Young girl with a disability stacking blocks with a marine, her dad is lifting her to the top of the stack.

Marines Partner With Toys For Tots to Give Presents to Children With Autism and Disabilities


mother and daughter standing together and looking out over lake

The World I Want for My Neurodiverse Child

As a parent of a child with autism spectrum disorder, I spend a fair proportion of my time reading about neurodiversity. What seems evident from the copious websites and books is the diagnostic approach of “signs and symptoms” seems to dominate the literature. I’ve seen limited celebration of what makes autism unique, and even less advice and support for those with a diagnosis. It saddens me to think my children will have to live in this categorical world that hands out diagnoses and then offers no support.

I don’t believe any person goes through the ordeal of getting a diagnosis without hoping there will be some advice and support offered off the back of it. Sadly, for many people — including in my experience with my daughter on the autism spectrum — this is not always the case. Many people are left no better after receiving a diagnosis than they were before. Many are given a report that lists evident struggles and told there is nothing they can do about it. I do not want my children to grow up in this kind of world; there needs to be a better way.

What I do want for my children is for them to grow to believe that being neurodiverse is an amazing way of thinking and living. I want my children to feel that individual quirks should be celebrated, not masked — and I want them to know that “different” isn’t just OK, but being different is amazing. I want them to embrace their differences and celebrate their uniqueness. Because I believe harnessing what is different can make the world a more interesting place to live.

I hope in the future schools will appreciate these “different” thinkers and focus on their strengths. I hope communities will rise together to educate the world on how difference is incredible and should be nurtured and embraced. I want my children to be talked about for what makes them truly stand out: their amazing caring qualities and their loving nature. I want a world where once a diagnosis is given, people are then supported and given strategies to enhance their daily lives. A world in which every person who leaves a psychologist’s office is armed with better coping strategies than when they arrived.

But most of all, what I want for my children is for them to live in a world where they feel happy to be who they are. I understand the lists of challenges are there for diagnosis purposes, but once they are grouped and analyzed, I feel the focus needs to shift away from this towards finding positive outcomes. This world doesn’t need any more “signs and symptoms”; what the world needs is more strategy and understanding. I hope together we can pave the way to make this future a reality.

Image via Thinkstock.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

A screenshot of a post on Ashton Kutcher's Facebook page sharing Kerry Magro's story

When Ashton Kutcher Shared My Story of Growing Up With Autism

A few weeks ago, I met the multitalented Anna Kendrick in New York at one of her book signings. I told her about my journey on the autism spectrum. After I shared about her incredible response when I told her I have autism, the story went viral in our community, being shared by sites like The Huffington Post and The Mighty. I never thought the story would go to as many people as it did!

Then our story reached someone I didn’t expect…

Ashton Kutcher.

Via a summary of our story that was picked up by, Ashton Kutcher shared my story of meeting Anna Kendrick to his over 17 million Facebook followers. I was at a loss for words. I’ve been a fan of Ashton’s ever since he was on “That ’70s Show.” I’d watch it on a weekly basis, and I still watch reruns.

Even after being a fan, I thought of what an amazing individual he is for the philanthropy work he does. Now he was sharing my story. What an incredible feeling it was. His description I think hit me the most. This is what he said about Anna’s response to me:

“Proof that even the smallest gestures can have a big impact.”

That’s exactly my reaction from the kindness Anna showed me that day in New York City. We need to remind ourselves that even the smallest gestures we do can truly make a difference.

And to Ashton Kutcher, who shared this story on his Facebook page, I’d just like to say thank you. You used your platform to get our story out there to the world, and for that I will always be grateful. As I wrote when you posted on Facebook, if I can ever help you in the future to help focus on the inclusion and acceptance of those throughout the world, just let me know. As I travel the country as a motivational speaker, I hope our paths may be able to cross one day. And if you are ever looking for another philanthropic cause to follow, I’ll be happy to help you learn more about this community and the causes I’ve been blessed to get to know.

You now have a friend in me for a lifetime, sir.

A version of this post originally appeared on

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Father and son at son's graduation

Helping My Son on the Autism Spectrum Share His Stories With the World

My son, Colin, blows me away every day. He is 28 years old and was diagnosed with Asperger’s at a young age, when the relatively unknown Asperger’s was still in a cul de sac of uncertainty. Now, Asperger’s is more well-known.

We spent Colin’s early years wondering, searching, trying to understand what it meant and what to do. I no longer think about that. I focus now on what I can do to share his creative genius with the world.

Colin is a storyteller — a really good one. He conjures up entire worlds, vivid mental images, clever plots and complex characters in remarkable detail, sometimes developing storylines, chapters, book sequels over long periods of years. Colin is a talented writer whose words dance off the page, but for the most part, his stories are in his head, and they stay there with remarkable recall.

There was a moment when it became crystal clear to me just how remarkable his brain was. It was middle school spring break on a father-son trip to the Grand Canyon. Driving across the Arizona desert, I probed Colin on his then multi-chapter novel work in progress, “Dimension Wars.” He told me there were 20 (or so) chapters, so I asked him to tell me in random order what was in each chapter. I’d ask about Chapter 3 and he would describe it. I’d then ask about Chapter 11 and he’d describe it. And so it went for a good long while. Immediate recall; no hesitation. And he’s still working on the story, never having written it down but still knows the whole story — chapter and verse.

And this is only one of the many stories he’s creating at the same time. At one point we created a list of 38 stories Colin had in his head — some short and others multi-chapter tomes.

Fast forward past high school diploma, past college diploma and the stories kept coming. And just a few months ago, he told me about the group role-playing game he leads. He plays 500 characters while the others in the game play one or two. He can tell you about each of the 500 characters without referring to notes.

The main challenge I faced as a parent of an adult on the autism spectrum was how to help direct Colin’s remarkable talents and passions. In his case, that meant him getting his stories on to paper (AKA the computer).

That’s what we did. We hired a writing coach, helped Colin create a website ( for his stories, movie and book reviews, flash fiction and random musings, and created a daily writing schedule. He wrote and he wrote a lot.

His head is still far too fast for his fingers — his stories are building up in his head faster than he can get them down. Staying focused can be a challenge for him, and he has faced the typical ups and downs of all writers. He is torn between wanting to work on his epic novels, movie reviews, comic books, and articles about topics that can make a difference in the world. There just never seems enough time.

I play the role of the coach, organizer and teacher. But he does the hard work of writing and creating new ideas. We work every day learning techniques about how to keep organized, focused and more productive. It’s a joy to watch. He is regularly writing for other websites — comic and book reviews for Fanbase, articles about autistic people in the Art of Autism and occasional articles for other culture-focused sites.

Last month, Colin published his first children’s book, “The Fire Truck Who Got Lost.” He wrote the text and recruited his talented friend Amber to do the illustrations. With the funds he raised in a crowdfunding campaign, we hired a graphic artist to create the book. It’s a charming story about a firetruck named Barnabus. You can find it on Amazon or on the Art of Autism Online Store.

Colin is energized by the recognition and is now playing a leading role in a new effort called the Autism Creatives Collective in the Bay Area, for creative people on the autism spectrum who want to share their talents with the world.

It’s just the beginning. Colin has a comic book in final writing stages, nine chapters of a novel already written, three volumes of a fan fiction series mapped out and a radio drama in development.

My job continues — supporting and encouraging but also playing the role of the agent looking for opportunities for Colin’s words and impacts to spread far and wide. It’s the best job I can think of, and there’s no joy greater than watching my son reach new heights every day. Watch out, world — Colin’s coming!

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Mom and son smiling, with mom's face next to son's

To My Son on the Autism Spectrum Who Has Taught Me So Much

Seven years ago, I welcomed you into my life. I had little knowledge of how much you would change it. I didn’t know how much you would teach me to be better — as a mother and a person.

I thought after four children I would know how to raise you, but you taught me we should never stop learning. You have taught me there is no “normal,” that different is not less, and that every heart beats its own rhythm.

The rare moments when I did not feel strong enough, when I could not seem to break an invisible boundary into your world — you taught me strength is not dependent on my physical abilities, but rather in my will to fight for someone I love.

The days I apologized for you — you taught me I do not need to apologize to others for you, but that I should have compassion for them. Because what does it matter what they think they know? You taught me to see they just do not understand.

The day my heart burst because I found a note under your pillow in your handwriting that said, “I am weird,” you smiled and said, “It’s OK, they don’t know my brain works different.” You taught me how much others lost if they didn’t accept and love you for who you are. It was their loss, and not ours. And so I learned to accept and love without limits even though I thought I had done that before.

Sometimes in my weak moments, when I believed I had failed you, those were the days you taught me I had not failed as a mother. Those were the days you let me embrace you when you cried; the days you would say, “I love you.”

The nights of restlessness, the times when all I could do was hold you so you would not hurt yourself — it was in those moments you taught me kindness, humility and patience.

And when I felt like a nag, because I wanted to educate and help others understand. When I felt I was pushy, overbearing, and being an overprotective mom — those were the times you came home from school happy. And you taught me it was courage and persistence and a battle I could fight.

But when I look back through the years, I realize above it all, you have taught me what unconditional love is. I have spent more silent moments with you than any other child of mine, looking into your eyes for some type of clue about your thoughts. But what you have taught me is I’m already there. I am enough. And you have taught me that in all my failures, or what I have viewed as failures, I have not failed at all. I have simply grown.

It’s not always easy. The days are sometimes long. Our family is a band of eight all learning from each other at different speeds. I have accepted that not everyone will understand what our life actually is behind these walls. I have accepted that as long as we stay together, we can provide you with what you need to thrive.

I have accepted that people may judge me, but I am doing the best I can and so it doesn’t matter. I have accepted that love will break boundaries, no matter how large or small. I have learned to accept everyone how they are.

I have accepted, I have grown, and I love deeply — and you have taught me that.

Follow this journey here.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

young boy in supermarket grabbing carrots off a produce shelf

The Advice I'd Never Heard About Supporting a Child on the Autism Spectrum

My son Jack gets on kicks. Remember those Magna Doodle drawing boards? We had several minis (understatement!), because we couldn’t leave the house without one for what amounted to a large percentage of my son’s young life. One of the many reasons? Jack would use them as signs — he loves signs. He’d pretend that a walk we were on was a train ride, and he’d write each stop on the board. We’d pause along our way whenever we “pulled into the station.”

broadway farm grocery storefront

One of the sweetest (says his unbiased mom) was his cash register kick when he was about 6. He had calculators with rolls of paper that print out the calculations that are punched in, and they were his “cash registers.” Everyone who works at our corner grocer has known Jack his whole life, and they were charmed by his sincere desire to help out. “Jack’s going to help me ring up customers,” one would declare when they saw us enter. “Oh, no — he helped you last time. I need his help today,” another would say. And Jack would beam. He’d take his station alongside one of the cashiers, who would call out the prices to him as he or she was doing the actual ringing up of a customer’s items, and Jack would happily plug in the numbers and crow out the final tally. The cashier would quietly adjust that to account for tax and complete the transaction with the customer, and on they’d go to the next.

The other sweetest? Label makers, when Jack was 7 and 8. He’d print labels for people in the building and the neighborhood that were mini “gifts” to them, and he would beam when the recipient “got it” that he or she had just been gifted something precious.

Every year, he trick-or-treats with his dad, always in a very singular costume of his devising, and goes into stores in the neighborhood. “What are you this year, Jack?” or “Wow, Jack, that’s amazing,” are the common refrains. And we live in a building with a doorman now, where Jack sometimes likes to sit in the lobby with his LED sign reading “Welcome to Our Building.” The sign scrolls. It has three colors. It’s truly awesome. In case you hadn’t guessed by now, Jack is on the autism spectrum.

Don’t get me wrong — Jack is actually quite shy. He hates being in the spotlight with every fiber of his being. But as I hope you’ve gleaned by now, he seems to enjoy connecting and forging relationships with people as much if not more than anyone you’ll ever meet, and that tends to win out over his shyness — so long as he can engage in his own way.

There’s nothing shy about me, though, and I wind up getting asked a lot to speak with moms of children newly diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. I recently spoke by phone with one such mom who said, “My 8-year-old son does a lot of things people find annoying, and they get irritated. I just don’t know what to do. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

I hear her loud and clear. Same here. Jack’s challenges aren’t always visible to the naked eye, and it can be easy for a stranger on the street to misinterpret them. As he gets older and wants to go places on his own, I worry that he’ll bump into someone and be scolded, or worse.

I had two answers for the mom on the phone. The first was obvious: As her boy gets older, teach him to advocate for himself. “I’m sorry — I wasn’t ignoring you. I have trouble with auditory processing and didn’t know you were talking to me. Can you please repeat that?”

But equally important, I believe, was my second answer, and it’s not one I’ve heard or read anywhere, which is why I’m writing about it now: This mom and her child’s dad need to get out there and actively build their son’s “village.”

A dear friend of mine lives in an actual village — a small seaside town, where nearly everyone knows her son, who is also on the autism spectrum. They’ve known him since he was born, so they really know him. In their minds, he’s one of theirs, and so they all adore him and look out for him. I don’t live in a small town, but my neighborhood in my big city is akin to one, and Jack’s dad and I made sure from the get-go that Jack’s neighbors knew him — really knew him — so that they, too, could truly “get,” appreciate and care about him.

Communities often rally around those they perceive as their own. I urged this mom of the 8-year-old to get him out there in ways he could tolerate and see to it he becomes familiar to those around him. And to fill them in about his diagnosis — engage their empathy, which can override their prior irritation. He’s a wonderful boy with many attributes, strengths and challenges. Let them see the full picture. I urged the mom to turn the people in her area from strangers into her son’s community, so that they, too, can see what she sees when she looks at and smiles on him. Yes, incidents with strangers will be unavoidable. But there could be far fewer strangers and far more people looking out for him as he grows older, far more people cheering him on. Far more people sincere when they say their version of our corner cashiers’ “No, you had Jack with you last time — I get him with me today!”

Lead image via Thinkstock.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Real People. Real Stories.

150 Million

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.