When people talk about autism, the conversation often focuses on children. Diagnosis, education, additional support and the challenges of growing up.
But autistic children become autistic adults.
My son is now 18, and being his mum has given me a very personal understanding of the realities of autism that go far beyond a diagnosis. It has changed the way I understand behaviour, independence, communication and, perhaps most importantly, the assumptions we make about what someone should be able to manage.
Autism doesn't disappear when childhood ends
One of the things I've become increasingly aware of is how much changes when an autistic young person reaches adulthood.
At 17, there can still be an expectation that parents, education and other services will provide a level of support.
At 18, that can suddenly change.
But turning 18 doesn't make the difficulties disappear.
The challenges around organisation, communication, change, sensory experiences, decision-making or managing everyday demands don't necessarily disappear because someone has become legally an adult.
In fact, the transition into adulthood can highlight just how much support was previously happening quietly in the background.
As a parent, I've spent years helping with the things that other people might never see: remembering, planning, communicating, anticipating changes and trying to make sense of systems that aren't always straightforward.
Much of it becomes so normal that you don't realise how much you're doing until you start thinking about what adulthood will look like.
Being capable doesn't mean everything is easy
This is probably one of the biggest things my experience has taught me.
My son is capable.
He's intelligent, funny, creative and has his own interests, opinions and ambitions.
He can do many things independently.
But that doesn't mean that everything is easy for him.
I've learnt that there is a significant difference between being able to do something and being able to consistently manage it without support or exhaustion.
An autistic person might manage something perfectly well one day and find it overwhelming another day.
They might cope at college or work and then have very little capacity left when they get home.
They might be able to communicate confidently about something they're interested in but struggle to explain what they need when they're overwhelmed.
From the outside, this can sometimes look inconsistent.
From the inside, it may make perfect sense.
Looking underneath behaviour
Parenting an autistic child has made me much more curious about what sits underneath behaviour.
If someone is avoiding something, I don't automatically assume they're being difficult.
I wonder what makes it difficult.
If someone isn't engaging, I don't immediately assume they aren't interested.
I wonder whether the demand is too much.
If someone becomes overwhelmed, I think about what happened before that point.
This doesn't mean excusing every behaviour because someone is autistic. It means trying to understand before judging.
Sometimes what looks like laziness can actually be executive-function difficulties.
What looks like stubbornness can be a response to unexpected change.
What looks like withdrawal can be overwhelm.
And sometimes a person may simply need something explained differently or more time to process what is being asked of them.
Understanding the why can change the way we respond.
The hidden work of being a parent
There is also a side of raising an autistic child that isn't always visible.
The constant thinking ahead.
What is happening tomorrow?
Will he know what to expect?
Has the college understood what support is needed?
What happens if the plan changes?
Is this environment going to be overwhelming?
Does he need help, or does he need the opportunity to work it out himself?
That mental load can continue well beyond childhood.
And as your child approaches adulthood, you have to learn a new kind of parenting.
You still want to protect them, but you also want them to have independence.
You want to advocate for them, but you don't want to speak over them.
You want to help, but you don't want to do everything for them.
I'm still learning how to find that balance.
What does independence actually mean?
I think we can sometimes have a very narrow idea of what independence looks like.
We often equate independence with doing everything without help.
But most adults rely on other people in some way.
We ask for help with finances, work, relationships, health, parenting and difficult decisions.
Needing support doesn't make someone less of an adult.
For an autistic person, independence may look different.
It might mean having the right routines, adjustments or support in place so that they can do more for themselves.
It might mean choosing where they need help rather than having someone take over.
It might mean understanding their own needs well enough to say, "I can't manage this right now."
I think that's a much more useful definition of independence.
Autism isn't always obvious
My experience has also made me much more aware that you can't always tell whether someone is autistic simply by looking at them.
Someone can be articulate, funny, sociable and knowledgeable and still find certain aspects of everyday life incredibly difficult.
They may have learnt to mask or compensate.
They may appear to cope in public but be completely exhausted afterwards.
They may have developed strategies that hide just how much effort ordinary situations require.
This is particularly important when we think about autistic adults.
By adulthood, many people have spent years learning how to fit themselves into environments that weren't necessarily designed with them in mind.
Sometimes the question isn't whether they can cope.
It's how much coping is costing them.
How this has influenced me as a counsellor
My experience of bringing up an autistic child who is now an adult has inevitably influenced the way I work with people.
It has made me more aware of the importance of not making assumptions about what someone "should" be able to manage.
It has made me curious about what sits underneath behaviour.
And it has strengthened my belief that people need somewhere they can be themselves without having to constantly explain, justify or perform.
As a counsellor, I don't see my role as telling someone how they should live their life.
I see it as creating a space where they can explore what's happening for them, at their own pace, without judgement.
For an autistic adult, that might mean exploring anxiety, relationships, self-esteem, identity, overwhelm, life changes or simply the exhaustion that can come from trying to navigate a world that doesn't always feel designed for you.
You don't need to arrive knowing exactly what you want to talk about.
And you don't need to fit a particular idea of what autism is supposed to look like.
Different doesn't mean less
My son has taught me that perhaps the most important thing is to see the person before the diagnosis.
Autism is part of who he is, but it isn't all of who he is.
He's a young man finding his way into adulthood, with his own personality, interests, strengths, challenges and hopes for the future.
His route through adulthood may not look exactly like someone else's.
And that's okay.
Perhaps we need to become less focused on whether autistic people are managing life in the way we expect them to, and more interested in whether they are being supported to build a life that works for them.
That is something I'm still learning as a mum.
And something I carry with me into my work as a counsellor.
If any of this resonates, you can find out more about my neurodiversity-affirming counselling here.