Twelve years ago today, I wrote a blog post titled “Bittersweet and Autism”—a reflection on parenting twin boys, one neurotypical, one on the autism spectrum, and the small victories and silent aches that come with the territory.
Today, I’m sharing that post again—and reflecting on how far we’ve come.
Twelve Years After Bittersweet
Twelve years ago, I wrote about a school concert where Ty stood on stage, singing with the other first graders, while Stone—his twin brother—sat with us in the audience. Not because he didn’t belong on stage. But because the system didn’t know how to include someone who didn’t speak yet.
I remember watching Ty beam under the lights while looking down at Stone, wondering what he was thinking. Wondering if he felt left out. Wondering what it would take to someday get both of them up there, together.
That moment was one of many bittersweet ones—small wins wrapped in invisible grief. A night where I wanted so badly for things to be “normal,” even just for a few minutes.
But the post ended with something else. A quiet victory. Stone had shown an interest in ice skating that night—a complete 180 from a traumatic experience we’d had years earlier. And though he didn’t make it far on the ice, he smiled. He laughed. He wore the skates. And I knew—we were making progress.
Today, that boy is 19.
And he’s not just smiling on the sidelines anymore. He’s finding his voice, letter by letter, thought by thought. He’s reading books and talking about them with Maureen, his AI learning partner. He’s taking Algebra II, World History, and Biology at Brightmont Academy—funded by a legal settlement that Renee and I fought hard for together. He’s growing, stretching, revealing more of who he is—each day, in his own time, on his own terms.
And me?
I’m still his dad. Still walking beside him. Still holding space for every win. Still learning that what once felt impossible… was only waiting for the right time to bloom.
And Renee? She’s been part of this from the very beginning—holding so much of the emotional weight, advocating in her own way, and loving Stone fiercely every step of the way.
Twelve years ago, I thought I knew what bittersweet meant.
Now I know it’s this: Holding grief and joy in the same breath, and choosing—again and again—to stay present for both.
Because progress doesn’t always look like a finish line. Sometimes it looks like skates that finally don’t hurt. Sometimes it looks like a letter on a letterboard. And sometimes it looks like a quiet smile in a moment that once felt unreachable.
We’ve come so far. And we’re still going.
Original Post from 2013: Bittersweet and Autism
