On February 8th, my son Sheamus turned 17. Seventeen feels like a tall number. It stands there, shoulders back, almost adult-sized, asking you to notice the years that carried you here.

We kept it simple. We always do.

The small party happened on Saturday, the day before his actual birthday. Just the circle that matters most. Me, Sheamus, and my mom, his grandma. No crowd noise, no pressure, no forced smiles. Just comfort, familiarity, and the kind of calm that lets an autistic teen actually enjoy his day instead of surviving it.

There was pizza. Wings. Cake. The holy trinity of birthday peace.

Sheamus opened his presents carefully, the way he always does, like each item deserves respect. Air Jordan tennis shoes, fresh jeans and T-shirts, a dentist kit, and a tote bag. Practical things. Thoughtful things. Things that fit who he is right now. No performative excitement, no disappointment either. Just contentment, which is often misunderstood and deeply underrated.

Every year, I try to make his birthday special in the best way I know how. Not loud. Not flashy. Just safe, loving, and predictable enough to feel good. Sheamus has never complained. Not once. And that tells me everything I need to know.

I would be lying if I said there was not a quiet ache sitting in the room with us. His mom was not there. She never attended his birthday parties. She made her choices, and she passed away in 2022. That kind of absence can echo loudly in some families.

But Sheamus never seemed to mind.

When she was alive, he barely remembered her. Not out of cruelty or indifference, but because autistic memory and attachment do not always work the way people expect. Love is not measured by longing or absence. Sometimes it is measured by who shows up consistently. By who makes sure the pizza is the right kind. By who notices when overstimulation is creeping in and quietly turns the volume of the world down.

That has always been my role. And I carry it with pride.

Autism teaches you a different language of celebration. It strips birthdays down to what actually matters. Regulation. Safety. Feeling seen without being put on display. Sheamus does not need a room full of people to feel loved. He needs a few steady ones who understand him.

Seventeen is a threshold year. He is still my kid, still navigating the world with his own rhythm, still teaching me patience and presence. But he is also growing into himself more each day. More preferences. More independence. More quiet confidence.

As his father, I sometimes look back and wish I could have given him more. Bigger parties. More people. A different story. But then I look at him sitting there, eating cake, wearing his new shoes, calm and content in his own skin, and I realize something important.

This is enough.

This is love that fits him.

Happy 17th birthday, Sheamus.

You do not need candles loud enough for the whole world.

Your light is already doing its job.

/

On February 8th, my son Sheamus turned 17. Seventeen feels like a tall number. It stands there, shoulders back, almost adult-sized, asking you to notice the years that carried you here.

We kept it simple. We always do.

The small party happened on Saturday, the day before his actual birthday. Just the circle that matters most. Me, Sheamus, and my mom, his grandma. No crowd noise, no pressure, no forced smiles. Just comfort, familiarity, and the kind of calm that lets an autistic teen actually enjoy his day instead of surviving it.

There was pizza. Wings. Cake. The holy trinity of birthday peace.

Sheamus opened his presents carefully, the way he always does, like each item deserves respect. Air Jordan tennis shoes, fresh jeans and T-shirts, a dentist kit, and a tote bag. Practical things. Thoughtful things. Things that fit who he is right now. No performative excitement, no disappointment either. Just contentment, which is often misunderstood and deeply underrated.

Every year, I try to make his birthday special in the best way I know how. Not loud. Not flashy. Just safe, loving, and predictable enough to feel good. Sheamus has never complained. Not once. And that tells me everything I need to know.

I would be lying if I said there was not a quiet ache sitting in the room with us. His mom was not there. She never attended his birthday parties. She made her choices, and she passed away in 2022. That kind of absence can echo loudly in some families.

But Sheamus never seemed to mind.

When she was alive, he barely remembered her. Not out of cruelty or indifference, but because autistic memory and attachment do not always work the way people expect. Love is not measured by longing or absence. Sometimes it is measured by who shows up consistently. By who makes sure the pizza is the right kind. By who notices when overstimulation is creeping in and quietly turns the volume of the world down.

That has always been my role. And I carry it with pride.

Autism teaches you a different language of celebration. It strips birthdays down to what actually matters. Regulation. Safety. Feeling seen without being put on display. Sheamus does not need a room full of people to feel loved. He needs a few steady ones who understand him.

Seventeen is a threshold year. He is still my kid, still navigating the world with his own rhythm, still teaching me patience and presence. But he is also growing into himself more each day. More preferences. More independence. More quiet confidence.

As his father, I sometimes look back and wish I could have given him more. Bigger parties. More people. A different story. But then I look at him sitting there, eating cake, wearing his new shoes, calm and content in his own skin, and I realize something important.

This is enough.

This is love that fits him.

Happy 17th birthday, Sheamus.

You do not need candles loud enough for the whole world.

Your light is already doing its job.

/