My daughter is 16 and driving is the subject of the hour. As parents, we watch our kids grow, marking milestones in baby books and social media posts.

We let her drive a lot, and most times her brother, Lucas, is in the backseat swiping away to YouTube. Our family outings have become less terrifying as my daughter’s driving skills have improved.

If someone asked me if I thought Lucas would drive someday, my instinct is to say, “I can’t really be sure. Most likely not, but anything could happen.”

I say that because I believe that. My son is non-verbal and sometimes struggles with understanding and life skills. Right now, my focus is helping him put on his shoes each morning – something he’s been doing great with. Teaching him a three-point turn is far off in the distance, if at all.

Ironically, the answer I gave is exactly what doctors and therapists told me when Lucas was first diagnosed. I’d come to them as a worried parent, begging for a glimpse into the future. From speaking words to living alone, I wanted to know what my two-year-old would be able to do when he was 40. What they said then is what I’m saying now

I can’t really be sure. Most likely not, but anything could happen.

I have distinct memories of being enraged by that response. After hours in a waiting room, I was given only a shrug, a pat on the back, and an “anything can happen.” Seriously? Just be straight with me – I can take it.

The truth is, they were always telling the truth. As someone who can say it now, I understand how they meant it then.

I’ve seen progress in areas I never imagined and struggles in places I never expected. I can’t tell you what Lucas will do tomorrow, much less if he’ll ever drive. But I can be honest with myself. If we’re working on shoelaces and fork usage, driving isn’t on the horizon. I’ve accepted that. I don’t even need to think about it – I just know.

If Lucas were ready to drive tomorrow, he wouldn’t be Lucas. It’s not sad or happy – it’s just who he is. To cry over him not driving would be to wish he was someone else. I like who he is, so it’s all good.

Autism, Appetite, and Learning To Adapt

Saying out loud that he will likely never drive a car doesn’t hurt me or make me argue with the heavens above. It would have when he was a baby, though. That’s because I didn’t know him yet.

The boy in my passenger seat is the most unique person I’ve ever known. He marches to his own drum, and the beat is unlike any other. If he doesn’t do the things other kids his age do, that’s because that’s who Lucas is.

For parents of newly diagnosed toddlers, driving is just another box on a long checklist of worries. You feel forced to accept limitations before even discovering the beautiful parts of your child. It’s a cruel start to a journey that seems much darker at the start than it will become over time.

Let me be clear, I wish Lucas could do anything. I wish he could go to prom, catch a touchdown, and win American Idol. I want the world for him, just as I do for his sister. But the things he doesn’t want to do, he doesn’t have to do. It doesn’t make me love him any less. You don’t love your kids because they can drive – that would be weird.

If I could go back in time, I’d tell that worried version of me to take a deep breath. Lucas will be exactly who he’s meant to be. The milestones that once felt like looming obstacles won’t matter the way you fear they will. Lucas won’t miss out on life – he’ll live his own version of it, filled with joy, love, and moments that can’t be measured by checklists or milestones.

And you, as his father, will be there every step of the way, not to shape him into someone else’s idea of success, but to support him as he becomes exactly who he is meant to be. That’s love. That’s parenting. And that’s more than enough.