Quietly Connected

There we were—my youngest son and his friend—playing putt-putt golf under blue lights, neon colors painting the landscape of the indoor course. It had been a busy day, and we were momentarily halted, waiting for the large group in front of us to move to the next hole so we could step in and open the space behind us.

Standing in such close proximity to the surrounding groups, I began to notice specific mannerisms, traits, and social patterns in the child behind us—things that led me to quietly wonder if he might be on the spectrum. Instead of putting the ball, he would kick it, push it, or carefully guide it along the exact route he wanted it to take, watching intently as it found its rightful place in the fluorescent white hole. His grandparents were patient and enthusiastic, helping him explore each hole and cheering him on as he mastered the task in his own unique way.

Because the space was crowded, we grew familiar with one another as we repeatedly waited for the same holes. Each time, his grandparents would gently but anxiously remind him that it wasn’t his turn and guide him off the green we were on. Being the last to golf in my group, it was usually my ball in play when this happened. I would pause, wait for his trusted adults to redirect him, and then continue on. As we moved through the course, I felt connected to this child in a way that strangers in public rarely are. I saw glimpses of my own life, my own experiences, and my own anxieties reflected in this family.

Every strategy they used to help keep him regulated spoke to me—because they were strategies I have relied on in my own life as well. Short clips of a favorite YouTube music video. Making connections between the fake animals on the course and his favorite animals. Helping him focus on one small, specific part of the course so his attention stayed anywhere but on the waiting.

Several times, I offered to let them move ahead of us—an empathetic gesture—but each time they graciously declined. This was their normal. If he wasn’t waiting for us, he would be waiting for the group ahead of us.

Dawson wasn’t with us that day—it was a special outing to celebrate Kamden’s birthday with one friend—but I couldn’t help wondering how Dawson would have responded if he had been.

Over the past year, I’ve tried to be intentional about quietly sharing moments like this with Dawson when we’re in public—when individuals show tendencies similar to his—to help him build awareness and empathy for others who may also be on the spectrum. I do this carefully, always reminding him that they might not have autism, might not know they have autism, or might not feel that autism is a positive way of being. Instead, I teach him ways to connect in general, human ways.

In my mind, I imagined Dawson choosing to stay back and be the last one in our group to golf. I can picture him cheering that child on and asking him about his interests. I can even hear how his tone would soften, knowing the child was younger—making sure he came across as inviting and approachable.

As I watched this child experience the course in his own way, my heart—and my smile—grew. This child most likely was on the spectrum, and what mattered most was that he was able to experience and enjoy the activity in a way that truly brought him joy. I loved witnessing the acceptance and flexibility of his grandparents, allowing the experience to be what worked for him—not what was considered standard practice. I saw familiar moments from my past with Dawson. I heard phrases I have spoken countless times. I recognized techniques that have helped regulate my own autistic child.

I resisted the urge to ask the grandparents more about their grandchild. Autism isn’t always viewed in the positive light it is in our home. Still, I felt a pull to share the quiet connection of supporting a child on the spectrum in everyday life.

I’ve noticed many children I quietly assume may be on the spectrum—at the grocery store, the eye doctor, the aquarium, the museum, the park, the bowling alley. Each time, I feel a connection, a love, and an appreciation they will never know, because in each of them I see one of my favorite people. I see moments that have shaped my life—both beautiful and hard—and I carry them with me long after the moment has passed. Moments like these remind me how deeply connected our worlds really are, even when words are never exchanged. In patient pauses, familiar redirections, and quiet understanding, there is so much shared humanity. Children like him leave imprints on my heart—not because of what they struggle with, but because of how beautifully they experience the world. He will never know the impact he had on me, just as I will likely never know his full story, but I carry him with me. A reminder that joy doesn’t have to look typical to be meaningful, and that some of the most powerful acceptance happens quietly—when we simply allow children to be exactly who they are.