Autism April: A Love Letter, A Rant, A Battle Cry

Raw, real talk.

Ah yes. Autism April.

Again.

When Logan was little, I used to go all in for this month—awareness, acceptance, education, hashtags, and all the campaigns. We'd participate, we'd speak up, we’d share facts, stories, memes.

When I ran The Rustic Apothecary during his teenage years, Logan would craft a scent—something awesome, something meaningful—and we’d donate a portion of sales to an autism organization of his choosing.

Not Autism Speaks. Hard pass. No thanks.

But over time, April started feeling less like a time of advocacy and more like a monthly endurance test. Everyone suddenly becomes an expert because their cousin's best friend's neighbor's dog groomer once met someone with autism. The ignorance, wrapped in performative allyship, became unbearable. And it’s not just outsiders.

The in-fighting?

That drives me absolutely mad.

We are supposed to be on the same damn team, yet I find myself yelling that into the void.

I used to argue with strangers online.

Like, a lot.

Whether it was about autism, homeschooling, parenting—somehow, people always had opinions, and many of them came at me with the grace of a drunk raccoon.

But you know what?

I’m almost 45 now, and I just do not have the bandwidth for that bullshit anymore.

What I do have the energy for?

Logan.

My son.

His story.

His growth.

Logan is stepping into himself in ways that are honestly breathtaking. He says things like, “I’m Logan. I have autism. I don’t get social cues. I process things differently. Here’s how I function.” And the confidence with which he speaks is incredible.

He’s taken more hits than people realize, not just from strangers but from people who claimed to be friends. That kind of betrayal leaves scars, and not the kind you can slap a toxic positive sticker over.

See, adult friendships are hard enough without autism in the mix. Now toss in the inability to pick up on sarcasm, subtlety, or the fact that someone is giving you the cold shoulder. Add that to a world that judges on first impressions and surface-level quirks, and it’s brutal. People don’t try to understand. They roll their eyes, they whisper, they back away. And honestly, they’re missing out on one hell of a human being.

A woman once told me she was surprised I homeschooled Logan because I “didn’t look like a typical homeschool mom.”

Whatever that means.

I'm sorry. I left my denim jumper and didn't french-braid my Crystal Gale hair for the Co-op gathering. I realize I aged myself with the Crystal Gale reference, but seriously, that hair. What does she spend on Conditioner monthly?

But here’s the truth: I pulled him from public school because, in second grade, he was bullied so viciously that the teachers and staff told us, “We’re not going to do anything about it. The parents are worse than the kids.”

Let that sink in.

Homeschooling wasn’t some magical fix. It wasn’t Kumbaya around the campfire. We ran into our share of cruelty—especially among homeschooled teens. It turns out that teenagers can be awful no matter where you put them.

Shocking.

But was it the right move for Logan? Absolutely. I’d do it all over again. And yes—he socialized. He wasn’t locked in a basement with algebra worksheets and glow-in-the-dark vitamin D supplements. The kid saw the sun.

And now he’s holding space for his story.

He’s writing again.

He’s opening up. He’s letting people in, even though that’s terrifying when the world has taught you to expect rejection. Watching him bloom after everything he’s been through is a gift I don’t take for granted.

I remember when he was younger and had that carefree “autism doesn’t define me” attitude. “Just call me Logan,” he’d say. But life has a way of making you reevaluate your relationship with identity. After friendships collapse, relationships end, people ghost you or mock you or misunderstand you, autism stops being something you can just compartmentalize.

It is part of him.

And that’s okay.

What sparked this whole reflection was an episode of Survivor.

Stay with me.

Eva, a contestant with autism, had confided in another player, Joe, about her diagnosis. She didn’t want to tell her tribe because, yep, you guessed it, she feared judgment. But then, during a challenge, she struggled under pressure. Joe helped ground her, emotionally and physically, in a moment that was so raw and powerful that it brought all three of us to tears. Later, Eva shared her autism with the group. She explained, candidly and bravely, that she doesn’t read social cues well and that she processes things differently.

It hit home.

Because that’s exactly what we’ve learned with Logan. Sometimes, you just have to be upfront and say: “Here’s how I work. Here’s what helps me. Here’s what doesn’t.” It’s not weakness—it’s survival.

It’s growth.

And if people can’t handle that?

Buh-bye!

I wish people would listen. Really listen. Not just to Logan, but to all the Logans out there. All the parents in the trenches.

The experts aren’t on Facebook comment threads or Instagram infographics.

The real experts are living it—day in, day out.

I lived with a lot of guilt for a long time. When Logan was going through his autism evaluation, I felt like I must’ve done something wrong. I’d spiral: Did I eat something? Take something? Miss a sign? And the judgment from others didn’t help—it felt like being pecked apart by a thousand little birds.

But here’s the thing: I’ve done enough self-blame to last several lifetimes. I don’t need any more.

Autism April is meant to bring it to the forefront, but for families like ours, it's always front and center. This isn’t one month out of the year; it’s every damn day.

And yeah, I’m tired.

But I’m also proud.

Proud of Logan, of how far he’s come, of how much he’s grown. And proud of us for never giving up.

So this April, if you really want to support autism, do this:

Ask questions. Listen with intent. Stop talking over autistic voices. Stop assuming you know better.

And most importantly, see the whole person—not just the diagnosis.

Because Logan is not a podium for postering, he is not an inspirational quote on a poster.

He’s Logan.

He’s autistic.

And he’s fucking magnificent.