This guy must know what he’s talking about.

He didn’t. They don’t.

The truth is, people will talk to you like they are experts in things they aren’t experts in at all. They will speak with a sense of wisdom that is completely made up and based on, at best, information that they saw somewhere once.

Me? I had done my research. When it comes to my son, no one knows him better. I knew the school we had chosen, the people he would be taught by, and the benefits of sending him there. I knew what was best and, most importantly, I knew that I knew what was best.

When he was younger, I wasn’t as secure, and, sadly, that type of ignorant guidance happened regularly. No one knows the inner turmoil of having their parenting questioned like a new parent to a special needs child. The worry of taking the wrong step is made worse by oblivious outsiders pretending to be beacons of special needs knowledge. For those already shaky in their decisions, it’s enough to twist your brain into knots.

No one knows Lucas better than me and, chances are, no one knows your kid better than you. The world will tell you otherwise and make you question your own choices. In the end, the decision you make will always be the most educated one in the room.

Knowing what’s right as a parent comes down to doing the work, recognizing what needs to be done, and understanding your kid. It’s not about who says it in the strongest tone. Don’t let the ignorant confidence of anyone else ever knock you off the path of doing what’s right for your child.