Boxes

My son has spent his entire life trying to fit into boxes that weren’t made for him. Learning, adapting, re-adapting, and then adapting again—just to exist in a world that wasn’t built to accept differences like his.

Then we learned he is autistic, and for the first time, he fit into something—not a box, but a spectrum. A spectrum that helped those who love him to better understand him. And as he grows, it even helps him better understand himself.

But now, there’s another box being forced upon him—and he doesn’t fit in this one either. Truthfully, 75% of autistic individuals don’t.

This week, RFK Jr. spoke about autism in a way that reaffirmed the very stigmas the autistic and autism-supporting communities have fought to dismantle for decades. He used hurtful language that devalued all autistic individuals, painting a narrow and damaging picture of what it means to be autistic.

When Mr. Kennedy said autistic children won’t contribute to society, he wasn’t just wrong—he was harmful. He reinforced outdated stereotypes that equate communication styles or developmental timelines with a person’s value. He reduced a beautiful, complex spectrum of humanity to a single, dismissive list.

But my son is allowed to be proud of who he is—without anyone questioning whether he was “ruined.”

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Autism, for Dawson, means he absorbs the world at a level that 30 out of 31 people may never even fathom.

He absorbs everything he sees, recording specific details with each memory—what we were wearing, the time of day, what was said, and who was there. These are details my husband and I often forget with time, but for Dawson, they remain an essential part of how he experienced that moment.

He absorbs facts from books, shows, lessons, and conversations and connects them to how he understands the natural world. He can look at an animal and identify the traits that help it survive. He can recognize a dinosaur based on subtle characteristics and tell you what time period it lived in. He once volunteered on a school field trip and correctly answered every question about prehistoric life—his classmates watched in amazement.

He absorbs the rules and structures of challenging games and seeks them out as ways to bond and connect with others. He loves sitting around the table playing 5-point pitch with my husband and me, using complex problem-solving skills to try and beat us. He looks forward to moments spent playing challenging video games with my husband—not just as fun, but as a way to regulate and share time together. And lately, he’s fallen in love with golf—a game that excites him with its structure, its rhythm, and its ever-present challenge.

He absorbs the world through his senses. This can be overwhelming, as the world we live in is incredibly overstimulating. He closes his eyes as he plays freely on his keyboard, explaining that he does this so he can see the rhythm in his mind as he hears it with his ears. He seeks firm back scratches to help his body relax. He absorbs noises that can distract or overwhelm him.

But he takes it all in—and then regulates himself so he can continue to function.

He absorbs the world through structures that make sense to him. So when our unpredictable world doesn’t align with those structures, it can be upsetting. But then—true to who he is—he learns about the change, adapts, and finds his way forward.

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Autism, for Dawson, means he thinks about the world in a way that 30 out of 31 people cannot.

He thinks about how he can build the worlds he sees in his mind using toys, books, blankets, magnetic tiles, and baskets. He’s recreated Jurassic World in his bedroom. He’s built his own zoo out of stacked clear storage containers—each one mimicking an animal enclosure. He sees everyday objects as unique tools to bring his vision to life—and then makes it entirely his own.

He thinks about how to turn his favorite Pokémon cards into a game he can play with others. He invented “Pokémon Guess Who,” a hybrid of the classic game and his favorite cards, and he beams when people join in his world of play.

He thinks about how he thinks—as an autistic person. He once shared his own experience of autism with his fourth-grade class. I sat there fighting back tears as he shared how he described autism to a room full of peers and proudly owned how he functions.

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Autism can be difficult for Dawson—but more often than not, it’s the world that makes it hard. It’s the barriers, the expectations, the systems not built with him in mind. The challenge isn’t his neurological difference—it’s the lack of understanding and support around it.

So no, Mr. Kennedy—my son is not broken. 

He is not a drain on society. He is not incapable of contribution.

He is already contributing. Every single day. 

Through his knowledge. Through his creativity. Through his wit. Through the way he sees the world so clearly—sometimes more clearly than the rest of us.

To suggest that autistic individuals have nothing to offer is not just factually wrong—it’s cruel. And it tells every autistic child, every autistic adult, and every parent and advocate of an autistic child that their lives are less valuable. I will not accept that.

My son may not fit into the traditional boxes society has created—but maybe that’s the point. The world needs his shape. His perspective. His voice.

We don’t need fewer autistic people in this world. We need a world that values every kind of mind. That not only seeks to understand, but also support. And I will never stop fighting to build that world—for Dawson, and for every other human who refuses to be boxed in.