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When I write about my non-verbal son with autism, I often talk about the way he sees the world. To me, that’s the soul of autism appreciation.

I know it sounds like a Hallmark moment. “The way he sees the world” can feel like some unexplained soundbite that sounds nice but doesn’t say much. If you know, you know, as the kids say.

Sometimes, I’ll describe the things Lucas doesn’t do. I’ll point to his absence of ego or how his feelings don’t go through a filter. He’s unapologetically himself. The things that matter most to him are out in the open. Nothing’s false. Nothing’s for show. My man is all about being real.

I love that about him. It’s how he lives and who he is. But that’s not really what I mean when I talk about how he sees the world.

When I say that, I’m not only speaking metaphorically. In many ways, I mean it literally. It’s not just about what’s missing from our world or the carefree way he approaches his own. It’s about how he experiences everything around him.

Lucas, like many people with autism, is drawn to certain stimulations and sensory inputs that speak to him. It’s common on the spectrum, but unique in how each person processes it.

For some kids, it might be tactile. They’ll spin fidget toys or squeeze squishmallows because the texture feels good. They seek it out and treasure it. And if you ever see a child like that running their hands across a fabric, do yourself a favor. Go touch that fabric. I promise, it feels good.

Touch is just one type of sensory input. For Lucas, though, it’s not the main one.

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That’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy it. I’ve seen him flick through the pages of a board book just to feel them. But it’s nothing compared to his love for sight, sound, and — well — taste.

Actually, taste might not be the best word. My son loves to chew. Whether it’s gnawing on a worn pajama sleeve or shoving a cupcake into his mouth whole while I beg him to “bite, bite, bite,” Lucas seems to love the way chewing feels in his face. I suspected it when he was younger, and now I’m certain of it.

Then there’s sound.

Lucas stims with sound. He’ll press his iPad speaker right to his ear and try to pause his YouTube video at just the right moment. He’ll chase a specific sound through a string of strange videos that only make sense to him.

At one point, he became obsessed with a Sesame Street video… in Spanish… that someone had recorded off their TV using a phone. It had a weird, echoey audio quality. I kept trying to redirect him.

Lucas, no. This isn’t English. You don’t understand this. Pick something else.

But no matter how many times I sent him back to the main menu, he always found his way back.

Eventually, I realized he didn’t care about the characters or the language or the quality.

He loved the video because, at one point, someone in the background of the house it was filmed in yelled, “Hey!”

And that was it. That was his moment. He’d rewind and replay that sound over and over again all because it brought him joy.

So I let him. Why wouldn’t I? He wasn’t hurting anyone. He knew what he loved, and it wasn’t up to me to define it for him.

Out of all his stim behaviors, there’s one I relate to most.

Lucas is drawn to visual light. We’re talking reflections, glares, glows. And so am I.

My phone is full of sky photos — sunsets, sunrises, cloudy days, bright blue skies. I don’t know why I love them. I just do. Some mornings, I look up and feel completely amazed by what I might have missed if I hadn’t looked. I know it sounds a little hippy-dippy, but hey, let me have this one.

And you know who else gets it?

Lucas. He might not stare at the sky, but put him in front of a giant window and he’ll light up. He’ll hop and clap, admiring his reflection. Same goes for mirrors.

You’re probably thinking that’s nothing special. Everyone looks at their reflection in windows or mirrors.

But what about the glass covering a picture frame? The screen of a toy? Or my personal favorite — eyeballs?

Yes, eyeballs. Lucas will stare deeply into your eyes just to catch the reflection of the lamp behind him. I’ve watched him get close to his giggling sister, gazing into her pupils like they were lit-up windows. It’s intense and, sometimes, hilarious. It’s also incredibly sweet.

Whether it’s squeezing Play-Doh, listening for overlooked sounds, or finding the glow in someone’s eyes, the way many people with autism experience the world is beautiful.

That’s what autism appreciation is all about. And once you start to see it, you can’t unsee it.