What I Didn't Understand Then

Recently, a friend suggested I listen to a story about an autistic man's journey through life with autism. As I listened to his story being read aloud, I kept picturing a classmate I had in middle school.

And the main thought running through my head was, "I'm sorry. I didn't know back then what I know now."

I don't remember a ton about J. I don't think he was in many of my general education classes, a practice I am grateful we are continuing to move away from through inclusion. But I distinctly remember having him in math class.

I remember that he sat at the back of the room and that he did things that seemed unexpected to his peers.

He would blurt out answers, something that made me nervous as a rule-follower. He would hum and rock back and forth. He would walk on his tiptoes as he passed my desk to turn in his work.

I also remember the time we spent outside during lunch. I would watch J walk around on his tiptoes throughout the grassy area, seemingly alone and talking to himself. At the time, I wondered why.

But now, I look back at those moments through a very different lens. I wonder if that was one of the few times in his day when he could simply be himself. A time when he could decompress, move freely, and not have to navigate the social expectations that came with being in a classroom.

And I wish that 14-year-old me could have known then what I know now.

I wish I had understood autism and recognized that the actions that seemed odd to me likely served a purpose for J. That perhaps something in his environment was overstimulating him, and these were the ways he was communicating, regulating, and meeting his own needs in those moments.

I wish I had understood that what I was seeing in that classroom was likely the absolute best he could bring to that setting. That underneath what I could see, there may have been an incredible amount of work happening just to navigate the expectations of that classroom and be successful in it.

I wish I had known because I would like to believe that, had I understood, I would have been more accepting. That I would have seen those moments differently and perhaps found little ways to support him as a classmate.

The truth is, I'm sure I was kind and respectful to J. But that doesn't necessarily mean I was intentionally welcoming, either.

And as I think more about those memories, my heart aches a little when I consider what life may have looked like for J and his family outside of the classroom.

I think about the possibility that J came home exhausted from spending the day navigating expectations that didn't always align with his needs. That perhaps there were behaviors, struggles, or needs at home that we never saw on the surface.

I think about the supports his mom and family had to figure out and put into place during a time when autism awareness, understanding, and resources were not nearly as readily available.

I think about what it must have felt like to know that your child was regularly excluded from classes because, at the time, that was what educators believed, and were often told, was best.

And yet, deep down, to wish that there was just one other kid your child connected with. One friend. One person who understood him and wanted him there.

I wish our class had been given more opportunities to understand autism. Now, I don't know what conversations may have happened that I simply don't remember. Perhaps some things were explained to us. But clearly, whatever I may have heard didn't translate into an understanding that helped me see J differently.

I wish I had understood that my classmate experienced the world differently, that he may have had unique needs, and that there were ways I could have helped support some of those needs.

Not because it was our responsibility as children to figure everything out, but because understanding creates opportunities for empathy, connection, and acceptance.

And this is where I find myself reflecting on something bigger than my memories of J.

We have made progress in educating children about autism. Many educators, schools, and families are having conversations, creating opportunities for understanding, and working to build more inclusive environments. That work matters, and I don't want to overlook it.

But I do wonder if there are opportunities to take that understanding a little further.

It's one thing for a child to know that autism exists or that they have an autistic classmate. It's another to begin recognizing that some of the things they see or experience with that classmate may have a reason behind them.

Maybe a classmate hums while working because it helps them focus. Maybe movement helps someone feel more comfortable in their environment. Maybe the person walking around alone during lunch isn't looking for a friend in that moment. Or maybe they are. We don't always know.

I think there is value in helping children become a little more curious about those differences rather than immediately making assumptions about them. Sometimes that might mean giving someone space. Sometimes it might mean inviting them to join in, without expecting them to respond in a certain way. And sometimes it might simply mean being comfortable with someone doing things a little differently.

I can't help but wonder how my perspective of J might have been different if I had made some of those connections. If I had understood that his humming wasn't something to be bothered by, that his movement wasn't something to judge, or that his time walking around outside might have been exactly what he needed.

I don't share these memories because I think I should have known everything at 14. I didn't. And I certainly don't think every child needs to understand every aspect of autism to be a good classmate. But I do think there is value in helping children see beyond what is immediately in front of them. In recognizing that there may be a reason someone does something differently, even when we don't fully understand what that reason is.

I can't go back and change what I didn't understand at 14. And I have to recognize that we were all doing the best we could with what we knew at the time.

But I can let that understanding shape what I do at 38.

It lights a fire under me to continue doing this work. To continue educating adults, but also to look for opportunities to help children better understand the peers they learn and grow alongside. To talk openly about Dawson's needs. To help his classmates see beyond the things that might initially seem different and recognize the person behind them.

Because inclusion isn't just about where a child is placed. It's about whether they are welcomed, understood, and given opportunities to belong.

And I keep coming back to that thought about J. I wish I had known more. I wish I had understood differently. I wish I had been able to see some of those moments for what they might have been.

I can't change that now. But I can use what I know today to help create a different experience for the children growing up alongside our autistic loved ones.

Check out this latest resource to help guide peers into better understanding some behaviors they may encounter with their autistic peers.