The Tallest Tree
Editor’s note: My son Jack has autism. He is seventeen.
He just finished a summer program at a college designed for unusual learners. He was there for nearly three weeks.
It was hard. Then it was better. And in the end, it was good.
For me. I don’t want this. I don’t want to stay here.
Jack-a-boo, I’ve never watched from the bleachers, and cheered for you to hit a homerun.
I’ve never sat in a stuffy middle-school gym and hoped you’d spell the word paragraph into a microphone.
Still, I root for you.
Mom. I am missing. My family.
When it comes to autism, nothing comes easily. Every single step forward is hard-won, and shrouded in conflict.
This makes me very mad.
I resent it.
Yet at the same time I feel a tiny bit grateful. I am grateful to know what you have, and who you are.
Around and around my mind goes—resentment, gratitude, resentment, gratitude—two tigers eyeing and circling one another for space, until each are too tired to move.
It’s easy to assume rooting for someone is akin to being a cheerleader—all sparkly pom-poms and glittery applause.
It’s not though. It’s more like the proverbial seed of a tree, deep underground in the damp earth.
Constantly I push and listen and urge you to break through the soil, and tentatively reach your fingertips to the sky.
Maybe today. Is a little bit better.
I believe in you.
I believe in you until people think I’m nuts, or crazy, or just plain out of my mind. Then I believe some more.
And I can’t back down. This might be the hardest part.
I can’t back down if I think you can do it.
I can’t back down in the face of meltdowns or complaints or fear, even when my heart is shattering beneath my ribcage.
Mom. For me. This is hard.
I am constantly trying to figure out how hard to push without breaking—how to stretch you further and further without splintering your spirit.
You see, I root for the underdog. I root for the boy who longs to understand why the world works the way it does.
Sometimes I wonder if I should have moved on by now—if I should have put the diagnosis behind me and stopped thinking and writing and talking about it so much.
The problem is, moving on implies skipping over all that is ordinary/sad/good when it comes to the hard business of growing a tree.
If autism has taught me anything, it’s there are no shortcuts. We have to do the work.
It’s stupid. I know.
It’s stupid that there are no trophies or medals or awards for the kids who try the hardest—those who watch from the sidelines and jump through the classroom and can spell words with their eyes closed but are unable to speak.
This diagnosis is a long road—the marathon before the sprint. Progress is in the details.
I sat today at lunch. With some kids.
You see, it’s easy to root for the soccer star, or the champion of the spelling bee.
It is easy to rise to our feet and clap for a touchdown, or quietly applaud the one who has a solo in the band.
When it comes to regulation, and improved executive functioning, and learning how to simply shake someone’s hand, the applause is scarce. In fact, it is absent.
We can’t move on, it’s true, but we can move forward.
We talked. About movies.
I root for you.
You are seventeen years old.
And you are afraid all the time.
Not monsters-under-the bed afraid, or spiders-on-the-ceiling afraid.
More like flight-or-fight-deep-unease afraid.
I root for you, as you wake up every single morning and you face your afraid-ness.
I root for you, diagnosis and all.
I root for your sleep, and your happiness, and your peace.
You are unlike anyone I have ever known.
Autism weighs you down—a force of gravity pulling you toward isolation, and loneliness, and struggle. Constantly, it winds its vines around your soul, and beckons you back underground.
You fight against it. I see it. I see the way you push against the pull and try your hardest to free yourself.
I am learning.
I root for you, my son. I do. I’ve simply learned to root for different things.
I root for exactly who you are, and the person you may become.
The thing is, you are more than a statistic. You are a story.
You are a bigger than a diagnosis. You are a discovery.
Jack-a-boo, I don’t know what the finish line looks like, or if there even is one.
I only know that in your way, and your own time, you will do good things.
After all, even the tallest trees learn to sway in the wind.
August 2, 2021 @ 8:21 am
SO SO PROUD of Jack – and of you, his family – and of your constant believing in him and rooting for him. A life lived differently is not a life less lived: I will never forget these words of yours. How WELL Jack lived his three weeks at the college program this summer: not because he lived them perfectly; but because, as hard as it was, “I DID IT”! I am so happy for you all!
August 2, 2021 @ 9:00 am
The path is definitely lonelier and harder for an autism child and parent but I think the successes are just as good as the neurotypical path. Hard fought victories that’s for sure. Well done Jack, hope you enjoy the rest of your summer.
August 2, 2021 @ 9:24 am
Yeahhhh Jack! You did it!!!
August 2, 2021 @ 10:48 am
Good job Jack! Guess what Jack, you might find it hard to believe, but all of us have our own versions of your struggle, and so just know that in this way we are all very much alike, and you are a light for us all.
August 2, 2021 @ 11:48 am
Jack, you and your family have won the best Olympic Gold ever awarded. You have all worked harder, longer, and against more obstacles than any world-class athletes who have ever lived, and you will continue to do so every day of your lives. God bless you all.
August 2, 2021 @ 2:26 pm
Congratulations Jack on completing the course and earning your certificate!
(I think your mom deserves a certificate as well 😁 )
August 2, 2021 @ 2:42 pm
Congratulations!
August 2, 2021 @ 6:25 pm
Yay, Jack! You did it!
August 3, 2021 @ 9:50 am
Yes, Jack! Yes, YOU DID IT! So proud of you and your amazing family. We’ve missed you over the past few weeks and are so happy you’re home!
August 3, 2021 @ 11:03 am
My favorite line from Jack: “We talked.”
It touched my heart.
August 3, 2021 @ 11:52 am
Jack, You won the GOLD! CONGRATULATIONS 💖
August 17, 2021 @ 8:53 am
Thank you, Carrie. I cannot tell you how many times you have encouraged me. This morning I sat down with my tea and said to myself “I can’t do this today.” My daughter is on the Spectrum, but she also has Borderline Personality Disorder. She is 24. She has no aspirations, no motivation, and is 90% contrary, which means that if you show her something “black”, she will say it is “white”. Not literally that, but she will argue anything, despite the obvious truth being as plain as the nose on your face. It has been this way since she could talk. Some days I think we have made no progress, and it feels very hopeless. Last week I was organizing the Files, the file drawer filled with the endless paperwork for Social Security and Medicaid and Medicare and medical records from the neurologist, the sleep center, PCP, therapists, and every mental health facility in the state of NH. Because in 2016 and 2017 she was hospitalized every 6 weeks or so, until she was 18, usually for “suicidal ideations” and one psychiatrist finally diagnosed her with BPD. Being hospitalized was its own reward, so then we started waiting for her to be evaluated, and they would send her home. Eventually, I stopped waiting with her (sometimes 6 hours!) and we would just go pick her up when she was released. So now it’s been about a year and a half since that last happened. Progress. And a year before that. That was progress. Over the years I have learned to turn my back and walk away. Some say that is invalidating, but I have to pick my battles, because I never, never win. I have learned that sometimes I have to speak truth and walk away, because she will never admit that it makes sense, but later I will see that she has accepted it. She just can’t say it. Progress. So I sat down and read your words, and I will go on with today. We will do her errands and my errands and go to some thrift stores because that is “our thing” as she says. I will measure every word I want to say, and she may get through without taking offense, or she may not. I will hold it in. I have learned well, this “walking on eggshells.”