Sometimes when my son’s bus pulls up, he turns into a little dillweed. Long before I make it to the open door, I hear him whaling away.

The long sustained moan that has come to be known as “the baby elephant noise” around our home rings out but my son is nowhere to be seen.

Actually, that’s not true. His head is nowhere to be seen. His feet, however, are dangling from the first seat. That’s because his body is hunched over in a whining fit. He’s not having it. Having what? Any of it.

For Lucas, it’s all about transitions. He doesn’t enjoy leaving one thing for another. Whether it’s off to bed, school, or the local pool, getting him to head out is always a challenge. And after a soothing bus ride, the thought of getting off can feel like an uphill battle.

From the door, I try to goad him out. He’ll get a stern, “Lucas. Let’s go.” We’re beyond the age of picking him up, and physically getting him out is so rare, I can’t remember the last time it happened. He needs to make that first step himself.

And he does.

There’s no real battle at bus time, bedtime, or any other time most times lately. Since he’s gotten older and we’ve developed a rhythm, he’s mastered many things I never dreamed he would.

Does that mean he’s great every time? No. None of us are. As a teenage boy learning to cope with the demanding world around him, he has every right to whine once in a while. The baby elephant comes out to play every once in a while. Still, he knows what’s expected, and to his credit, he follows through.

I watch as my boy buckles down, take a breath, and marches off the bus. It’s as if a voice in his head says, “That’s it. Let’s just go.”

And that’s the kind of thinking every parent wants for their child. If Lucas were neurotypical, maybe this story would be about him quitting Little League after a bad game. But the real victories in our house happen in quiet moments. Getting off the bus without a meltdown is as big as any home run.

Our real-life stories aren’t about championships or glory. They’re about resilience, and that’s what makes them better. Lucas just does it. That’s it. He doesn’t need a pep talk from his dad to rise up and do what needs to be done. The will to push on and do his best lives inside him. It’s part of who he is.

The fact that our stories of success come from getting off the bus, going to sleep without trouble, or hanging up his own shirt might knock some people for a loop. They might think his achievements aren’t as significant as Johnny MVP’s in the outfield.

That doesn’t make Lucas’s successes any less meaningful. I’ve watched my son work for years on skills I once thought were out of reach. I worried that he’d never know who I was or be able to show love, yet here we are in a totally opposite scenario.

He doesn’t say “I love you,” but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to do anything except be the best person he can be. If he never learns another thing from this day forward, we’d still think he’s perfect.

If this sounds like flowery praise, ask yourself if that wouldn’t be true for any of your own kids – neurodiverse or otherwise. We love unconditionally, not because we’re supposed to, but because something inside us makes it so.

My job isn’t to push Lucas to be someone he’s not. It is to support him in becoming the best version of who he already is. Knowing his work ethic, I’ll never have to wonder if he’s pushing his true potential.