The Colors of the Spectrum

We watched To Tell the World together—my teenage son and I. I wasn’t sure what he’d think. 

But as soon as it ended, he turned to me and said, “Once I realized I had autism, it explained so much.”

“What do you mean you have autism?” I asked, surprised.

“You know, there was that diagnosis… and then I realized I was on the spectrum.”

“What? You think you’re on the spectrum?”

He looked at me, calm and certain. “Yes, I think so. After I got an official diagnosis, so many things made sense, and I realized why I’m different… why I think  differently than other people. Do you think I’m on the spectrum?”

“I… I’m not sure,” I said. 

It’s complicated. There are so many ways people show up on the spectrum. “To me, it wasn’t a ‘real’ diagnoses, but something that would help you get extra support.”

I once heard someone say the spectrum is like a stove with six burners. Some people have all six on high. Others have only two on medium. Some have two on low and three on high. While there are clusters of common symptoms, each person has their own unique mix.

In some ways, my son is not typical of kids on the spectrum. He’s affectionate. He’s verbal. He’s self-aware.

But there are other signs: his short fuse. His difficulty reading other people. The way social interactions are challenging for him. His deep interests and obsessions. 

From when he was little, I knew my son was different. He could go from zero to sixty in moments. He was overwhelmed by noise and stimulation. There were frequent meltdowns.

And socially… the things my other kids picked up by osmosis just flew over his head. He’d tell a joke that no one laughed at, and instead of letting it go, he’d repeat it.

He’d talk at length about topics that bored other people, not letting the other person get a word in. He desperately wanted friends, but making those connections was hard. 

We took him to experts. One said he had “rigidity.”  Is that even a diagnosis? I remember wondering. At the same time, there were other diagnoses – dyslexia and dysgraphia. This we cearly saw for ourselves, and we perhaps ome of the behavioral challenges were stemming from the frustration of trying to learn while dealing with this type of processing disorder. We hoped that he would grow out of the behavioral challenges. 

We spent thousands of dollars on occupational therapy for self-regulation, traditional therapy and behaviorist to teach him social skills, as well as reading tutors and private teachers who specialized in learning disabilities.

Even though he was clearly bright, school was challenging. He was in a grey area — he wasn’t “special needs” but also did not fit in mainstream environments. Jewish private schools could not provide the support he needed.

We moved him through different schools, trying to find the right fit. Eventually, to get him the help he needed, we needed more evaluations and a diagnosis.

He was diagnosed with high-level ASD. I told myself it was just a label to secure the services he deserved. It didn’t necessarily mean it was true...

But not long after that, his therapist told me, “He’s very curious about high-functioning autism. He wants to learn more.”

Then, Hamaspik put out their trailblazing mini-film, To Tell the World.

We watched it together—my beloved, quirky teenage son and I. When it finished, he turned to me and we started talking. And I realized we were finally having the conversation I’d tiptoed around for years.

“Why don’t we talk about this?” he asked. “Aren’t we part of the problem if we don’t talk about it?”

“Well, is this something you want to disclose to everyone?” I asked.

He paused. “Well, maybe not everyone. But why should I be ashamed of this? Just because my brain works differently doesn’t mean it’s bad. I have all these interesting ideas and a great memory and I’m really smart. That may be part of my different brain. There are good things about it, too.”

I was amazed. Not just by what he said—but by how aware he was. How at peace he seemed with it.

Since that conversation, things have shifted. Subtly, but clearly.

At the end of a long holiday, he lost it and got very frustrated with a sibling.  Old patterns. But this time, something was different. He came to me later and said, “I think I was just overstimulated.” He was apologetic, but not ashamed. He understood himself—and his limits.

Now, when his siblings get frustrated with something he does, he might say, “That’s part of being on the spectrum.” It’s not defensive. It’s just honest. He never would have said that before.

We’re having open, frank conversations. About what’s hard. About what’s different. About what’s beautiful.

I’m not sure we are ready to tell the whole world, but To Tell the World encouraged us to speak to each other.

If you’re parenting a child who sees the world differently—whether or not they have a formal diagnosis—Hamaspik is here for you. We offer support, understanding, and resources for families navigating autism spectrum disorder in teens and children.

Watch the film. 

Explore the support.

And when the moment is right—start the conversation.

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