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Did the headline get you?

I know it would have gotten me.

After all, everyone wants to know the cause of autism. It’s the thing that’s promised by politicians and sworn to by friends who delve deep into WebMD. There are a million theories.

I blame two things for my indifference to all of this. The first one, of course, is professional wrestling.

Yes. Professional wrestling.

Before I began writing about autism advocacy, I spent 15 years covering sports-entertainment in the squared circle. In one of the most bizarre career transitions imaginable, I went from piledrivers to parenting positivity. And oddly enough, that background still helps.

See, professional wrestling taught me that everything is smoke and mirrors. The loudest noises make the biggest impact. They can pull you into a world where things you want to believe feel real. When Jake “The Snake” lands his textbook jabs, he stomps on the mat with every hit. The grift is right in front of the audience… but no one cares.

By the time the impossible move happens, like lifting a 300-pound man over your head, your brain is already on board. We suspend disbelief. We cheer. We pay for it.

That’s how I feel every time someone claims they’ve found “the cause of autism.” I raise an eyebrow. I smell smoke. I see mirrors.

Over the years, I’ve heard it all – vaccines, Tylenol during pregnancy, breastfeeding, screen time, red food dye. If there’s a stage of childhood or a parenting choice to be made, someone’s pointed a finger at it. People want answers. I get it. But when someone shows up claiming they’ve found the cause of autism, I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a wrestler take a swing five inches from the guy’s face.

And that brings me to the second reason I’m indifferent.

I have a kid with autism.

Not only do I have a kid with autism, but I have a kid with profound autism. Lucas doesn’t speak. Many life skills that come naturally to other children still don’t for him. The toughest tasks still fall to me, and they probably will for a long time.

Still, I love him endlessly, and I write each week to share the best parts of who he is. I talk about how autism doesn’t have to be the end of a family’s world or a shadow that erases a child’s personality. My goal is to shine a light on the beauty in who he is because of autism, not despite it. It’s something I call autism appreciation. And if you know someone with autism, you probably know what I mean.

But that’s where our shared experience ends

Because the person you know with autism is almost certainly very different than the person I know with autism.

No show I watched on TV or movie I saw in theaters prepared me for Lucas. He’s his own person.

He doesn’t care about not being invited to parties. He doesn’t even grasp the concept of an upcoming event. He just goes where we go and trusts me that it’ll be fun. Do I prep him beforehand with pictures and exaggerated excitement? Absolutely. Does he seem to care until we get there? Not at all.

Another kid with autism might obsess over parties. Or balloons. Or classic muscle cars. Or window blinds. Autism doesn’t look the same or present itself with the same uniformity. It’s a spectrum with as many expressions as there are people.

So when someone claims there’s a single cause for all of it?

I pause. Because honestly, I’m not even sure it’s all the same thing.

For every adult who takes an online test at 45 and realizes they’ve likely been autistic all along, there are children like mine whose differences were apparent from the very beginning. The contrast is stark. The presentations are night and day.

That’s not to say people aren’t struggling. They are. Their experiences are valid. But lumping every form of neurodivergence into one tidy label and then claiming to have found the master key for its origin feels simplistic at best. We’re living in a time when more people are being labeled, not fewer. Self-diagnosis is rising, and the overuse of the term itself feels like a more plausible explanation than a single cause behind it all.

But what do I know?

Nothing. Exactly. I know my kid. I don’t know yours.

Everything I write here is based on my own child, and every time it reads like advice, I point that out. Take what works. Leave the rest. My life isn’t your life. My kid isn’t your kid. We don’t have the same family. We don’t have the same autism.

So, forgive me if I don’t jump at headlines claiming to have solved the great mystery. I’ll listen. I’ll hope for progress. I want peace of mind for families like mine. I want better support and understanding. If this helps someone, I’ll be the first to cheer.

But until then?

I’ve watched enough fake punches to know when the noise is louder than the impact, brother.

My Non-Verbal Son is 13, Not “Mentally 6” – Here’s Why That Matters

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