So, my nine-year-old son is autistic. It took me two months to find the right words to convey this simple truth: “Ethan has autism.”
“Hi Ms. Thompson,” the school psychologist said during a phone call last October, “Could you come in this week to discuss Ethan’s IEP results?” Ethan had been on an IEP since he started school, but moving to Nevada required a comprehensive evaluation and new assessments.
No problem, I thought. I was eager to talk about Ethan. He was thriving in the third grade, making tremendous progress in reading and writing. Transitioning from Germany to Las Vegas had been seamless for him compared to my other kids.
I settled into the psychologist’s office, expecting a quick and easy meeting. My husband was away on a four-month assignment, and I was managing everything solo, but I was confident this would be straightforward.
“So, isn’t Ethan doing wonderfully?” I asked, beaming.
“Yes, he is. He’s an amazing child,” the psychologist replied, having spent considerable time reviewing his IEP and consulting with his teachers.
“Absolutely, they share such positive feedback, and he’s really excelling,” I replied, completely unaware of the underlying tension in her voice.
“His testing in Germany was extensive, and they did a thorough job,” she continued.
“I know. We had a fantastic team there,” I said, still oblivious to her body language and tone.
“Well, after discussions with his teachers and speech therapist, we really believe Ethan might be autistic.”
Silence. What? “What?” My tongue felt heavy, and my throat constricted as if I had been struck.
“We’ve been observing him, and I’d like to conduct some additional tests, with your permission, of course.”
“Wait, I don’t understand,” I said, struggling to keep my composure. “We’ve had him evaluated numerous times since he was five—specialists, highly regarded developmental psychologists. Are you telling me they all missed this? That you see something different?”
She explained that while Ethan had been tested for autism before, many symptoms may not become apparent until ages eight or nine. For instance, a six-year-old might be confused by the phrase, “It’s raining cats and dogs,” while a nine-year-old typically recognizes humor and social cues. Ethan misses those nuances entirely. A wave of realization washed over me, making my legs tingle and my head feel heavier.
In that moment, all I could process was: your son is broken. He’s not progressing, not catching up, not like other kids. This isn’t just quirkiness or anxiety; something is fundamentally different about him. I felt as if my carefully constructed emotional bubble was bursting, revealing worries I had long repressed. Were all those doctors mistaken? Had I been fooling myself?
Alone in that office, with my husband miles away and no friends or family to lean on, I felt the weight of Ethan’s potential diagnosis pressing down on me. For a fleeting moment, I thought about walking out, refusing to acknowledge this woman who dared to suggest my child might be different. But then I took a breath. “Okay. What’s the next step? If you think it’s possible, let’s conduct the tests. Can we start right now?”
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever uttered, and I had to say it quickly before my courage faltered.
By the time we finished the first test—a verbal one that forced me to confront the subtle signs I had ignored—I knew the truth. I understood what the subsequent tests would indicate, and even though Ethan was still the same boy who had walked into the meeting, everything had changed for me.
I sat in the car, unable to leave the parking lot, and called a close friend who patiently listened as I cried. It’s hard to articulate this experience; it still tightens my throat. I can visualize my beautiful blonde son, who loves to spend “alone time” with his terrarium. He is charming, finds joy in the simplest things, is bright and kind, and cares deeply for both me and his stuffed animals. And yes, he is autistic.
Soon after receiving the diagnosis, my husband’s reaction was one of relief, and we began to embrace this new reality. A diagnosis can be liberating; it offers clarity. No longer did we need to worry about Ethan’s fascination with animals, his food sensitivities, or his social quirks. It all made sense now.
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Summary:
Navigating the diagnosis of autism for my son, Ethan, was a challenging journey that took nine years. Initially oblivious to the signs, a meeting with the school psychologist opened my eyes to the possibility of autism. Despite past evaluations, it became clear that many symptoms might not surface until later in childhood. Accepting this diagnosis was both humbling and liberating; it helped me understand my son better and embrace who he is.