Lately, I keep hearing all the talk — the chatter about Tylenol and the supposed links to autism. And every time, it hits a nerve deep in my chest. There’s a part of me that wants to shout, Stop talking about my child like he’s a problem to solve.
Because when people say “we need a cure,” I can’t help but feel the sting behind those words. What are they really saying? That my son — the boy who made me a stronger, more patient, more compassionate mother — is something that needs to be fixed?
I have fought for him every single step of the way. Every milestone, every meeting, every tear-filled night where I questioned if I was doing enough. The truth is, I’ve learned to hold my excitement close — to not get carried away hoping for the big moments that may never come. Instead, I’ve learned to find beauty in the smallest victories: a new word, a smile, a connection, a laugh at the end of a hard day.
There have been dark days too, moments that broke me open in ways I never expected. But through it all, being his mom has been the most rewarding and powerful gift of my life. I wouldn’t trade it — not for an easier road, not for a “cure,” not for anything.
And then there’s his brother — the quiet hero beside him. The boy who steps in without being asked, who shows patience beyond his years, who teaches me daily what unconditional love looks like. Watching the two of them together — one leading, one learning, both teaching each other — is witnessing grace in motion. The life lessons that we all learn from my autistic son are lessons the whole world could use. If we were all just a little more like him — more patient, more accepting, more real — the world wouldn’t be so dark.
From the time he was old enough to meet milestones, he’s been defying expectations. They said he might never talk — but he did. They said he might not walk — yet he climbed everything in sight. They said school would be hard — and now he laughs, learns, and shines.
All it took was one teacher in fifth grade to see him for who he truly is. She showed him he could do anything he set his mind to. She taught her entire class that Brock was just as special and capable as anyone else. That single act of kindness changed everything. They took his stimming — something others might have tried to quiet — and turned it into a dance. First the class joined in, and soon, the whole school was doing it with him. They didn’t just make him part of their community — he let them become part of his. That teacher changed his life… and mine.
If more people treated those with autism the way she did — with kindness, belief, and inclusion — the world would be a softer, brighter place. So when I hear people talk about finding a cure for autism or Down syndrome, my heart aches. Because if that day ever came — if the world suddenly erased the colors of these beautiful souls in the name of “normal” — I think we’d lose something irreplaceable.
A cure would drain the color from our world. It would turn something extraordinary into something ordinary.I don’t want to live in a world without people like my son — people who remind us that love isn’t about perfection, but about connection. That worth isn’t measured in milestones, but in moments.
My son doesn’t need a cure. The world does — a cure for its need to label, fix, and fear what it doesn’t understand. Because in our home, I see color. I see life. I see beauty in its purest, most unfiltered form. And I wouldn’t change a single thing. Personally, I hope they never find a cure. Because I wouldn’t want to live in a world where people who are different aren’t in it.
And to the community of parents, friends, and families touched by autism — you are some of the most loving, resilient, and understanding people I’ve ever known. There is no community that loves harder, fights stronger, and supports one another more fiercely than this one. We are connected by something deep and unspoken — a shared understanding that our children are not less, but more. More compassionate, more intuitive, more themselves.
Together, we see the world in color. And I pray it stays that way forever. I love you sweet boy.
