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I was convinced that the world was going to gawk at my non-verbal son when he was first diagnosed. As a citizen of our often-cruel world, I knew how awful people could be and was ready for them to prove it.

Those early days were spent with my head on a swivel. The slightest glance or response was all I needed to go full Incredible Hulk on an Olive Garden dining room. My head was swirling. My fists were clenched. Every day outside was another day I might end up in jail.

That was over ten years ago now. It was before the heart surgery. Before the divorce. Before I learned to appreciate the beauty of how autism affects Lucas’s personality.

And before the world proved me wrong.

Since 2011, I’ve fought zero people. In fact, aside from a random staredown or misinterpretation, it’s been pretty easy sailing on our autism journey.

If I had to credit something for this pleasant surprise, I always go with the autism awareness movement. The yearly campaign, while frowned upon by some on the spectrum, actually benefits a family like mine tremendously. I try to help others who might take issue with “turning it blue” understand how.

You don’t have to “accept” Lucas in the traditional sense. He doesn’t care. He’s not looking to work at TJ Maxx or get a spot on the JV lacrosse team. Proms, homecoming, and social gatherings aren’t his thing. Lucas’s world doesn’t look like yours. If anything, you have to work for him to accept you, not the other way around.

Sure, there’s nothing that makes me happier than seeing Lucas welcomed into a group picture or invited to a party, but that’s not something that overly matters to him. He’s easy like a Sunday morning. I am too, as long as you’re nice to him.

Awareness, however, is a much different story.

My son is unique and, often in my writing, I forget that might not be obvious. I realized that when I once wrote something about not wanting to “cure” his autism. People questioned if I’d feel that way if my son had “severe autism.”

Which he does. It’s immediately clear that Lucas has special needs the moment you meet him.

Lucas can be loud, not all the time, but often. He might not speak a word, but he does vocal gymnastics you wouldn’t believe. His excitement comes out in screeches and his anguish in moans. He’s always laughing or hopping with joy. It’s like watching the purest emotions displayed in the purest of ways by someone who doesn’t care who’s watching.

That’s my son and I love him for it. But in those early days, that same beauty made me brace for conflict.

I was scared that others wouldn’t “get” him. My stomach tied in knots at the thought of a stranger confronting us. I knew myself, especially back then, and feared I’d go full Ultimate Warrior on anyone who tried.

Thankfully, people do get him now. They get him in the sense that they know autism exists. They understand that people like my son are in the world and that he’s part of the community. There’s no mystery to what he’s doing. He’s not screaming to be naughty or rude. He’s just being himself.

Keep in mind, Lucas doesn’t scream and yell in places where he shouldn’t. If we’re on line at Adventureland or walking through the park, he’s free to go wild. Everyone’s loud – Lucas gets to be loud.

If we’re in a quiet restaurant or a ceremony for his sister, he doesn’t. I try to keep him calm and quiet. If he can’t be, we step outside.

That’s always been the case. I’ve watched major moments through a cracked auditorium door just to make sure my son’s jubilation didn’t ruin someone else’s memory. It’s just common courtesy.

These last few years, those crack-door viewings have decreased. My guy, now a full-blown teenager, can soothe himself much better. Nine times out of ten, he’s perfect. That one time, though, we exit stage left.

What about meltdowns? Sure, overwhelming moments still happen from sensory overload or emotional frustration. But even those have decreased.

Typically, it’s transitions that trigger Lucas’s sit-down tantrums. Fed up, my round little fella will plop down wherever he is. And now that he’s, well, bigger, it can definitely turn heads.

This goes through my mind when he suddenly takes a seat in the middle of a crowded waiting area or blocks the entrance to a department store. A 180-pound man sitting cross-legged on the floor is a striking image.

What do I do?

I sit down next to him.

Now there’s two men sitting near the entrance to ShopRite.

Know what people do? Nothing.

Honestly. They walk around us. No one says anything. No one bothers us. Do they look? I don’t know. I’m focused on Lucas.

I do this because it helps him. My son mirrors the emotions he’s shown. Chaos only makes things worse. But rubbing his back, letting him rest his head on my shoulder, and softly repeating “shhhh”? That brings him back.

And people see that. They get it. They’re not only aware, but they understand that I’m handling it the way I should. I wouldn’t be seated on the disgusting floor of the produce section otherwise.

Within a minute, he’s up and moving again. Life goes on.

I’ve had compliments and kind questions from strangers after moments like that. I’ve never been hit with unsolicited advice or judgment. People seem to recognize that he and I got it under control. We don’t need fixing, just space and time.

In many ways, autism appreciation isn’t just about recognizing the wonderful ways autism affects Lucas.

His autism has helped me appreciate the world.

It’s shown me that most people aren’t as cruel as I feared. That the stares I prepared for often don’t come. That the comments I rehearsed responses to are rarely said.

Instead, we’re met with kindness. With patience. With understanding. Not always, but often enough to make me breathe easier.

I was ready to fight the world for my son. Turns out, I didn’t have to. The world didn’t fight us back. It made room.