To the Parents of Autistic Graduates: Five Years Later

It’s been five years since my son put on that bright red cap and gown and said goodbye to his high school years.

I remember the tears rolling down my cheeks, and they weren't the same kind of tears the moms around me were crying. As I sat on the bleachers of the high school gym, with music echoing off the walls and crowds shuffling past, I overheard conversations about college plans, empty nests, and the trips families were finally going to take.

It’s different for families like ours.

The emotions that rise to the surface are often blurred by uncertainty.

They are complicated, conflicting, and difficult to name.

Our school years were filled with IEP goals, support staff, therapies, and advocacy. They were marked by seasons of progress and setbacks, phone calls and meetings, victories both large and small. The daily structure that school provided was something I struggled to give up each summer, even knowing a new school year would eventually begin.

Through all of it, I was deeply grateful for the teachers, paraprofessionals, and support staff who partnered with us in educating and caring for our son.

The tears that filled my eyes that graduation day were rooted in grief.

Not grief over letting go of my son, but grief over letting go of the community, support,

and structure that had carried us for so many years.

It’s been five years since that day.

Since then, we've tried day programs, respite workers, and even a group home. None of them were the right fit for Jonah or for the unique needs his autism presents.

But can I tell you something?

As I sit here tapping these words on my laptop, my 24-year-old son is happily

vacuuming the house while singing Christmas carols

at the top of his lungs on a warm day in May.

We have had some dark days too.

Since the day he walked across that stage and accepted his "diploma," we have endured violent seasons. We have lived through extreme property destruction. We have cried and prayed.

We have faced sleepless nights and long days filled with exhaustion and hopelessness.

But we have also watched him grow.

We have seen his skills increase. We have watched his language abilities explode into a waterfall of words that rarely shuts off.

He has tried more new foods than I ever imagined my picky, rigid eater would be willing to try.

We have taken trips and enjoyed adventures that were only made possible because of his unique needs.

And through all the ups and downs, we have learned a few things:

1. God is faithful through it all.

I wish I could tell you that the years after graduation were easy. They weren't. Some seasons felt impossibly heavy. There were moments when I couldn't see a way forward and days when I questioned whether we were making the right decisions for Jonah or for our family.

But through every hard conversation, every setback, every closed door, and every desperate prayer, God remained faithful.

Not always in the ways I expected. Not always on my timeline. But He never left us.

Looking back, I can see His hand in the people He brought alongside us, in the doors He opened and closed, and in the strength He provided when we had none of our own. His faithfulness was not found in the absence of struggle. It was found in His presence through every part of it.

2. Jonah has a voice, and we needed to learn how to listen.

For many years, we spent so much energy helping Jonah find his words and navigate systems that seemed like they should meet his needs. But somewhere along the way, we sometimes missed what he was trying to tell us.

The truth is that behavior is communication. Words are communication. Resistance is communication. Even the things that frustrated or confused us often had a message behind them.

When programs failed, when situations escalated, and when life felt stuck, we slowly began asking a different question. Instead of asking, "How do we get Jonah to fit this situation?" we started asking, "What is Jonah trying to tell us?"

The more we listened, the more we realized he knew himself better than we gave him credit for. His preferences mattered. His comfort mattered. His fears mattered. His dreams mattered.

Learning to listen changed not only how we supported Jonah, but how we understood him.

3. None of us are ever finished becoming.

Five years ago, I thought graduation was a finish line. It wasn't.

Jonah is still growing. He is still learning new skills, finding new interests, and surprising us in ways we never expected.

But the truth is, so am I.

God has used these years to shape every member of our family. He has stretched us, humbled us, refined us, and taught us things we could not have learned any other way.

Sometimes we think growth belongs only to our children. We celebrate their milestones while overlooking our own. But God is writing all of our stories at the same time.

He is still forming Jonah into the man He created him to be.

And He is still shaping me too.

Maybe that's what I would most want parents of new graduates to know:

graduation is not the end of the story. It is simply the beginning of a new chapter.

God is still at work, and none of us are finished becoming who He created us to be.