Life Before the Label

I’ve always loved looking back on Facebook memories. It’s my way of reliving moments with friends and family and seeing how much life has changed since college. So many special memories are captured through those snapshots in time. But every now and then, I’m surprised by the emotional reaction a memory brings up.

This week, a collage of images popped up, sending me back to a moment before Dawson was identified as autistic. The images showed him sitting on his bed, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals. The caption read, “If you’re wondering what age a child becomes obsessed with stuffed animals… the answer is 3 years old…”

But the truth is, this wasn’t just any pile of stuffed animals. This was Dawson’s very intentional recreation of the characters in the book I Know a Rhino by Charles Fuge—a story about a girl who goes on adventures with each of her stuffed animals: a rhino, a pig, an ape, a hippo, a dragon, a giraffe, a bear, and a leopard. Dawson’s pile included every animal he could match to the book and others he felt should have been. Every one—except a hippo and a dragon.

And seven years later, I still remember which two were missing. Because finding those last two became a mission. Dawson was overwhelmed by the fact that his collection wasn’t complete. So while we were visiting family in Colorado, I remember hopping between gift shops and boutiques, hoping to find a hippo and a dragon. We eventually found an overpriced hippo and my sister’s dog’s dragon dog toy (which, of course, we washed thoroughly before presenting it as cuddle-worthy).

We got creative. We got persistent. We did what we had to do to support a child we didn’t yet know was autistic—but who had always been autistic.

As I looked at those pictures, I felt the weight of that truth: identification didn’t change Dawson. It simply gave us a name for what we had already been living.

I've heard some people say that a diagnosis or label will change the child. But Dawson has always been and will always be autistic. The identification didn’t make him autistic—it made us more aware, more informed, and better equipped to support him. Before the formal evaluation, we were still experiencing the ups and downs of raising a child on the spectrum; we just had less understanding of why certain things were happening.

Those photos were taken just six months before his preschool teacher gently suggested it was time to get an evaluation. And only eight months before we received the official identification.

But the signs were there all along.

As I was reflecting on this image, I thought back to the Easter egg hunt that same year. Dawson became overwhelmingly fixated on a blue ball in the gym as we waited to head outside. While we were focused on the goal—the eggs—he was completely focused on the ball. So when we took the ball away and guided him outside for what we thought would be “fun,” he had a meltdown. He didn’t care about the eggs. He cared about the ball.

That moment wasn’t about a lack of discipline or a child being difficult. It was autism—before we had the words to describe it.

I remember the nightly panic my husband and I would feel as we retraced Dawson’s steps looking for the plastic golf ball and random gold coin he had to sleep with. And the sense of relief when we realized we could buy both in bulk and save ourselves some stress—while still giving him what he needed to fall asleep peacefully.

These moments don’t define Dawson, but they leave breadcrumb trails on the path we’ve walked. They’re part of our story—one that eventually led to understanding, support, and advocacy.

Dawson was identified as autistic at just four years old, but we had seen the traits and signs from early on in his life. His identification gave us answers. It gave us language. It gave us resources. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

My memories will always remind me of where we’ve been as a family raising our autistic son—but they also show me just how far we’ve come.