“Like this?”
He asked, gently tapping his knuckles on the wooden bench in our Airbnb cabin.
To an outside observer, his question might have seemed peculiar and out of place, given that he was preparing to ask the hosts next door if they had a fork for the noodles and this was him preparing.
He struggles with social and communication skills commonly found seen in those that are autistic. Something we both share, on top of both having inattentive ADHD. I had previously felt that his understanding on tone, sarcasm and social cues had been improving.
But what this past week on holiday had shown me was that he was getting better at understanding OUR tone, OUR sarcasm and OUR social cues. Those that he is close too and see's often enough to have a built script within his mind for these familiar interactions.
These scripts help him navigate conversations, but it becomes challenging when he encounters new people. He struggles to read the subtle social cues—things that come automatically to neurotypicals but are exhausting for him to decipher. He has to constantly look for them, analysis them, think about what they mean within the overall context.
During our recent holiday, it became apparent that while he has learned to interpret the cues from those around him, his ability to gauge the reactions of strangers remains limited. He doesn't pick up on signs that he's rambling, or what they're saying is a joke, or an exaggeration.
The chance to talk to someone beside me had been as if someone opened the flood gates to every thought and experience he's had in his lifetime, and he just HAS to get it out. His ADHD driving his impulsivity and inability to regulate how much energy he puts into something further complicate these interactions. He tends to jump into conversations with intense enthusiasm, which can overwhelm others. For instance, a simple question like “Have you been skiing long?” might spiral into an extensive discussion about his grandfather living on a boat, as one thought rapidly connects to another. This pattern of rapid, energetic communication can be overwhelming, especially for someone unprepared for such an outpouring of information. A part of his passionate personality that I myself love about him, but still worry as to how others might react to his enthusiasm and jumpy flow. It's these things you as a parent, you don't often get to experience. They're either with you at home, or at school. You don't get to experience seeing them interact with others you aren't familiar with and seeing how they manage that experience.
But alas, here we are, with him asking me how to word his request for a fork—down to the exact phrasing and the appropriate rhythm for knocking to avoid coming across as rude. This moment made me realize that I, too, was once in his position, learning these nuances through trial and error. Unlike him, who receives guidance, not to any fault of my parents, but simply the understanding we had at the time of not just myself, but of Autism as a whole.
I had to navigate these social expectations the hard way. People would often simply tell me I was being rude, knocking too loudly, being demanding, or using the wrong tone, without providing constructive feedback or showing me the correct approach. Even when guidance was offered, I often struggled to recognize and implement the subtle changes required.
What I am absolutely proud of is that he, who initially lacked the courage to speak to anyone at the start of the trip, made significant progress. At the start of our trip, at the airport, he would sit beside me, dictating his menu choices so I could relay them to the waiter, almost like a parrot. However, by the end of the trip, he had observed how I used simple questions or shared phrases to initiate conversations and build connections with people we met—whether at the ski resort or during our historic train journey.
On the last day, despite having had little sleep, I gave him my card and asked him to order food from the café. I even gave him a small order for myself. I watched with pride as he confidently approached the counter, placed his order, engaged in a brief, cheerful conversation, and returned with a table number for our food.
But it certainly hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows.
I’ve lost my cool more than once.
“I’m hearing a lot of complaining, but no change.”
Became a recurring message.
“If there’s a problem, you need to discuss it and work towards a solution. Huffing, puffing, and directing your frustration at me will only overwhelm me as well. You don’t want me to join you up here,” I’d say, gesturing to indicate the heightened stress.
“If you’re trying to pull me into this situation, it needs to be to help you. My role is to help bring you back down, but I can’t do that if I’m also caught up here with you.”
Whether he was overstimulated by his neck warmer bunched up and bothering him, the twisted straps on his bag, or something poking him from a poorly arranged backpack, I found myself constantly repeating the same phrase every time I heard him grunt, groan, or become irritable:
“Stop, we need to stop, and you need to change your situation.”
We would halt immediately and address whatever was causing him discomfort, making the necessary adjustments. Over time, he improved at recognizing when to stop and hold me up so he could make these adjustments himself. However, when initiating these stops himself, his timing wasn’t always ideal, and his placement for these fixes brought about new problems.
For instance, he might choose to stop and start unpacking his bag or remove his jumper in the middle of a busy walkway, rather than stepping aside to avoid blocking the path for others. The mass of people walking around him or bumping into him then became overwhelming in itself and he couldn't understand why it was occurring as his perspective was focused and locked onto performing the steps I had told him, which was to stop and address the problem.
But here we are, putting the emphasis back on what I had said a few paragraphs previous, 'struggled to recognise and implement the subtle changes required.'
It's black and white with instructions for those of us that are autistic. And I, in an attempt not to overload him with parenthesis of what to do in every situation, this had become our new struggle and he would regularly feel he was getting it incorrect, despite doing exactly what I had said to do.
It's hard. And no parent should ever feel that are going to get everything perfect, what's important is letting them know that you were the one who made the mistake when you explained it, and they are absolutely under no circumstances to blame for the confusion.
This was still an improvement however, over the times he would withhold information from me, despite my repeated requests to explain what was wrong. I would eventually need to sit down with him to discover that he was feeling burnt out from the activity we had just done or that he was trying to conceal his discomfort because he didn’t want to project it onto me.
I would then explain that if I am asking what’s wrong, it’s because his discomfort is already evident and he is projecting. I want him to openly discuss his issues so we can work towards a solution. Even if he feels there is no solution to be made, it’s important for him to communicate this so I can understand his emotional and mental state. Otherwise, I begin to question if I’ve done something wrong. For example, on a day I had planned specifically for him, he became quiet, when I tried to show him things I thought he would enjoy, he dismissed them without saying a word and walked away from me in a hurry to get back to the car.
It turns out he did love everything—the train ride, the people, the sounds—but it exhausted him more quickly than he had anticipated. He didn’t want me to feel bad, thinking he wasn’t enjoying himself. This just highlights the complex layers of communication difficulties he struggles to navigate. It’s not just about expressing discomfort or fatigue; it’s about navigating the intricate balance of his own feelings and concerns about how he thinks they may affect me.
So how does he relax, calm down, and destimulate while away? Without any of his familiar comforts—his own bed, familiar foods, clean clothes, or a consistent place to stay each night—he initially struggled. The uncertainty of not knowing where he was sleeping or what he would have for breakfast caused him significant stress, leading him to cling closely to me, the one constant. This situation reminded me of my own childhood experiences, just as I needed my own bed and breakfast to feel secure, but I could accept the change when no other option was available. The certainty became uncertainty, much like I can't stand mess or things out of place in my own home, in my own space. But outside of that, mess never bothers me.
Without the usual structure of his belongings, his bed, and his specific comforts, he discovered structure in different ways. For example, a hot chocolate before bed became a new nightly routine for him, offering a sense of consistency and comfort amidst the changes.
This brings me to a realization I’ve long been aware of and that many parents discover during holidays or frequent camping trips: when you remove choices, stimuli, and levels of comfort, you begin to truly appreciate the small things. With no reception and no screens to watch or play with while driving or exploring, he found joy in using a digital camera. He enjoyed reviewing his photos and seeking out new perspectives for interesting shots.
The experience of not being able to choose a new song in the car and having to accept whatever song came next from our downloaded selection turned into a lottery—sometimes it matched our mood, other times it didn’t, but it became part of the experience.
Showers became a luxury, and dry, warm clothes were a delight. Simple activities like cooking eggs for breakfast, playing in the snow, or helping my mother and stepfather with tasks at their new house—still under renovation, essentially a tent inside a framed-out house on a mountain, surrounded by sheep—became highlights of the trip.
When you take away choice, you reduce overwhelm and increase appreciation, which in turn enhances mental well-being. Upon returning home, we turned off our alarms, expecting to sleep in, but found ourselves waking up naturally with the sunrise, just as we had while we were away.
We both agree that we need to embark on more adventures, disconnect from technology, and focus on collecting experiences and memories.
Because even though there were tears shed on a mountain side, the Antarctic wind in his face overwhelming, the fact that even though he was completely safe, he was still scared as we were on our hands and knees climbing over rocks just moments before, now huddled behind a giant rock to use as a wind breaker. We had just reached the summit of a mountain at 5150 feet.
He continued to talk about the experience with excitement for the next few days, reflecting on it now and wondering why he was so worried at the time.
That’s the nature of new experiences, isn’t it? They can be scary, they can be exciting, they can help us learn and grow.
And now, he’s eager to embark on more adventures.
