some weeks, my job is drawing the same animal over and over again. a frog with impossibly long legs. a shark with too many teeth. a cat that must be purple, no exceptions. the obsession changes weekly, but the insistence does not. i draw because they ask me to, and because in their world, repetition isn’t boredom, its comfort and joy.
recently, i found a drawing one of them made. found it by accident, tucked among old papers and half-finished activities. it stopped me immediately. a face stared back at me, eyes wide and green, carefully outlined, as if they were the most important part. the colors didn’t stay neatly inside the lines. one side of the face was shaded darker than the other, the expression was hard to name, not quite sad, not quite neutral. honest, maybe. i sat with it longer than i meant to. don’t know exactly what he meant when he drew it. not sure he meant anything at all. sometimes the act of putting pencil to paper is enough. but sitting there with that drawing in my hands, i felt the familiar pause, the one that comes when you realize you’re being invited into someone else’s inner world.
working with autistic kids has taught me that love often shows up quietly. there is a tenderness to the way they connect. i can walk into a room and be appreciated simply for being there. some days that looks like hugs or a kiss pressed too quickly to my cheeks, given freely and without hesitation. others look like a bite, an overwhelmed body trying to speak faster than words allow. none of it is random. all of it is communication.
they experience the world at a different volume. a sound most people barely notice, the hum of fluorescent lights, the scrape of a chair, can be intensely distracting or even painful. their nervous systems are always listening. they know when something isn’t safe, even if they can’t explain why. in those moments, they lean on our regulated bodies when theirs feel like too much.
many of the kids I work with don’t communicate with words. when i reflect back what i think they’re trying to say, through gestures, sounds, or expressions, i see the relief wash over them. being seen is regulating. it’s beautiful how much safety can be created just by paying close attention.
autistic kids often have extraordinary memories, especially for details we overlook. they remember the exact way something felt, the precise order of events, the smallest changes. that drawing felt like a memory made visible.
they thrive on routines and patterns, on predictability that anchors them. within that structure, connection appears in the quietest, most unexpected moments. a shared look, a pause, a drawing left behind.
working with autistic kids has changed how I see the world, to slow down, to notice what’s underneath behavior instead of reacting to it. reminded me that communication isn’t always neat, and love isn’t always gentle, but it is always there, waiting to be recognized.