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My non-verbal son is 14 years old. He outweighs me by about 20 pounds, and he has severe autism.

When people hear stories about how sweet and kind he is, they often say we’re lucky. After all, Lucas could easily have behavioral issues.

And that’s true, more than they might realize. Yes, he could have behavioral issues. But I don’t mean “if he were a different person.” I mean this person, right now in my home, could have behavioral issues.

The fact that he doesn’t isn’t some divine gift or the luck of the draw. My son’s demeanor, at least in my presence, is the result of hard work and patience. That part often gets swept under the rug.

Ask any of Lucas’s former teachers and they’ll tell you about rough patches and difficult transitions. His school communication book used to be filled with notes about “non-compliance” or “dropping to the floor.” One teacher even counted his outbursts and recited them to me at pickup. Depending on who you talked to, the severity of his reactions could fall anywhere on their own unique spectrum.

Even picking him up from school came with a challenge. After my divorce, Lucas would break down when he saw me instead of taking the bus home to his mother. He wasn’t prepared for the change, and it broke my heart. He’d cry and fall to the floor in the middle of the hallway. Then, moments later, we’d be walking to my car, and he’d be jumping and clapping.

“They’re going to think I molest you,” I’d joke as we left, hiding my pain behind a smile. But it ripped my freakin’ heart out.

And it wasn’t just the dropping…it was getting him up. Trying to lift him off the ground was like reenacting that fable about the sun and the cloud fighting to make a man take off his coat. Brute force didn’t work. It only made things worse.

During the hardest moments, he would swat at the aides trying to help. It was awful.

But I learned something. I learned that those meltdowns weren’t simply autism. Every single one had a reason.

The pickup meltdowns? That was because was used to a routine. Seeing me, without knowing to expect me, caused tears and confusion. Just like all the notes sent home about him not wanting to go to art class or leave the playground, it was all about transition anxiety. Going from one place to another was the issue.

I credit one of his teachers for figuring that out. The first time Lucas saw me and only let out a small whine, I knew we had cracked the code.

Even today, he still reacts when the routine breaks. On Reunion Wednesdays, when I meet him off the bus, I often hear the matron calling, “Lucas. Come on. It’s Daddy.”

My big, beautiful boy will be lying across the bus seat, refusing to move. That’s when I board, quietly, and stand over him. I don’t intimidate. I don’t pull his arm. I don’t roll his round little body out the door.

I simply say, “Come on, buddy. It’s time to go. You want the iPad? I have it in the car.”

Then I walk off the bus and he follows. We go home.

If I hadn’t learned the why back in those early school days, I’d still be tearing my hair out. I’d see it as a drawback of autism and cry over miscommunication. I’d still be trying to force him up and making things worse.

And “worse” is the key word here, because as he’s grown bigger, it could have really gotten worse. We would have created a dynamic where he didn’t feel safe with me. He’d learn that I didn’t understand his emotions and react with confrontation. Then I’d confront him right back.

And now this is the part I was uneasy writing. But I’m doing it anyway.

I’m doing it for every post I see about how having a child with severe autism is a death sentence to a family. I’m doing it for every “I’m sorry” I hear when someone learns about my son. I’m doing it for every photo I see online of a hole punched in the wall with “thoughts and prayers” underneath.

My son isn’t violent. But there was a time when that outcome felt possible. If I hadn’t taken the time to show him I was safe and that I understood him, he could have grown into someone who met the world with fear and aggression.

Instead, I sat next to him on the floor at Stop & Shop during confusing sensory meltdowns. I showed him the food cooking so he could understand why dinner wasn’t ready in five seconds. I spoke to him in a calm voice when all I wanted to do was scream or collapse.

If you’re a parent to a boy like mine in that delicate tween to teen stage, I’m writing this for you. The way you see your child now is the way they’ll be tomorrow. The way you respond to their behavior now shapes how they respond to you when they’re bigger and stronger.

Do you know how many videos I have of Lucas melting down? Zero. You know why? Because I put the camera down and sat with him. Even when I thought he didn’t understand anything, I knew he understood that. He felt my compassion. He felt the safety of being with someone who understood him.

Will doing all of this give you a perfect kid? I don’t know. I haven’t met your child. But I know this – the connection you build now matters. The calm, the patience, the love you show today, it all leaves an imprint.

Maybe you won’t see the difference tomorrow, or next week, or next year. But one day, when your son is 14 and lying across a bus seat refusing to move, he might hear your voice, trust your presence, and follow you home. And that will be everything.

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

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