In the world of advocacy, we often talk about "finding your voice." But for my son Sheamus, now 17, the challenge isn’t just speaking it’s the internal detective work of identifying what he actually wants for himself.
If you ask Sheamus what he wants to eat, the answer is a scripted, reliable reflex: Spaghetti or chicken tenders. The irony? He actually loves a wide variety of foods. He has a sophisticated palate that enjoys flavors far beyond the basics. But when put on the spot to define a "like," his brain defaults to the safest, most consistent anchor in his memory.
The Mirror Effect
One of the most striking things about Sheamus is where his focus sits. He is rarely "self-centered" in the way we typically describe teenagers. Instead, he is constantly tuned into the frequency of others:
• What do they have?
• What are they doing?
• How are they moving through the world?
When your mind is a high-definition processor for the environment around you, sometimes the signal for "Self" gets drowned out. For Sheamus, clothes aren't about brands, textures, or self-expression through fashion they are simply "T-shirts and jeans." It’s a functional uniform for a world that already requires so much sensory and social management.
Why "I Don't Like" is Easier Than "I Love"
Sheamus can tell you exactly what he doesn’t like with total clarity. In the neurodivergent experience, a "dislike" is often a physical or sensory boundary a loud noise that hurts, a texture that feels like sandpaper, or a food that triggers a gag reflex. These are survival signals.
A "like," however, is a luxury of reflection. It requires:
1. Filtering out the noise of what everyone else is doing.
2. Accessing a catalog of past positive experiences.
3. Synthesizing those into a preference.
Shifting the Culture of "Choice"
At Autismhoodmedia, our goal is to humanize these variations. Sheamus isn't "missing" a personality; his personality is simply expressed through his observations of the world rather than his demands of it.
As a parent and advocate, my job isn’t to force him to pick a favorite brand of jeans. It’s to provide the "wide variety" of life and watch for those quiet moments where his eyes light up even if he doesn't have the words to claim it as his own yet. We learn to read the "unspoken likes" while honoring the scripted "spaghetti" answers that give him a sense of safety.
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.
Letting Go, Leaning In: What My Son Taught Me About Support, Trust, and Growth
Parenting an autistic teenager means living in a constant dance between teaching, reinforcing, relearning, and sometimes quietly stepping aside. With my son Sheamus, that dance has been my daily rhythm for years. I’ve taught him basic living skills over and over. Cooking. Laundry. Social awareness. Safety. The fundamentals that build independence. Some of them stick. Some of them fade, not out of defiance, but out of how his brain organizes and releases information.
A few months ago, Sheamus began working one-on-one with his support worker, who I’ll call Ms. M. Her role was simple on paper: reinforce daily living skills and help him navigate the community safely. In practice, it became something deeper. She worked on the same skills I had already introduced, but with structure, patience, and consistency that came from being both outside the family dynamic and fully present within it.
At first, I struggled more than I expected.
I noticed Sheamus responding to her in ways that felt unfamiliar. He listened more closely. He followed directions with less resistance. He completed tasks with confidence. And if I’m being honest, that stirred something uncomfortable in me. Jealousy. Not because I didn’t trust her, but because I wondered why my voice, the one that had carried him this far, suddenly felt quieter.
That feeling didn’t come from ego. It came from love. From years of being the one who stayed up late explaining the same task again. From being the safe place when the world felt overwhelming. From pouring everything I had into making sure he could stand on his own one day.
What I learned, slowly and humbly, is that support does not replace parenting. It reinforces it.
Ms. M doesn’t undo what I taught Sheamus. She strengthens it. She becomes another anchor, another reference point. When Sheamus forgets, she doesn’t judge. She resets. When he hesitates, she models. When he succeeds, she celebrates without pressure. That consistency matters, especially for autistic teens navigating memory, executive function, and social confidence.
Together, they go out into the community. They practice real-world socialization safely and intentionally. Ordering food. Navigating stores. Reading social cues. Building confidence in public spaces without overwhelm. These are skills that can’t live only inside a home. They need air. They need repetition in context.
In the world of advocacy, we often talk about "finding your voice." But for my son Sheamus, now 17, the challenge isn’t just speaking it’s the internal detective work of identifying what he actually wants for himself.
If you ask Sheamus what he wants to eat, the answer is a scripted, reliable reflex: Spaghetti or chicken tenders. The irony? He actually loves a wide variety of foods. He has a sophisticated palate that enjoys flavors far beyond the basics. But when put on the spot to define a "like," his brain defaults to the safest, most consistent anchor in his memory.
The Mirror Effect
One of the most striking things about Sheamus is where his focus sits. He is rarely "self-centered" in the way we typically describe teenagers. Instead, he is constantly tuned into the frequency of others:
• What do they have?
• What are they doing?
• How are they moving through the world?
When your mind is a high-definition processor for the environment around you, sometimes the signal for "Self" gets drowned out. For Sheamus, clothes aren't about brands, textures, or self-expression through fashion they are simply "T-shirts and jeans." It’s a functional uniform for a world that already requires so much sensory and social management.
Why "I Don't Like" is Easier Than "I Love"
Sheamus can tell you exactly what he doesn’t like with total clarity. In the neurodivergent experience, a "dislike" is often a physical or sensory boundary a loud noise that hurts, a texture that feels like sandpaper, or a food that triggers a gag reflex. These are survival signals.
A "like," however, is a luxury of reflection. It requires:
1. Filtering out the noise of what everyone else is doing.
2. Accessing a catalog of past positive experiences.
3. Synthesizing those into a preference.
Shifting the Culture of "Choice"
At Autismhoodmedia, our goal is to humanize these variations. Sheamus isn't "missing" a personality; his personality is simply expressed through his observations of the world rather than his demands of it.
As a parent and advocate, my job isn’t to force him to pick a favorite brand of jeans. It’s to provide the "wide variety" of life and watch for those quiet moments where his eyes light up even if he doesn't have the words to claim it as his own yet. We learn to read the "unspoken likes" while honoring the scripted "spaghetti" answers that give him a sense of safety.
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.
Letting Go, Leaning In: What My Son Taught Me About Support, Trust, and Growth
Parenting an autistic teenager means living in a constant dance between teaching, reinforcing, relearning, and sometimes quietly stepping aside. With my son Sheamus, that dance has been my daily rhythm for years. I’ve taught him basic living skills over and over. Cooking. Laundry. Social awareness. Safety. The fundamentals that build independence. Some of them stick. Some of them fade, not out of defiance, but out of how his brain organizes and releases information.
A few months ago, Sheamus began working one-on-one with his support worker, who I’ll call Ms. M. Her role was simple on paper: reinforce daily living skills and help him navigate the community safely. In practice, it became something deeper. She worked on the same skills I had already introduced, but with structure, patience, and consistency that came from being both outside the family dynamic and fully present within it.
At first, I struggled more than I expected.
I noticed Sheamus responding to her in ways that felt unfamiliar. He listened more closely. He followed directions with less resistance. He completed tasks with confidence. And if I’m being honest, that stirred something uncomfortable in me. Jealousy. Not because I didn’t trust her, but because I wondered why my voice, the one that had carried him this far, suddenly felt quieter.
That feeling didn’t come from ego. It came from love. From years of being the one who stayed up late explaining the same task again. From being the safe place when the world felt overwhelming. From pouring everything I had into making sure he could stand on his own one day.
What I learned, slowly and humbly, is that support does not replace parenting. It reinforces it.
Ms. M doesn’t undo what I taught Sheamus. She strengthens it. She becomes another anchor, another reference point. When Sheamus forgets, she doesn’t judge. She resets. When he hesitates, she models. When he succeeds, she celebrates without pressure. That consistency matters, especially for autistic teens navigating memory, executive function, and social confidence.
Together, they go out into the community. They practice real-world socialization safely and intentionally. Ordering food. Navigating stores. Reading social cues. Building confidence in public spaces without overwhelm. These are skills that can’t live only inside a home. They need air. They need repetition in context.
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.
/
At home, they work side by side on practical life skills. Cooking meals. Sorting laundry. Following routines. These aren’t just chores. They are building blocks of dignity and independence. Each completed task is a quiet declaration: I can do this.
Watching this partnership grow changed me.
I had to release the idea that being the primary teacher meant being the only one. I had to accept that sometimes growth comes faster when love is supported by structure from outside the family. That doesn’t diminish my role. It honors it. Because I was the one who laid the foundation.
Sheamus is doing well. Not because someone replaced me, but because someone joined us.
This experience reminded me that autism support works best when it’s collaborative, not competitive. When caregivers, parents, and professionals move in the same direction with mutual respect. When we allow ourselves to feel hard emotions without letting them harden us.
Letting go a little didn’t mean losing my place. It meant making room for my son to grow.
And that’s the real work.
/
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.
/
At home, they work side by side on practical life skills. Cooking meals. Sorting laundry. Following routines. These aren’t just chores. They are building blocks of dignity and independence. Each completed task is a quiet declaration: I can do this.
Watching this partnership grow changed me.
I had to release the idea that being the primary teacher meant being the only one. I had to accept that sometimes growth comes faster when love is supported by structure from outside the family. That doesn’t diminish my role. It honors it. Because I was the one who laid the foundation.
Sheamus is doing well. Not because someone replaced me, but because someone joined us.
This experience reminded me that autism support works best when it’s collaborative, not competitive. When caregivers, parents, and professionals move in the same direction with mutual respect. When we allow ourselves to feel hard emotions without letting them harden us.
Letting go a little didn’t mean losing my place. It meant making room for my son to grow.
And that’s the real work.
/
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