When my non-verbal son was little, I was convinced I was going to have to fight the world. In a society where people are not only rude but often proud of their “honesty,” I imagined Lucas facing the worst. People can say some truly awful things, and I braced myself for the battles ahead.

I don’t have autism, special needs, or communication challenges, and I’ve had people be rude to me for no reason. So, when it came to Lucas, my anger was immediate and fierce. I was on edge every time we stepped out of the house. It was fight night every night, and I was ready for someone to say something—anything.

But here’s the thing: that fight never really came. Sure, there were tense moments. I remember a family glancing at our table in a restaurant, and I, in an over-the-top reaction, moved the ketchup and table menu out of their line of sight and shouted, “Can you see better now?” Yeah, not my finest moment. A Fight Club voice would ring out in my head, “Where’d you go, psycho boy?”

Yet, when it came to direct rudeness from strangers, there wasn’t much to speak of. Most people saw our situation, noticed I was attentive to my son, and kept their negativity to themselves. Strangers, for the most part, were kind.

It was friends and family who were the issue.

This is a post that’s about ten years in the making because the subject is sensitive and nuanced. It’s a problem that nearly every parent of a child like mine deals with – the unexpected hurt from people who are supposed to love your child.

Back in a previous life, our social circle was larger, and with a larger group to choose from, that circle could get…abrasive. Right from the start, it was clear that support systems aren’t guaranteed.

One particularly memorable moment has stuck with me. During a holiday gathering, someone told me, “Forget Lucas. He’ll be fine. I’m the one that needs surgery.”

No one was comparing this person to Lucas. It wasn’t a competition for attention. But it was an outburst designed to dismiss my son—a boy this person was supposed to care about—just to make a point.

Reactions to comments like that are complicated. Especially in those early years of coming to terms with Lucas’s delays, it’s hard to know what’s right. These are “loved ones,” after all. They can’t mean harm, can they? And yet, those words linger for years.

Sometimes, it wasn’t even what was said but how it was said. One of the most infuriating moments for me happened at a big sit-down restaurant. Lucas was two, playful and bopping around in his highchair. Across from him sat one of the most arrogant people we knew—a constant fountain of backhanded compliments and humble brags.

As I scanned the menu, I heard her call out:

Hi Lucas! Oh! Wow. Hi, Lucas!

Lucas, still far from learning to wave, didn’t respond. He was happily flapping his arms and gazing at the world around him. I thought, maybe for a moment, that she was being sweet—a rare gesture from her.

Then she laughed and added:

He waved to me! Did you see? I don’t think he meant it—ha ha—but I’ll take it!

My brain went numb. My first instinct was to flip the table, toss a chair, and scream like an Aztec warrior, leaving her covered in breadsticks and shame. But another voice in my head tried to talk me down. It happened a lot back then.

She just doesn’t know what to say. You’re too sensitive. Lucas is fine. Forget it. You don’t have to ruin every dinner. What was wrong with that? You’re taking it the wrong way. You’re making a big deal over nothing.

By the time I talked myself in and out of reacting, the moment had passed. No one else defended him or said a word. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure what I would have defended. Autism wasn’t something we talked about openly yet. When we did, it felt temporary, like a phase we were just waiting to outgrow.

For years, I’d revisit that moment. Should I have said something? Yelled? Flipped the table? I beat myself up for not doing more.

But as time went on, my thinking shifted. I realized that, ultimately… I don’t care. Her opinion never mattered. I didn’t need to berate myself for not making what, in hindsight, was obviously a terrible choice. What would be the point? People like that slowly left my circle as time ticked by. Trash, as they say, sometimes takes itself out.

Most importantly, I know who my boy is now. Lucas is wonderful. If something like that were to happen today, I’d know exactly what to say. I’d explain who he is with clarity and pride. As his advocate, I’d stand strong and productive against ignorance like that. It wouldn’t be something someone could mistake for defensiveness or embarrassment.

Back then, though, I was a mess. I was a ball of nerves and worry. Anything I could have said in that moment would have been poorly worded and fueled by emotion. Like those family members who said awful things, I just didn’t know what to say.

And, really, it wouldn’t have mattered. People like that don’t have epiphanies. They are who they are. If I didn’t want to hear their rude comments, the solution was simple. Keep them away from my family.

The takeaway here is that advocacy doesn’t have to mean fighting every battle. Sometimes, the best way to protect your loved ones is to create a safe space, free from the negativity of people who refuse to understand. Lucas has taught me more about patience and love than anyone else in my life. He’s shown me how to focus on what truly matters—him—and to let the rest fade into the background.