Well, it’s official. Today, E (4) received his autism diagnosis — and with it came a flood of complicated, unexpected emotions.
I already knew, deep down, that he was autistic. But I doubted myself anyway now the assessment appointment was looming.
His brother, H (6), is very much like me. Our autistic traits are loud, obvious, and impossible to ignore. E is different. He’s gentler. More emotional. More social. A soft, thoughtful little human who feels, within our family, like the “normal” one.
I worried the doctor would see his traits as nothing more than shyness. Compared to a household that can spiral over the wrong cutlery, E’s presentation felt… quiet. Subtle. Easy to dismiss.
We left early for the appointment, anxiety burning in my chest as we headed into town for a 9am start. During the drive, I rummaged through my brain, desperately trying to line up examples that might “prove” autism. And I kept coming up empty.
He’s coping so well at school. He has friends. He’s happy. Comfortable with staff. Thriving, even.
Maybe I’d made it all up.
Maybe I was projecting.
Maybe I’d become autism-obsessed and hysterical.
Maybe I was wasting everyone’s time.
Then something clicked.
I remembered reading an article by a woman whose children were clearly autistic — but never diagnosed, because their needs were so well met that nothing ever fell apart. I asked myself what E’s life would look like if we weren’t quietly accommodating him every day.
The answer was unbearable.
I was suddenly flooded with memories of him at two years old, trying desperately to cope with preschool. Hours and hours of hysterical meltdowns. A tiny child pushed far beyond what his nervous system could handle.
It wasn’t that his autistic traits were mild.
It was that he was being raised in an environment designed to support them.
When we arrived at the appointment, my anxiety evaporated almost instantly. The doctor was warm, kind, and easy to talk to.
Watching E interact with her was quietly revealing. She tried to engage him in back-and-forth conversation. He mentioned our holiday last year.
“Wow,” she said. “I went there with my family too.”
There was a long, awkward pause as E carefully lined up toy cars on the table. Then, loudly and decisively said:
“I really like police cars. Can I tell you about police cars?”
I had to stop myself from laughing. I’d never really noticed how much E talks about his own interests. In a household full of autistic people, long monologues and enthusiastic info-dumps are just… normal.
Later, the doctor pointed out that during the 90-minute session, E only came to me once for a hug. He didn’t show me what he was playing with. He didn’t seek reassurance, approval, or shared attention.
“Oh,” I said, genuinely surprised. “He usually does that at home. But you asked him to sit at the table and play.”
Another trait hiding in plain sight. Another moment where my own autism blurred my perception. I’d assumed he was supposed to stay at the table. Literal thinking strikes again.
As the assessment continued, my confidence grew. E may cope well at school, but his life is full of invisible adjustments that make that possible. His traits aren’t loud or disruptive — but under professional observation, they’re very clearly there.
I’ve spoken to many parents who feel anxious about autism assessments because they’re afraid of being told their instincts are wrong. That their child isn’t autistic after all.
It might seem strange. Surely every parent would want that reassurance.
But a diagnosis isn’t about wanting autism — it’s about wanting answers. It’s validating. It gives meaning to struggles that already exist. It replaces doubt with understanding.
Today, I feel relief.
No more forms.
No more waiting.
No more questioning myself.
The three of us are autistic.
And we have each other.
Leave a comment